I have been thinking of how to go about finding that one partner through which I can explore and improve my craft. I have delusions of grandeur that proclaim me a writer, and in all honesty, sometimes I do quite adequate at it. What I’m looking for is someone who will help me to push my limits, who will provide consistent, advanced level roleplaying. I –don’t- like casual roleplays. I want to be honest about that. I will become bored with them, and I will stop them after several weeks of pulling posts like teeth, and I don’t want to waste any more time doing it. I have been called an elitist in the past, and I suppose that is true. I prefer to play with those who are at the top of the game, those with skill.
I have been roleplaying for a very long time (15+) years. I’m looking for someone who can offer a new experience in roleplaying and not simply maintain to the same, traditional or common bag of tricks. This can mean more than just a single roleplay investment, many characters across many genres, or a single episode of marked originality and uniqueness.. I will write mature scenes. I propose creativity and uniqueness. It means exploring worlds we will both create. It means friendship both in character, and outside.
-I will role-play most anything except canon characters, or canon storylines. Roleplaying in an artistic form of expression, and I find it hard to be artistic when confined within the guides of the canon.
-Out of character conversation is a must. I write to share. I don’t write to put up on a brick wall. If we don’t communicate, I will end up dropping the play. Keep in mind, I am well aware communication is a two way street, and will make efforts.
-I do generate ideas, and am not afraid to throw in a plot twist. Like it? Let me know. Positive feed back helps me gauge your interests. Hate it, again, let me know. I can redo it. If you keep silent, I’ll know nothing.
-I do not have a length limit, however, I do ask that it be well written. I could give a flipping flop about grammar (within reason), however, I do ask for some level of maturity in writing skill. As I said, I view roleplay as a method of improving my skills.
Plot Ideas:
::Isolation::
The universe is infinite, expansive, chaotic. There is no order, no universal logic that dictates the actions of individuals. Space is vast, and in it are examples of the ultimate of cruelty, and the most sobering of compassions. It is in this universe that you and I are lost, alone. We are without a home, without friend or family to guide us. We have nothing but one another to rely on as we journey across this bleak expanse trying to find something, anything to create a stable life around. But it seems everywhere we go we are mistrusted. Everywhere we go, we are unwelcome. We are outsiders, to ourselves, to each other, to everyone else. We desperately need one another to survive; too bad we were enemies when this all began.
::The Book of Dev’ra’si::
Death is a tragic, unavoidable truth to life. The one major drawback about love is that however deep and strong it is, it is finite. Someone will die. This is a truth that is nearly universal, except for one major exception: The Book of Dev’ra’si. A book having once fallen into myth, long since forgotten. The book born with the creation of time, in which the creator himself penned the secrets for creating and restoring life. The book torn from heaven during the unholy days, when angels fell and gods slew gods. The book believed to be forever lost. You know where it is, and I will give anything… everything, just to see her in my arms again. Name your price.
::Odin’s Lament::
I travel time. I bend the folds of that which is unbreakable, to walk between the ages. I have learned many truths in my time, have witnessed many great moments, many atrocities, but nothing so shocking as having discovered the very location of my own death. My name is Michael, and I am a human from Earth, but you.. you are something totally different, aren’t you? I use technology to move through time, but you can do it naturally. I grow old, wither away with the passage of time, and you… have you aged a day since we met? You love me, but when the time comes, when I come across that place again, that time… can you let me go?
:: Abhorrent Fixation ::
I was only a kid, just turned 18. It was my first trip to New Orleans, to Mardi Gras. I was young and filled with optimism and liberal ideas of hope. Carpe Diem, Seize the day was my motto. It was one night spent in the arms of a stranger, in a hotel room, wrapped amongst tangled sheets. In the morning I flew out, back to my home in Chicago. Such a quick, temporary affair. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. A year later, I returned to that city, returned to that place, returned to those arms. My obsession only strengthened. I moved from Chicago to New Orleans. I stood on that street corner every night for a month, but it wasn’t the right time of year. Then Mardi Gras comes again. Its been seven years, and over seven years we have not missed a night. Always the last night. Always out in front of this same little coffee shop…. Its been seven years, but this time, things will be different.
If you are interested, please drop me a private message.
The forest was a ghastly sight. The silver beams of the moon reflected off the formless cloud of night’s fog, bathing everything in a ghostly light. The skeletal forms of trees, lighter shadows outlined by the night’s light, stand a stoic, harsh back drop as three men walk slowly in procession, one bound at wrist and ankles with a heavy rope. The bound man was without anything that could be defined as clothing except a dirty shirt tied around his waist to fall over the more sensitive parts of him. Broad chest and arms were caked with dirt and sweat. The others were adorned with tarnished silver armor, bent and battered from days of conflict, blood stained and jagged, to give testament to the most recent of battles. Both armored men carried long swords in hand, tips lowered to the floor , nearly dragging with their weariness. Their shoulders drew heavy, and the dampness of dew weighed down upon their heavy, winter cloaks. Slowly they walk, three heads bowed to the transitory mists as though detached from the world around. Upon aged armor, the white lion of a long fallen kingdom stands boldly etched, as it did in the days of its splendor.
Slowly, the procession stops. A swift, firm kick to the back of the bound man drops his knees from beneath him, and he crashed down to the floor without sound. Mud and fallen leaves catch to his body as he attempts to stand, only to be shoved down once again. His struggle in inaudible, as are the words passing through the lips of the knight Templar standing before him, sword drawn. An argument, heated by the contort of faces, the edge to their eyes hardening. Still silence remains, as though the forest is but a spectator of a past crime, brought to this place, to this present, by the fog and the grace of a silver moon. The people dance within the fog, as though moving images upon a silver screen, without color, without sound. Shades of gray in outlines of shadow, as though bits of a memory, treasures and forgotten, given to the mist to .
