Village Witch

Servants of the Dark Lord

Servants of the Dark Lord

Some folks would argue that napping and resting your eyes are two different things. Oray would consider these folks amateurs. Napping, she’d say, is the act of going sleeping for a short enough span of time that you didn’t simply turn in for the night. Resting your eyes, however, is a far more involved process. You’ve really got to get into the sweet spot between asleep and awake and stay there. Resting her eyes is, generally, fairly unprofessional but so long as Oray reacted to sound no one could tell she’s doing it. For instance, there’d be no way for Lon to know that she absolutely was not watching his back as he played so long as she perked her head up when she was called.

Overall Lon had been an easy gig except when he called on her to do things during his performances. A faceless veil stares at him from across the way and beneath it Oray is giving a stink eye that’d be impressively cantankerous were it not hidden. She’s only ever been good at two things: hiding and shooting. Oray had come to find that shooting indoors was by and large frowned upon which made her no real help at all.

“Do a flip!” Heckles Oray, helpfully. She’d have been content but her stomach rumbles. Loudly. Right, that’d been why she was resting her eyes in the first place. He’s hungry, she’s hungry, the town is miserable, and slowly but surely it’s creeping onto Oray like some horrid disease. She misses the road. She wants an ale. She should’ve been a bounty hunter like her grandfather. “Minor key it, Lon!” She offers, slightly more helpful than the last time. It seemed the time for a sad, well placed shanty.

Figuring she’s done enough slacking Oray gives the room a good once over. She’d come to find that there’s a surprising amount of people who will readily hit a bard and she’s not sure why. Sometimes the song dragged out too long. Sometimes they’d smiled at the wrong person. Either way it helped to have a good look around once per song to see if anyone was rarin’ for a swing be it at Lon or at someone else. She was hoping she wouldn’t have to escort him out of a bar fight. Again.

Dark Stories With A Sense Of Humor

I feel weird writing bump and nothing else when I bump my posts so here's a picture of a cool teapot

Dark Stories With A Sense Of Humor

Bump on account of new plots added!

Dark Stories With A Sense Of Humor

Bump!

Dark Stories With A Sense Of Humor

Hey there! It’s your local Village Witch.

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒎 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓?

A few 1x1 plots centered around macabre themes. A sense of humor, however, is required. Things can’t be grim all the time, it loses the impact. Being that I’m going to be 25 soon I’d prefer my partners be 18+. The idea of paling it up with a kid is just weird. Pay me a babysitting fee and I'll think about it.

I’m a pretty personable gal (though can go a while radio silent. What can I say, I like the quiet too) so I try to make friends with whoever I’m playing with. While it’s not required you be my friend I would prefer we’re at least friendly.

𝑶𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒇𝒇

I honestly don’t feel any which way about gore, violence, or smut. I do prefer themes that hang around abuse to be written respectfully and not done for shock value, however.

As far as pairings go, I can go M/F or F/F. I’m most comfortable playing a woman and I’m not looking to venture outside of that barring NPCs and the like. I care about your gender about as much as I care about your hair color.

𝑾𝒂𝒕 𝒖 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒐?

I’m somewhere around high casual, low advanced. Can I write a damn novel for a post? You bet. Do I want to write four paragraphs of fluff when the story could be moved forward in a paragraph? Not really. I mean if it’s fun for you to do that, go on ahead, but I don’t want the pressure to match post length tit for tat to be a thing, y’know? Ideally I would prefer you write with me, not at me.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐬

Hider

Born a mage in a world where magic is frowned upon, ____ spent most of her life hidden away until married off to a man who mistreats her. Multiple attempts to escape her situation have landed her with the status of a madwoman and suspected of witchcraft. At her wits end she’s sought refuge in the most unlikely of places, The Dark Magus’ tower. Feeling that she’s nothing left to lose ____ begs, or rather demands, she be taken on as an apprentice.

