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Kaithe Dame Member
Vylinius of Varathia
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- Joined: 5 yrs ago
- Posts: 567 (0.31 / day)
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- ██████████ 5 yrs ago
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Bio
I like writing about strange people put into uncomfortable situations that force them to think creatively to overcome them. Brain worms currently include the Yakuza franchise, The Last Sovereign JRPG, Dragon Age, WH40K, Disco Elysium, and True Detective. Writing sample down below.
docs.google.com/document/d/1lqyAAPIJh…
docs.google.com/document/d/1lqyAAPIJh…
Most Recent Posts
Bump.
In
Fallout New Vegas: My father rode a horse, I ride a Cadillac -- but my children will ride horses. [Post post-shitty live action Fallout trailer.]
→
2 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
Bump.
In
Fallout New Vegas: My father rode a horse, I ride a Cadillac -- but my children will ride horses. [Post post-shitty live action Fallout trailer.]
→
2 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
Yeah, the trailer is ass and its horrible representation of the New Californian Republic made me want to bump this out of spite. Glad to know that it's not just Bethesda who don't know what Fallout is about though. Can't wait to see the Enclave come back for the fifth time as antagonists again and have the NCR and Brotherhood join forces or some stupid shit before the plot gets threatened with then notion of actually moving forward.
Don't care about IRL gender, am happen to play any gender for MC. I'm an advanced-novella writer looking for a GM interested in a creative retelling of the events of New Vegas without the limitations of an engine. Writing samples pinned to my profile; I'll be requiring the same from my partners, thanks. Narrative limits are none; I enjoy the real consequences of war and poverty, but as far as kinks are concerned I have no interest in non-con, animals, tentacles, toys, hyperanything, bathroom-related kinks, unrealistic anything, porn dialogue, and anything else unsuitable for the universe. I'd be enthusiastic about nearly anything else however. Favorite kinks being strange relationships, spankings, D/s couples, unique characters, kissing / seduction / romance, aftercare and beforecare, collars, and contrasts of any kind, especially height.
"Nice trim," She think. It's all they can think, really. Like a pre-war recorder that's been stuck on the same loop it's been on for nearly three-hundred years with nobody to entertain except ghouls and the shadowy visages sprayed across walls of people who were fortunate enough to die early. She wasn't far behind them. She'd hoped to be cool about it, maybe give her captors a vulgar smile and a crude jab about how she 'Liked her men aggressive.'
The chance was taken away once they'd stuffed her mouth, which was good, because she was feeling anything but 'cool' at the moment. Right now her stomach was turning inside of itself and she was maybe five centimeters away from choking on whatever it was they had her gnawing on as her throat seized and trembled on her own fear. If she wasn't stuck in the back of a trunk it may not have mattered with how out-of-control her body was; she'd given up on kicking on the door . . . ten minutes ago? An hour?
Within the darkness of the El Dorado it was impossible to tell. She'd been stupidly easy to get the jump on. One moment she was minding her business, kicking sand down the highway, and the next a well-dressed stud in a suit was pulled up on her with the most gorgeous smile she'd ever laid eyes on.
Asking her for directions. She wasn't into men, but he might've had a chance otherwise with how easy it was to talk to him, car slowly drifting into pace beside her until it came to a near stop as her walk became slower and slower. An easy target. Too slow to accelerate if she needed to.
She might've kicked herself if her legs weren't already tied and they weren't wet from her pissing herself.
Instead, she screams - pointlessly - into the wet cloth in her mouth, A flash of light makes her blind, but she can feel the arms pulling her up, the voices, and then the sand on her knees. When her sight returns, she sees the car again.
'Nice trim,' she thinks again, admiring the 2053 Cadillac El Dorado all over again. Her mother had loved cars, prided herself on being one of the only mechs in California that could fix them. Nowadays you could find somebody to work on your malfunctioning Gusto by throwing a rock in any direction, but cars? Cars were still new out West, new, like the well-dressed man's voice, and new, like the straps on each of the men standing around her, fiddling with their hands like they didn't know what to do with themselves -- like chemfiends.
A cigarette falls and is crushed by suitman's shoe, leaving only the light of the Cadi's headlights to provide them with any comfort. They looked new. Or ancient.
Something else that was new was the equally beautiful gun hovering in front of her face, and the tears that followed as she tried to move, dragging against her restraints, praying to God as the hemp refused her.
"Truth is? The game was rigged from the start."
She shifts one glorious, miraculous, half an inch.
The last light she sees is the scream of the pistol as its bullet chews through her skull.