The three struggle, two to their duty and one for his life. In the end, it is the numbers that win out over the need for self-preservation, and the lone man is again born back to his knees. In defeat, his eyes cast up, defiance in his glaze, as he looks upon the face of his executioner. Eyes alive with the brilliance of light’s dying, as he bares his throat, steadies his breath to ready himself for the stroke. The long sword drew away…
Watcher, please,
The sword’s blade came to throat, to tick away at the skin in taunt, drawing forward a drop of crimson blood, which shorn true as the first burst of color on the brilliance , ghastly canvas of the mist. A terrible laugh, muted by distance and time… echoing a whisper through the mind of Locke, with head held high. He tensed as the long sword drew back, knowing that the arm sought the appropriate distance to gain speed and strength to rend his head from his shoulders, punish him for a betrayal he was powerless to prevent.
I don’t wish to die, the voice echoed in an urgent, pleading tone. light help me, I couldn’t help it. They were killing her…
The wind picked up, whistling through the trees now, quickly. Massive oaks shivered under its force, the forest itself alive with a shriek as the wind passed through tiny spaces between dense brush and thick leaves. The fog shimmered, as through a wave ripped through it, before it began to swirl. It came together, the skeletal fog shining with the light of the risen full moon. The voice shrieked again, a single utterance, a command born from the other side of the fog, brilliant and clear, as the silvery images once again returned, playing upon the rippled surface of a circular vortex of night’s fog.
The sword stroke fell, and all was silent again.
It is hours that the body lies still, unmoved. The men have gone, the knights seen through the mirror having fulfilled the task duty and honor required of them, and the disgraced lay, not with head severed, but intact, contrary to the magiced illusion that has been created as memory for the honorable knights. An illusion cast, and the valiant prisoner struck by a magical sleep, and then with hands of fate, the vortex of fog spreads the ground again, covering the dampened leaves of the Black Wood, depositing the body of the prisoner before the slippered feet of a black robed woman. Beside him she knees, and with fingertips gentle, wipes away the hair from the brow of his head, looking upon his strong face and firm set jaw in admiration.
Upon the leaves, and the dust he awoke.
Golden sun streaks through the limbs of live oaks, spreading their massive branches towards one another, their leaves cutting the sun into ribbons that cascade towards the leaf strewn floor beneath. The sun was bright to his awakening eyes, and by its intensity and warmth, Locke wondered just how he had managed to sleep so far into the day. It was a common thing for him, to wonder of time and place upon first waking, the place was obvious to him, the forest of his death, beneath the golden caspare trees of the Northern Forest, the time…
He pause a moment, sitting up, looking upon the squat, massive trees before him. Caspar trees were well known for their narrow trunks, reaching as though to touch the heavens, like fingertips from the earthen floor below. Often growing more than 30 times the height of a man, but no more wider around than two men hand to hand… Locke gripped the earth beneath his fingertips, pulled the dirt and dried leaves from the floor, and brought then fisted hand up to his nose. The scent of the earth, the decaying odor of the leaves, this did not smell as home did. The floor was covered with round nuts, whereas Caspar trees spread as fledling trees off a single, large root system, all belonging to one mother tree.
Curious, Locke rose up from the dirt, brushing leaf and soil from his bare legs as he did, looking over himself, finding the loin cloth, the only dignity afforded him on the day of his execution, soiled from dirt and dew. No crimson of blood marked his body, nor clothing. No sign of struggle, to explain his escape from a dedicated and talented execution squad, and no sign of injury to tell that the task had been completed, however flawed the result may be. Observation only brought question, and a quick scan of the world around shows that nobody remains to answer the most curious of questions rolling around in his muddled mind: how is it he lives.
“Hello,” he called, a loud voice to echo through the trees. He was quickly coming to the conclusion that whatever had happened to him, the story would not be his this day, and he found himself in the precarious situation of being lost within a forest, with no idea of where he was, or how to get out. The call went unanswered, as he had expected it, and his eyes scanned the skies, seeing only small breaks in the canopy above to allow the streams of light to enter, to illuminate the world beneath branch and leaf, without givng much more than recollection of one’s surroundings. Everything was dim, darkly lit, unless standing in the direct path of a ray of light, in which bright circles formed upon the floor. Grass was sparse, as most was thick braided weeds or thorn bushes. He randomly selected a direction, putting his feet forward one after another with no real inclination of where to roam. His ears listened for sounds to help him locate himself: a passing wagon, the whistle of a wind, even the trickle of a brook, but the forest was eerily silent. No click of crickets, or scurrying of rodents. The trees showed no sign of life either, no birds flew amongst their branches, which lay still from lack of squirrel or other small animal.
For nearly an hour he walked, as straight and steadfast as he could manage, before coming to a stop, looking up at the canopy above once again. He was thirsty, and his stomach felt like a whole in the center of him. They hadn’t decided food was necessary for him before his execution, and on the trip into the Golden wood, he had been afforded little water, except what was needed to keep up his strength so they didn’t have to haul him bodily through the forest to kill him. Easier to kill a man on his feet, than to have to drag him. The heat of the day was beginning to press through the trees, and he was thankful for the dense foliage, through it provided much in the way of shade, it was beginning to trap heat in with the humidity it maintained. He watched for water on his journey, but found little. Now his lips were parched, his thirst becoming painful.
He was lost, and it was too quiet.