𝐆𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

Hider

Coming from a humble, struggling background ____ was happy to marry off to the mysterious noble who came drifting through her city. It’s only after they arrive at their manor that she realizes there’s a lot about them she’s yet been told. Hauntings, murder, intrigue, and perhaps even eldritch horror ensue.

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡

Hider

____ is a peculiar girl with a disturbing hobby. Every day she religiously follows the object of her affection and documents their life in great detail. Thus far she's been doing well at keeping her "hobby" a secret. Things chance when she realizes her victim has a secret of their own. Could involve cults, could involve dark magic, should involve murder.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐨𝐧

Hider

____ is a two bit harlot down on her luck and hard pressed for cash. Through a series of somewhat auspicious circumstances she’s introduced to a grifter who has just the job for her. Together they’ll lie, cheat, and cajole their way into marrying ____ off to a wealthy chap and then have him swimming with the fishes so they can split his money 50/50. Set somewhere in the turn of the century/1920s. I’ll find a way to make magic relevant somehow because that’s who I am as a person. Probably best as F/F but EH.

𝐎𝐝𝐝 𝐉𝐨𝐛𝐬

Hider

Two strangers meet on a train. One is an eldritch being of untold power in human’s skin, the other is whatever the hell you want them to be. The eldritch being offers said mortal a wish beyond the limitations of the known universe if they’ll assist them with one task. The task at hand turns out to be cleansing a village overrun by cosmic horror unleashed by a devout cult. Who IS this being? Why DO they want to want to cleanse this village? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ We just don’t know. Think Bloodborne meets American gods.

That’s all I can think of for now! If you dig any of these, or even have an idea of your own, please hit me up!

Servants of the Dark Lord

I want to say something constructive or witty but instead I got over excited, drew a character reference, and wanted to share it.

Hider

Servants of the Dark Lord

Oray

Name: Oray

Race: Human

Nationality/Nation description: Raised around the Marches.

Occupation: Scout for mercenaries and lookout for trade caravans.

Religion: Skeptical but seems to have a fair few superstitions regarding luck.

Appearance: Most folk who see her on the road can’t say for certain what Oray looks like beyond being relatively short and having a spill of dark, curly hair. When she’s not shooting Oray covers her face in a black veil and only moves it so much as to show her eyes in combat. She dresses in tatty rags fashioned like a poncho or a shawl overtop compressing leathers. Her colors range from brown to grey with a minimal amount of black.

Beneath all her veil is a face that she’s been told many times “would be pretty if she weren’t so severe”. Oray has no plans of being any less severe. A square jaw proves her hardest feature, nose button like and doe eyed despite the profound tiredness of her heavy lidded gaze. Her resting face put her thick brows in a persistent furrow and her mouth a vague frown, giving her the look of a woman who’s long overdue for a nap.

Oray is brown of skin and dark of eyes. She seems to have a fondness for smudging kohl around them even if there’s kohl left over from the night before. It doesn't help her look any less tired.

Personality: Oray is a dry, monotonic woman with an offbeat sense of humor. Oft times she leaves people uncomfortably laughing at what they hope is a joke. It’s usually a joke. She’s learned that people will believe anything if you say it with a straight enough face. Considering most people are speaking to her veil, she’s got a damn good poker face.

A woman of diametrically opposed ideals, Oray struggles with being a survivor while trying not to be absolute human filth. Oray has lied, cheated, stole, and slept her way through life but she’s trying not to ruin any lives in the process. Trying being the keyword. Particularly vile dealings leave her vulnerable to fits of compassion which she promptly tries to forget ever happened once they’re over with.

Biography: Oray doesn’t remember much about her childhood. Early in her life she can remember the smell of a verdant garden, teapots lined with gold filigree, long locks of dark hair. She thinks she can recall the streets of the Imperium. . . But she wonders if it’s all a vivid dream.

Beyond that all she knew was her grandfather, a stalwart wall of a man. Oray has spent most of her life moving from place to place, being taught to shoot a musket and how to skin rabbits since she was able to talk. Agarus, her grandfather, worked as a bounty hunter and didn’t much try to hide the reality of his work from her. Well, for as long as he could, anyway.