Don't care about IRL gender, am happen to play any gender for MC. I'm an advanced-novella writer looking for a GM interested in a creative retelling of the events of New Vegas without the limitations of an engine. Writing samples pinned to my profile; I'll be requiring the same from my partners, thanks. Narrative limits are none; I enjoy the real consequences of war and poverty, but as far as kinks are concerned I have no interest in non-con, animals, tentacles, toys, hyperanything, bathroom-related kinks, unrealistic anything, porn dialogue, and anything else unsuitable for the universe. I'd be enthusiastic about nearly anything else however. Favorite kinks being strange relationships, spankings, D/s couples, unique characters, kissing / seduction / romance, aftercare and beforecare, collars, and contrasts of any kind, especially height.
"Nice trim," She think. It's all they can think, really. Like a pre-war recorder that's been stuck on the same loop it's been on for nearly three-hundred years with nobody to entertain except ghouls and the shadowy visages sprayed across walls of people who were fortunate enough to die early. She wasn't far behind them. She'd hoped to be cool about it, maybe give her captors a vulgar smile and a crude jab about how she 'Liked her men aggressive.'
The chance was taken away once they'd stuffed her mouth, which was good, because she was feeling anything but 'cool' at the moment. Right now her stomach was turning inside of itself and she was maybe five centimeters away from choking on whatever it was they had her gnawing on as her throat seized and trembled on her own fear. If she wasn't stuck in the back of a trunk it may not have mattered with how out-of-control her body was; she'd given up on kicking on the door . . . ten minutes ago? An hour?
Within the darkness of the El Dorado it was impossible to tell. She'd been stupidly easy to get the jump on. One moment she was minding her business, kicking sand down the highway, and the next a well-dressed stud in a suit was pulled up on her with the most gorgeous smile she'd ever laid eyes on.
Asking her for directions. She wasn't into men, but he might've had a chance otherwise with how easy it was to talk to him, car slowly drifting into pace beside her until it came to a near stop as her walk became slower and slower. An easy target. Too slow to accelerate if she needed to.
She might've kicked herself if her legs weren't already tied and they weren't wet from her pissing herself.
Instead, she screams - pointlessly - into the wet cloth in her mouth, A flash of light makes her blind, but she can feel the arms pulling her up, the voices, and then the sand on her knees. When her sight returns, she sees the car again.
'Nice trim,' she thinks again, admiring the 2053 Cadillac El Dorado all over again. Her mother had loved cars, prided herself on being one of the only mechs in California that could fix them. Nowadays you could find somebody to work on your malfunctioning Gusto by throwing a rock in any direction, but cars? Cars were still new out West, new, like the well-dressed man's voice, and new, like the straps on each of the men standing around her, fiddling with their hands like they didn't know what to do with themselves -- like chemfiends.
A cigarette falls and is crushed by suitman's shoe, leaving only the light of the Cadi's headlights to provide them with any comfort. They looked new. Or ancient.
Something else that was new was the equally beautiful gun hovering in front of her face, and the tears that followed as she tried to move, dragging against her restraints, praying to God as the hemp refused her.
"Truth is? The game was rigged from the start."
She shifts one glorious, miraculous, half an inch.
The last light she sees is the scream of the pistol as its bullet chews through her skull.
Bump.
In
The Last Jedi. [GM4APlayingF, Knights of the Old Republic 2.]
→
2 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
Bump.
In
The Last Jedi. [GM4A, Knights of the Old Republic 2.]
→
2 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
Bump.
Bump.
In
The Last Jedi. [GM4A, Knights of the Old Republic 2.]
→
2 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
[CW; trauma, wartime atrocities, poverty, death, mentions and possible depictions of genocide.]
She's still there.
The visions, if they can be called that, do not rage themselves into being, nor do they skulk like a snake in the grass waiting for a chance to take her sight. If only they had presented themselves as an enemy like that they could be the sort of thing she was taught to defeat, a pox on her mind from too much time spent mulling, the sort of thing the Masters warned her of; the laxness of the day giving way to darker thoughts, the result of a wayward, unguarded mind.
No. Instead, like a guest invited into her home, all it takes is for Meetra to simply blink before she realizes that she's there once again, surrounded by some of her closest friends and allies, each of them staring out the same viewing port and watching as the rest of her friends and allies died, crushed by the unbearable weight of a planet's gravity. One-by-one they suffered in agony, the countless seconds dragging on into the endless minutes and then, finally, an eternity of hours before the last soul on the planet was squelched, all communications silenced, every voice and echo of their life silenced. Only she and those sensitive enough to life on board the ship could have heard them. Those amongst them not touched by the Force were gifted with ignorance, only capable of watching from hundreds of thousands of miles away with nothing but their imagination.
The Republican soldiers had gone out first.
Then the Mandalorians, such is their way.
Last were the Jedi, as hard to kill as they were.
