Hey there! Seeking a partner for a roleplay based on the novel Gone With the Wind!
I'm Cait (34F), and have over two decades of writing experience under my belt. I'd chiefly like to find someone to rewrite the relationship between Rhett and Scarlett if possible - ideally someone willing to write as Rhett, but I know that is almost impossible given the age of the book and all of its problems in the modern age, so I will settle for a Scarlett.
A sample:
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It was perhaps by the grace of some benevolent god that the rain had ceased a week before - Spring in Charleston was nothing to the turning of the seasons in Georgia. Here, the weather didn’t gather itself for brief, ostensibly polite little fits of pique, but full-blown tantrums and torrential downpours. The stark red clay roads in the rolling hills of upcountry Georgia had enjoyed more than enough time to dry into something manageable for Rhett Butler’s spur-of-the-moment sojourn from the sprawl of the city to a place rather whimsically named Twelve Oaks.
It had been at the invitation and vehement behest of Mr Frank Kennedy that Rhett had chosen to attend this barbecue, and, though he could claim no particular attachment to the man beyond the trappings of a budding business partnership, Rhett could no more deny his curiosity in the lives of the Georgian nouveau riche than he could now deny that Mr Kennedy was a peculiarly bothersome fellow.
“Are you comfortable, sir?” It was the third or fourth time Mr Kennedy had inquired after the pleasantness of the ride since they had departed the train station only thirty minutes before - a remarkably silly question given that the curricle in which the gentlemen now sat had been a very recent purchase (as Mr Kennedy had mentioned only a little while before) and was otherwise in perfect working order.
“If I weren’t, you would be the first to know,” Rhett replied, a mild expression of bemusement curving his lips.
Rhett was not a patient man, generally speaking. If something did not immediately benefit him in some tangible way, he was not usually inclined to give it any lingering attention. That he had tolerated Mr Kennedy and his fussy mannerisms for a half hour already this morning bordered very nearly upon the miraculous. Just what was it which had inclined him those weeks ago to accept a contract with the man?
Perhaps it had something to do with the size of Kennedy’s holding. Rhett had been informed, in no uncertain terms, that the fellow was in possession of the largest swath of arable land in Clayton County after all. And whatever his propensities for the frivolous, Kennedy was an honest man - a fact which Rhett’s better judgement could not allow him to ignore.
“Twelve Oaks is just a little further,” Kennedy added a moment later, gesturing vaguely up and away over the hill they now climbed.
Rhett simply nodded his acknowledgement, content to gaze out of the curricle at the woods which loped past to either side. The trees here, he would allow, were not nearly as elegant as those which grew along the Ashley River - chiefly live oaks the size of houses, their gnarled branches cradling curtains of Spanish Moss. No, here the forests were crowded in with loblollies and sweetgum, too stunted and precious to offer more than a teaspoon of shade and a mess of detritus upon the ground at their roots.
Nevertheless, there was a certain charm to it in the end. Where the low country felt strangely manicured to the point of austerity, here the landscape maintained a degree of wildness he could only like. Life strolled sedately on the coast; here, it ran with abandon.
“The Wilkeses are mighty friendly folks,” Mr Kennedy said as they crested the hill at last and began descending the other side, “They’ll be very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Butler. I’m sure of it.”
Rhett was less certain of their hosts’ enthusiasm once his history (inevitably) became generally known. He could not stop himself from grinning, “I suppose you will give them a glowing account of my unimpeachable character and spotless reputation?”
“Well yes, sir,” Mr Kennedy replied, his brow furrowing with what must have been not a little confusion, “How could I speak otherwise of such a generous business partner?”
“Quite pragmatic of you, Mr Kennedy,” Rhett mused, tilting his head a little to one side in an ostensibly conciliatory manner. It was possible that the man didn’t run in high enough circles in Atlanta to have heard all there was to tell regarding Rhett’s many and varied - alleged - conquests. He wondered how affronted Mr Kennedy might have been, either by the stories themselves or by the idea that he was now doing business with the chiefest villain in them.
The road ahead bent and meandered between the trees as they followed its steady red line like a ribbon between the curling pages of a book. Occasionally a little farm or the sweeping fields of a plantation would reveal itself to them through the trees. Any one of the handful of large, stately homes he spied at a distance might have been their destination, but Rhett suspected that they would find the place situated at the end of the little road onto which they turned only a few minutes later, lined on either side with approximately a dozen large white oaks.
“And here we are,” Mr Kennedy hummed - nearly as proud, Rhett thought, as if the man were presenting his own home for his guest’s benefit. The horses pulled the vehicle up the drive and the house came into view at last: a large, gleaming, white-columned structure, with still more chimneys and windows than it had trees in its name. It appeared to rest at the crown of a hill, with its fields and woods spread around it like so many fine skirts.