At twelve Oray watched her grandfather meet his untimely end at the hand of a bounty he decided to take. A slaver with a little too much mettle had found a way to shank Agares when his guard was down. In some other story this would end with Oray being snatched up and put on the market, a little lamb ripe for the slaughter.

This isn’t that story, however.

Oray didn’t watch the life leave Agares’ eyes, rather she saw the hope drain from them. A man who had dedicated his life to raising his granddaughter now watching helpless as a misstep failed him, failed her. The weight of his regret proved too much to bear for Oray. Taking up his musket Oray shot his murderer down. It was under the bone white sky of a bleak late winter that Oray was left with nothing but a musket and two bodies: one to bury and one for bounty.

Thus started her complicated foray into adolescence. Masquerading as a young lad? Check. Horrific, prophetic dreams? Check. Oray’s made attempts at ignoring what comes to her in dreams and tried to make as few enemies as possible. Guarding merchant caravans seems to be a good way to go about that, and thus that’s the profession she’s chosen. Occasionally she’ll act as a scout, though she tries to be selective about the job.

Over ten years of this life and Oray is at a loss for what she’s doing with herself. The thought of trying to settle down doesn’t sound terribly appealing. The thought of going on doesn’t sound terribly appealing, either. To find some modicum of purpose Oray has turned inward, looking to the strange dreams that have plagued her. Perhaps they’re not the source of residual trauma but something more profound.

Equipment: A musket slung behind her back and two daggers strapped to her thighs. A waterskin, for drinking. A flask, for drinking. Oray carries tobacco (or what the in world equivalent is) and a pipe with her.

Around her neck Oray wears a signet ring on a silver chain. Unbeknownst to her this proves to be the source of her dreams, oft times filled with dark murmurings and perhaps prophetic imagery.

Skills: Oray is a survivalist, about to live off the land around her and—usually—find north. Eerily quiet, Oray can keep her steps soft and her presence hidden. Taught from a young age to use a musket, Oray shoots straight and she shoots well. When that fails her she turns to her daggers. She’s got a good eye, you’ve got to when you spend half your life with a veil over them. In fact, she can read lips when able to get a good look at the lips she’s reading. She is, despite all odds, literate.

Motivation: Oray is driven by the pipe dream of a great beyond, the idea that there’s something more. She goes through each day hoping that there’s something better living hand to mouth, town to town. The opportunity to watch history unfold around her, to take part in something meaningful, the opportunity to be bigger than her skin wouldn’t be passed up. . . Though it’d be met with a healthy amount of skepticism.

Servants of the Dark Lord

HELLA

Oray

Name: Oray

Race: Human

Nationality/Nation description: Raised around the Marches.

Occupation: Scout for mercenaries and lookout for trade caravans.

Religion: Skeptical but seems to have a fair few superstitions regarding luck.

Appearance: Most folk who see her on the road can’t say for certain what Oray looks like beyond being relatively short and having a spill of dark, curly hair. When she’s not shooting Oray covers her face in a black veil and only moves it so much as to show her eyes in combat. She dresses in tatty rags fashioned like a poncho or a shawl overtop compressing leathers. Her colors range from brown to grey with a minimal amount of black.

Beneath all her veil is a face that she’s been told many times “would be pretty if she weren’t so severe”. Oray has no plans of being any less severe. A square jaw proves her hardest feature, nose button like and doe eyed despite the profound tiredness of her heavy lidded gaze. Her resting face put her thick brows in a persistent furrow and her mouth a vague frown, giving her the look of a woman who’s long overdue for a nap.

Oray is brown of skin and dark of eyes. She seems to have a fondness for smudging kohl around them even if there’s kohl left over from the night before. It doesn't help her look any less tired.

Personality: Oray is a dry, monotonic woman with an offbeat sense of humor. Oft times she leaves people uncomfortably laughing at what they hope is a joke. It’s usually a joke. She’s learned that people will believe anything if you say it with a straight enough face. Considering most people are speaking to her veil, she’s got a damn good poker face.