Once they'd all died, the planet was next. But by the time it began to howl and shake as its plates splintered and the continents cracked, Meetra had already turned, passing by Bao-Dur and out towards the elevator, leaving the sunken, broken wreckage of the Republic's fleets behind and the graveyard that she'd left in Malachor V's wake.
She hadn't stopped walking away for over ten years. A decade separates her from that place, and still it haunts her, and she lets it. Lets it burn into her mind, relives it day after day. The Outer Rim had done everything for her that it could -- more than she was willing to ever do for herself. It'd offered to give her a thousand new lives, new memories, friends and family.
And she chose to stay there.
In that place.
Listening to old, painful echoes.
Advanced-novella 18+, IRL genders irrelevant.
If anybody happens to be interested in me GMing a story where they take the role of the player character (Exile/Meetra Surik) in a retelling of Knights of the Old Republic 2 then I'd like for them to reach out. This is going to involve a lot of rewriting thanks to the troubled development of KOTOR 2 on top of just additional content I'd like to offer such as more planets, additional companion characters, more quests, more Kreia being Kreia, and Meetra being the shy, useless lesbian that I headcanon-borderline-canon that she is. I'll disclose a lot of what I plan to change with my players, but I'm going to ask for some mutual trust that the changes I don't disclose are good ones that will benefit the story and (your) experience. Thanks.
She's still there.
The visions, if they can be called that, do not rage themselves into being, nor do they skulk like a snake in the grass waiting for a chance to take her sight. If only they had presented themselves as an enemy like that they could be the sort of thing she was taught to defeat, a pox on her mind from too much time spent mulling, the sort of thing the Masters warned her of; the laxness of the day giving way to darker thoughts, the result of a wayward, unguarded mind.
No. Instead, like a guest invited into her home, all it takes is for Meetra to simply blink before she realizes that she's there once again, surrounded by some of her closest friends and allies, each of them staring out the same viewing port and watching as the rest of her friends and allies died, crushed by the unbearable weight of a planet's gravity. One-by-one they suffered in agony, the countless seconds dragging on into the endless minutes and then, finally, an eternity of hours before the last soul on the planet was squelched, all communications silenced, every voice and echo of their life silenced. Only she and those sensitive enough to life on board the ship could have heard them. Those amongst them not touched by the Force were gifted with ignorance, only capable of watching from hundreds of thousands of miles away with nothing but their imagination.
The Republican soldiers had gone out first.
Then the Mandalorians, such is their way.
Last were the Jedi, as hard to kill as they were.
Once they'd all died, the planet was next. But by the time it began to howl and shake as its plates splintered and the continents cracked, Meetra had already turned, passing by Bao-Dur and out towards the elevator, leaving the sunken, broken wreckage of the Republic's fleets behind and the graveyard that she'd left in Malachor V's wake.
She hadn't stopped walking away for over ten years. A decade separates her from that place, and still it haunts her, and she lets it. Lets it burn into her mind, relives it day after day. The Outer Rim had done everything for her that it could -- more than she was willing to ever do for herself. It'd offered to give her a thousand new lives, new memories, friends and family.
And she chose to stay there.
In that place.
Listening to old, painful echoes.
Advanced-novella 18+, IRL genders irrelevant.
If anybody happens to be interested in me GMing a story where they take the role of the player character (Exile/Meetra Surik) in a retelling of Knights of the Old Republic 2 then I'd like for them to reach out. This is going to involve a lot of rewriting thanks to the troubled development of KOTOR 2 on top of just additional content I'd like to offer such as more planets, additional companion characters, more quests, more Kreia being Kreia, and Meetra being the shy, useless lesbian that I headcanon-borderline-canon that she is. I'll disclose a lot of what I plan to change with my players, but I'm going to ask for some mutual trust that the changes I don't disclose are good ones that will benefit the story and (your) experience. Thanks.
In
The Last Jedi. [GM4APlayingF, Knights of the Old Republic 2.]
→
2 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
People keep asking this and it apparently needs to be said as explicitly as possible. No. While I have absolutely zero interest in my partner's IRL gender, I will //not// GM a Male Exile. I've had multiple people argue with me that it's 'basically the same experience,' and, no, it isn't. It's not true in the RPG and it certainly won't be true in this RP.
[CW; trauma, wartime atrocities, poverty, death, mentions and possible depictions of genocide.]
She's still there.
Malachor.
The visions, if they can be called that, do not rage themselves into being, nor do they skulk like a snake in the grass waiting for a chance to take her sight. If only they had presented themselves as an enemy like that they could be the sort of thing she was taught to defeat, a pox on her mind from too much time spent mulling, the sort of thing the Masters warned her of; the laxness of the day giving way to darker thoughts, the result of a wayward, unguarded mind.