As Rhett’s gaze shifted back to the front of the main house, a few figures came into view - an older gentleman and two young ladies. They appeared to be talking amongst themselves just as the curricle pulled within earshot, then the words died on their lips to be replaced swiftly with cheerful greetings for Mr Kennedy and curious glances for Rhett. That their reception of the man was reasonably warm boded well in Rhett’s opinion - perhaps they would not mind after all that he had come along without a formal invitation from the hosts themselves.
“Fine day for a barbecue,” Mr Kennedy called in a manner which Rhett supposed must be considered ‘jaunty’.
That the ladies and gentleman did not trouble themselves with curtsies or bows further indicated a degree of closeness with Mr Kennedy. One of the ladies - the elder of the two, perhaps - immediately began to nod with vigor and her lazy little smile widened still more, “I dare say so, Mr Kennedy! It wouldn’t be Spring without a barbecue at Twelve Oaks, now would it?”
“Why don’t you introduce us to your friend?” the younger of the two women interjected. Her dull grey eyes hadn’t shifted from Rhett’s person from the moment he had ridden into view.
Mr Kennedy, slightly flustered by the interruption in his attempts to be charming, quickly tried to recover himself, “Oh yes, Mr Rhett Butler. This is Mr John Wilkes, Miss India Wilkes, and Miss Honey, sir.” He blinked, then turned back to the Wilkses, “But where’s Mr Ashley?”
“Here,” came a soft voice from somewhere over the Wilkes trio’s heads, “Neglecting my duties, it would seem.”
Rhett glanced up to the front veranda of the house to discover a fourth figure had appeared.
Mr Kennedy, apparently only just thinking to remove his hat, waved to the man, “I hope y’all don’t mind - Mr Butler is an acquaintance of mine from Atlanta.”
“Charleston, actually,” Rhett corrected with no shortage of amusement in the timbre of his words, “I’m only imposing on Atlanta’s hospitality of late, as I suppose I must be on yours.”
Mr Ashley Wilkes stepped forward to join the little group beside the curricle - the ladies sidled to the left a little to afford him room - and he shook his head, “Not at all, Mr Butler. You are more than welcome here. Any friend of Mr Kennedy’s would be.” The smile which accompanied these words curved with all the lazy confidence of a man who could not have known much hardship or unrest in his life.
Rhett and Mr Kennedy descended from the carriage to join the Wilkeses and it was then that Mr John and Mr Ashley offered Rhett the shake of a hand apiece in welcome. The Misses India and Honey curtsied, and, as the horses were led away, the little group fell into comfortable conversation beneath the inviting shade of the plantation’s namesake trees.
I'm Cait (34F), and have over two decades of writing experience under my belt. I'd chiefly like to find someone to rewrite the relationship between Rhett and Scarlett if possible - ideally someone willing to write as Rhett, but I know that is almost impossible given the age of the book and all of its problems in the modern age, so I will settle for a Scarlett.
A sample:
-----
It was perhaps by the grace of some benevolent god that the rain had ceased a week before - Spring in Charleston was nothing to the turning of the seasons in Georgia. Here, the weather didn’t gather itself for brief, ostensibly polite little fits of pique, but full-blown tantrums and torrential downpours. The stark red clay roads in the rolling hills of upcountry Georgia had enjoyed more than enough time to dry into something manageable for Rhett Butler’s spur-of-the-moment sojourn from the sprawl of the city to a place rather whimsically named Twelve Oaks.
It had been at the invitation and vehement behest of Mr Frank Kennedy that Rhett had chosen to attend this barbecue, and, though he could claim no particular attachment to the man beyond the trappings of a budding business partnership, Rhett could no more deny his curiosity in the lives of the Georgian nouveau riche than he could now deny that Mr Kennedy was a peculiarly bothersome fellow.
“Are you comfortable, sir?” It was the third or fourth time Mr Kennedy had inquired after the pleasantness of the ride since they had departed the train station only thirty minutes before - a remarkably silly question given that the curricle in which the gentlemen now sat had been a very recent purchase (as Mr Kennedy had mentioned only a little while before) and was otherwise in perfect working order.
“If I weren’t, you would be the first to know,” Rhett replied, a mild expression of bemusement curving his lips.
Rhett was not a patient man, generally speaking. If something did not immediately benefit him in some tangible way, he was not usually inclined to give it any lingering attention. That he had tolerated Mr Kennedy and his fussy mannerisms for a half hour already this morning bordered very nearly upon the miraculous. Just what was it which had inclined him those weeks ago to accept a contract with the man?
Perhaps it had something to do with the size of Kennedy’s holding. Rhett had been informed, in no uncertain terms, that the fellow was in possession of the largest swath of arable land in Clayton County after all. And whatever his propensities for the frivolous, Kennedy was an honest man - a fact which Rhett’s better judgement could not allow him to ignore.
“Twelve Oaks is just a little further,” Kennedy added a moment later, gesturing vaguely up and away over the hill they now climbed.