A woman of diametrically opposed ideals, Oray struggles with being a survivor while trying not to be absolute human filth. Oray has lied, cheated, stole, and slept her way through life but she’s trying not to ruin any lives in the process. Trying being the keyword. Particularly vile dealings leave her vulnerable to fits of compassion which she promptly tries to forget ever happened once they’re over with.

Biography: Oray doesn’t remember much about her childhood. Early in her life she can remember the smell of a verdant garden, teapots lined with gold filigree, long locks of dark hair. She thinks she can recall the streets of the Imperium. . . But she wonders if it’s all a vivid dream.

Beyond that all she knew was her grandfather, a stalwart wall of a man. Oray has spent most of her life moving from place to place, being taught to shoot a musket and how to skin rabbits since she was able to talk. Agarus, her grandfather, worked as a bounty hunter and didn’t much try to hide the reality of his work from her. Well, for as long as he could, anyway.

At twelve Oray watched her grandfather meet his untimely end at the hand of a bounty he decided to take. A slaver with a little too much mettle had found a way to shank Agares when his guard was down. In some other story this would end with Oray being snatched up and put on the market, a little lamb ripe for the slaughter.

This isn’t that story, however.

Oray didn’t watch the life leave Agares’ eyes, rather she saw the hope drain from them. A man who had dedicated his life to raising his granddaughter now watching helpless as a misstep failed him, failed her. The weight of his regret proved too much to bear for Oray. Taking up his musket Oray shot his murderer down. It was under the bone white sky of a bleak late winter that Oray was left with nothing but a musket and two bodies: one to bury and one for bounty.

Thus started her complicated foray into adolescence. Masquerading as a young lad? Check. Horrific, prophetic dreams? Check. Oray’s made attempts at ignoring what comes to her in dreams and tried to make as few enemies as possible. Guarding merchant caravans seems to be a good way to go about that, and thus that’s the profession she’s chosen. Occasionally she’ll act as a scout, though she tries to be selective about the job.

Over ten years of this life and Oray is at a loss for what she’s doing with herself. The thought of trying to settle down doesn’t sound terribly appealing. The thought of going on doesn’t sound terribly appealing, either. To find some modicum of purpose Oray has turned inward, looking to the strange dreams that have plagued her. Perhaps they’re not the source of residual trauma but something more profound.

Equipment: A musket slung behind her back and two daggers strapped to her thighs. A waterskin, for drinking. A flask, for drinking. Oray carries tobacco (or what the in world equivalent is) and a pipe with her.

Around her neck Oray wears a signet ring on a silver chain. Unbeknownst to her this proves to be the source of her dreams, oft times filled with dark murmurings and perhaps prophetic imagery.

Skills: Oray is a survivalist, about to live off the land around her and—usually—find north. Eerily quiet, Oray can keep her steps soft and her presence hidden. Taught from a young age to use a musket, Oray shoots straight and she shoots well. When that fails her she turns to her daggers. She’s got a good eye, you’ve got to when you spend half your life with a veil over them. In fact, she can read lips when able to get a good look at the lips she’s reading. She is, despite all odds, literate.

Motivation: Oray is driven by the pipe dream of a great beyond, the idea that there’s something more. She goes through each day hoping that there’s something more than living hand to mouth, town to town. The opportunity to watch history unfold around her, to take part in something meaningful, to be bigger than her skin, wouldn’t be passed up. . . Though it’d be met with a healthy amount of skepticism.

One musket vagabond in middling condition. I'll probably draw up a character sheet for her but I didn't want to take five thousand years to post this. So it'll happen EVENTUALLY. Let me know me if there's anything that needs to be changed!

Servants of the Dark Lord

Hey there! Any room for the local new kid? I’m pretty jazzed about the idea so I’ve already got a character in mind but I figured I’d double check.

While we’re at it, is my character owning a musket and a ring that causes prophetic dreams allowed?