No. Instead, like a guest invited into her home, all it takes is for Meetra to simply blink before she realizes that she's there once again, surrounded by some of her closest friends and allies, each of them staring out the same viewing port and watching as the rest of her friends and allies died, crushed by the unbearable weight of a planet's gravity. One-by-one they suffered in agony, the countless seconds dragging on into the endless minutes and then, finally, an eternity of hours before the last soul on the planet was squelched, all communications silenced, every voice and echo of their life silenced. Only she and those sensitive enough to life on board the ship could have heard them. Those amongst them not touched by the Force were gifted with ignorance, only capable of watching from hundreds of thousands of miles away with nothing but their imagination.
The Republican soldiers had gone out first.
Then the Mandalorians, such is their way.
Last were the Jedi, as hard to kill as they were.
Once they'd all died, the planet was next. But by the time it began to howl and shake as its plates splintered and the continents cracked, Meetra had already turned, passing by Bao-Dur and out towards the elevator, leaving the sunken, broken wreckage of the Republic's fleets behind and the graveyard that she'd left in Malachor V's wake.
She hadn't stopped walking away for over ten years. A decade separates her from that place, and still it haunts her, and she lets it. Lets it burn into her mind, relives it day after day. The Outer Rim had done everything for her that it could -- more than she was willing to ever do for herself. It'd offered to give her a thousand new lives, new memories, friends and family.
And she chose to stay there.
In that place.
Listening to old, painful echoes.
Advanced-novella 18+, IRL genders irrelevant.
If anybody happens to be interested in me GMing a story where they take the role of the player character (Exile/Meetra Surik) in a retelling of Knights of the Old Republic 2 then I'd like for them to reach out. This is going to involve a lot of rewriting thanks to the troubled development of KOTOR 2 on top of just additional content I'd like to offer such as more planets, additional companion characters, more quests, more Kreia being Kreia, and Meetra being the shy, useless lesbian that I headcanon-borderline-canon that she is. I'll disclose a lot of what I plan to change with my players, but I'm going to ask for some mutual trust that the changes I don't disclose are good ones that will benefit the story and (your) experience. Thanks.
[CW; trauma, wartime atrocities, poverty, death, mentions and possible depictions of genocide.]
She's still there.
Malachor.
The visions, if they can be called that, do not rage themselves into being, nor do they skulk like a snake in the grass waiting for a chance to take her sight. If only they had presented themselves as an enemy like that they could be the sort of thing she was taught to defeat, a pox on her mind from too much time spent mulling, the sort of thing the Masters warned her of; the laxness of the day giving way to darker thoughts, the result of a wayward, unguarded mind.
No. Instead, like a guest invited into her home, all it takes is for Meetra to simply blink before she realizes that she's there once again, surrounded by some of her closest friends and allies, each of them staring out the same viewing port and watching as the rest of her friends and allies died, crushed by the unbearable weight of a planet's gravity. One-by-one they suffered in agony, the countless seconds dragging on into the endless minutes and then, finally, an eternity of hours before the last soul on the planet was squelched, all communications silenced, every voice and echo of their life silenced. Only she and those sensitive enough to life on board the ship could have heard them. Those amongst them not touched by the Force were gifted with ignorance, only capable of watching from hundreds of thousands of miles away with nothing but their imagination.
The Republican soldiers had gone out first.
Then the Mandalorians, such is their way.
Last were the Jedi, as hard to kill as they were.
Once they'd all died, the planet was next. But by the time it began to howl and shake as its plates splintered and the continents cracked, Meetra had already turned, passing by Bao-Dur and out towards the elevator, leaving the sunken, broken wreckage of the Republic's fleets behind and the graveyard that she'd left in Malachor V's wake.
She hadn't stopped walking away for over ten years. A decade separates her from that place, and still it haunts her, and she lets it. Lets it burn into her mind, relives it day after day. The Outer Rim had done everything for her that it could -- more than she was willing to ever do for herself. It'd offered to give her a thousand new lives, new memories, friends and family.
And she chose to stay there.
In that place.
Listening to old, painful echoes.
Advanced-novella 18+, IRL genders irrelevant.
If anybody happens to be interested in me GMing a story where they take the role of the player character (Exile/Meetra Surik) in a retelling of Knights of the Old Republic 2 then I'd like for them to reach out. This is going to involve a lot of rewriting thanks to the troubled development of KOTOR 2 on top of just additional content I'd like to offer such as more planets, additional companion characters, more quests, more Kreia being Kreia, and Meetra being the shy, useless lesbian that I headcanon-borderline-canon that she is. I'll disclose a lot of what I plan to change with my players, but I'm going to ask for some mutual trust that the changes I don't disclose are good ones that will benefit the story and (your) experience. Thanks.
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