Homebrewing every detail of an entirely new universe is fun. So fun.
4
likes
8 yrs ago
I don't want to go to college. I just want to bake sweets, work part-time, and enjoy my life until the inevitable build-up of apocalypses happens.
11
likes
8 yrs ago
This foxy Qunari mage just rode the Bull.
1
like
8 yrs ago
I can't believe it took me seven years to watch Toradora.
3
likes
Bio
If you're here to check me out and see how I write, here's an example of some of my best.
I woke in my cell without remembering falling unconscious. I was on my stomach, and when I moved I could feel the restriction of bandages covering the lashes on my back. So they were a punishment, but of course the Emir had to mend his broken toys. How else would they continue to amuse him?
The Emir. I laid there and recalled his eyes, lit from within with cruel delight as he kissed me. As his tongue ran across my lips and tasted my blood, my fear, as I struggled to move away… I could feel the bile burning the back of my throat. Ignoring the agony of my back and ribs, I pushed out of the cot and fell to my knees in front of the bucket in the corner. For a few minutes I was quietly, thoroughly sick. Since I’d had no food in some time, all that came up was the revolting crimson of Silas’s blood, and it did not taste as good coming up as it had going down. I pressed my cheek to the cool stone wall beside me, feeling the gentle ooze of blood as the lashes on my back protested my movements. The inside of my mouth tasted like rotten meat and iron, almost enough to get me heaving again.
I moved my head around, looking to see if the guards had left me anything to eat. They had, and right beside the cot. I was surprised by that small kindness. Maybe they’d enjoyed my fight. Either way, it was much easier to reach as I slowly hauled myself back onto the cot, lying on my stomach as before. I supposed the Emir hadn’t ordered my meals to be restricted in any way, because instead of the stale bread and broth I’d expected, I found a mostly cooled bowl of stew and a small wooden pitcher of water. I brought it up to the cot and ate slowly, trying to move only my wrist and hand. Any larger movements pulled at the lacerations on my back.
After my bowl emptied I set it back on the floor and closed my eyes, letting my fatigue take over. I drifted in and out of sleep, waking when I heard nearby doors slam closed or a nearby slave started wailing. Between fits of dozing I would stare at the Chain around my wrist. Were it not a symbol of oppression I might find it almost pretty. Solid black but for a single thread of gold ink that almost blended into my light brown skin. It circled my wrist completely. If I ever escaped, I would Break the links to show I was owned by only myself. I would need to find someone to help, to burn the links in a very specific way so any officials looking at it would think it were real. So many had escaped and Broken the links themselves, only to be found out because the scars healed wrong. They were cut down or brought back to their hell.
I must have drifted off while thinking, because the next time I woke I felt someone’s fingertip very lightly tracing the side of my face. There was no malice in this touch, just curiosity. Gentleness. Nothing like the softly malign touch of the Emir. I sighed and leaned into it, and the finger quickly withdrew. The owner of that finger was breathing quickly, almost… panicked? My eyes opened and I looked around.
Night had fallen, and there was nearly no light at all in my cell. The dim moonlight was all that gave the room shape. The silver light caught on a pair of eyes above me. Violet eyes. Now I could see the willowy shape of Khith in the cell beside mine. My cot was against the wall with the bars, and Khith sat on his own cot on the other side. My elven eyes could see much better in the dark than any human’s, so I could see Khith clutching his hand to his chest as if touching me had burned him.
“That was you.” It was not a question. “How long were you doing that?” Silence greeted me, but I hadn’t really expected a response. I stayed where I was, laying on my stomach. I wouldn’t have moved even if I could have. “It was nice,” I said softly. At this, Khith glanced at me.
It was a hunger in Khith’s eyes. A desperate, raging need for contact, for kindness. For anything remotely gentle in this dark Abyss. Again I could see myself at eight, nine, ten years old. Wishing someone would save me, or even give me some reprieve. Slowly, I slid my palm up the wall and onto the ledge where the bars began. My back twinged in protest but I kept my hand pressed to the stone.
“You can touch me,” I offered quietly. “Whenever you feel alone, or scared.” Khith’s eyes burned into me. “No one can live without kindness for long. Even I have had constant kindnesses in my life, when things were dark. But it is your choice, and it always will be. I want you to have somewhere safe, somewhere kind, even if it isn't me. Somewhere you can remember that there's compassion in the world. You don't trust anything now, and maybe you never will again. But if you have hope for anything, I want you to have hope for yourself.”
Silence. Utter silence. For a moment I thought maybe I had gone too far. Offered him too much, too fast. All I could see through the bars were Khith’s gleaming eyes, desperate and utterly conflicted, and then they disappeared. A soft shifting of cloth against hay, then more quiet. It seemed Khith had turned away. And that was fine. I just leaned my head back down onto my thin pillow and closed my eyes, letting myself drift back into sleep.
Then came the softest touch on my hand, startling me slightly. A fingertip beneath mine, and that was it. Silence. Khith’s slowing pulse lulled me to sleep.
I love D&D, and I'm a Dungeon Master for a couple of fools that I love to death. My favorite book series is A Court of Thorns and Roses, by Sarah J. Maas.
Hi there. I'm , Brumous, Brum, or Brumblebee. Ignore my post count please, since I only roleplay through PMs.