Rhett simply nodded his acknowledgement, content to gaze out of the curricle at the woods which loped past to either side. The trees here, he would allow, were not nearly as elegant as those which grew along the Ashley River - chiefly live oaks the size of houses, their gnarled branches cradling curtains of Spanish Moss. No, here the forests were crowded in with loblollies and sweetgum, too stunted and precious to offer more than a teaspoon of shade and a mess of detritus upon the ground at their roots.
Nevertheless, there was a certain charm to it in the end. Where the low country felt strangely manicured to the point of austerity, here the landscape maintained a degree of wildness he could only like. Life strolled sedately on the coast; here, it ran with abandon.
“The Wilkeses are mighty friendly folks,” Mr Kennedy said as they crested the hill at last and began descending the other side, “They’ll be very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Butler. I’m sure of it.”
Rhett was less certain of their hosts’ enthusiasm once his history (inevitably) became generally known. He could not stop himself from grinning, “I suppose you will give them a glowing account of my unimpeachable character and spotless reputation?”
“Well yes, sir,” Mr Kennedy replied, his brow furrowing with what must have been not a little confusion, “How could I speak otherwise of such a generous business partner?”
“Quite pragmatic of you, Mr Kennedy,” Rhett mused, tilting his head a little to one side in an ostensibly conciliatory manner. It was possible that the man didn’t run in high enough circles in Atlanta to have heard all there was to tell regarding Rhett’s many and varied - alleged - conquests. He wondered how affronted Mr Kennedy might have been, either by the stories themselves or by the idea that he was now doing business with the chiefest villain in them.
The road ahead bent and meandered between the trees as they followed its steady red line like a ribbon between the curling pages of a book. Occasionally a little farm or the sweeping fields of a plantation would reveal itself to them through the trees. Any one of the handful of large, stately homes he spied at a distance might have been their destination, but Rhett suspected that they would find the place situated at the end of the little road onto which they turned only a few minutes later, lined on either side with approximately a dozen large white oaks.
“And here we are,” Mr Kennedy hummed - nearly as proud, Rhett thought, as if the man were presenting his own home for his guest’s benefit. The horses pulled the vehicle up the drive and the house came into view at last: a large, gleaming, white-columned structure, with still more chimneys and windows than it had trees in its name. It appeared to rest at the crown of a hill, with its fields and woods spread around it like so many fine skirts.
As Rhett’s gaze shifted back to the front of the main house, a few figures came into view - an older gentleman and two young ladies. They appeared to be talking amongst themselves just as the curricle pulled within earshot, then the words died on their lips to be replaced swiftly with cheerful greetings for Mr Kennedy and curious glances for Rhett. That their reception of the man was reasonably warm boded well in Rhett’s opinion - perhaps they would not mind after all that he had come along without a formal invitation from the hosts themselves.
“Fine day for a barbecue,” Mr Kennedy called in a manner which Rhett supposed must be considered ‘jaunty’.
That the ladies and gentleman did not trouble themselves with curtsies or bows further indicated a degree of closeness with Mr Kennedy. One of the ladies - the elder of the two, perhaps - immediately began to nod with vigor and her lazy little smile widened still more, “I dare say so, Mr Kennedy! It wouldn’t be Spring without a barbecue at Twelve Oaks, now would it?”
“Why don’t you introduce us to your friend?” the younger of the two women interjected. Her dull grey eyes hadn’t shifted from Rhett’s person from the moment he had ridden into view.
Mr Kennedy, slightly flustered by the interruption in his attempts to be charming, quickly tried to recover himself, “Oh yes, Mr Rhett Butler. This is Mr John Wilkes, Miss India Wilkes, and Miss Honey, sir.” He blinked, then turned back to the Wilkses, “But where’s Mr Ashley?”
“Here,” came a soft voice from somewhere over the Wilkes trio’s heads, “Neglecting my duties, it would seem.”
Rhett glanced up to the front veranda of the house to discover a fourth figure had appeared.
Mr Kennedy, apparently only just thinking to remove his hat, waved to the man, “I hope y’all don’t mind - Mr Butler is an acquaintance of mine from Atlanta.”
“Charleston, actually,” Rhett corrected with no shortage of amusement in the timbre of his words, “I’m only imposing on Atlanta’s hospitality of late, as I suppose I must be on yours.”
Mr Ashley Wilkes stepped forward to join the little group beside the curricle - the ladies sidled to the left a little to afford him room - and he shook his head, “Not at all, Mr Butler. You are more than welcome here. Any friend of Mr Kennedy’s would be.” The smile which accompanied these words curved with all the lazy confidence of a man who could not have known much hardship or unrest in his life.
Rhett and Mr Kennedy descended from the carriage to join the Wilkeses and it was then that Mr John and Mr Ashley offered Rhett the shake of a hand apiece in welcome. The Misses India and Honey curtsied, and, as the horses were led away, the little group fell into comfortable conversation beneath the inviting shade of the plantation’s namesake trees.