I've been roleplaying for many years, and I enjoy fantasy, sci-fi, and apocalyptic roleplays. I always have some sort of romance element when I write.
I'm a Casual to High-Casual writer, I use proper punctuation and grammar, and I would expect the same of any partner I roleplay with. I can write as a male or female, and I don't have a preference.
If there's anything I've missed in this interest check, let me know and I'll add it in.
I usually write, as a minimum, two or three decent-sized paragraphs, and again I expect the same of any partner I roleplay with.
It was a wonderful night for a storm. Even though Declan Vesh hated his gifts, he couldn't help but enjoy the magic of the earth, it's primal rage battering itself against his cottage, filling him with an oddly contrasting peace. The sky was howling outside, trying to tear everything apart, and it calmed him like almost nothing else could. It was on nights like these that his powers seemed less of a burden. The magic was humming in his bones, begging to be used.
And the opportunity presented itself as there came a wild pounding on his door.
He'd bedded down for the night, had almost been asleep when he heard the woman's voice calling out for help. He thought it a dream at first, the voice of the mountains lamenting the storm. He'd heard odd things out in the woods before. But the pounding at his door erased any of his doubts. He drew his dagger from under his pillow and silently climbed out of bed, creeping towards the door on cat's feet. The pounding continued.
He undid his absurd number of locks and threw the door open, nearly causing the woman on the other side to fall into the cabin. He had his dagger held out towards her, but he knew as soon as he saw her that she would be no threat. She was on the small side, almost emaciated, with torn clothing and, as he glanced down, shoes so travel-worn that he was sure her feet were half-sprained and bloodied to hell. He sheathed his dagger and, without a word, gathered her shivering form in his arms. The door closed behind him without his help.
He dragged his bed closer to the fire and grabbed some of his dry clothes. "Put these on. I'll turn my back. When you've dressed, lie down and I'll take a look at you."
~
I've got some ideas which I'll share through PMs, but I'm open to other ideas as well! Message me if you're interested, please.
If you're here to check me out and see how I write, here's an example of some of my best.
[hider=Sample.]
I woke in my cell without remembering falling unconscious. I was on my stomach, and when I moved I could feel the restriction of bandages covering the lashes on my back. So they were a punishment, but of course the Emir had to mend his broken toys. How else would they continue to amuse him?
The Emir. I laid there and recalled his eyes, lit from within with cruel delight as he kissed me. As his tongue ran across my lips and tasted my blood, my fear, as I struggled to move away… I could feel the bile burning the back of my throat. Ignoring the agony of my back and ribs, I pushed out of the cot and fell to my knees in front of the bucket in the corner. For a few minutes I was quietly, thoroughly sick. Since I’d had no food in some time, all that came up was the revolting crimson of Silas’s blood, and it did not taste as good coming up as it had going down. I pressed my cheek to the cool stone wall beside me, feeling the gentle ooze of blood as the lashes on my back protested my movements. The inside of my mouth tasted like rotten meat and iron, almost enough to get me heaving again.
I moved my head around, looking to see if the guards had left me anything to eat. They had, and right beside the cot. I was surprised by that small kindness. Maybe they’d enjoyed my fight. Either way, it was much easier to reach as I slowly hauled myself back onto the cot, lying on my stomach as before. I supposed the Emir hadn’t ordered my meals to be restricted in any way, because instead of the stale bread and broth I’d expected, I found a mostly cooled bowl of stew and a small wooden pitcher of water. I brought it up to the cot and ate slowly, trying to move only my wrist and hand. Any larger movements pulled at the lacerations on my back.
After my bowl emptied I set it back on the floor and closed my eyes, letting my fatigue take over. I drifted in and out of sleep, waking when I heard nearby doors slam closed or a nearby slave started wailing. Between fits of dozing I would stare at the Chain around my wrist. Were it not a symbol of oppression I might find it almost pretty. Solid black but for a single thread of gold ink that almost blended into my light brown skin. It circled my wrist completely. If I ever escaped, I would Break the links to show I was owned by only myself. I would need to find someone to help, to burn the links in a very specific way so any officials looking at it would think it were real. So many had escaped and Broken the links themselves, only to be found out because the scars healed wrong. They were cut down or brought back to their hell.
I must have drifted off while thinking, because the next time I woke I felt someone’s fingertip very lightly tracing the side of my face. There was no malice in this touch, just curiosity. Gentleness. Nothing like the softly malign touch of the Emir. I sighed and leaned into it, and the finger quickly withdrew. The owner of that finger was breathing quickly, almost… panicked? My eyes opened and I looked around.
Night had fallen, and there was nearly no light at all in my cell. The dim moonlight was all that gave the room shape. The silver light caught on a pair of eyes above me. Violet eyes. Now I could see the willowy shape of Khith in the cell beside mine. My cot was against the wall with the bars, and Khith sat on his own cot on the other side. My elven eyes could see much better in the dark than any human’s, so I could see Khith clutching his hand to his chest as if touching me had burned him.
“That was you.” It was not a question. “How long were you doing that?” Silence greeted me, but I hadn’t really expected a response. I stayed where I was, laying on my stomach. I wouldn’t have moved even if I could have. “It was nice,” I said softly. At this, Khith glanced at me.
It was a hunger in Khith’s eyes. A desperate, raging need for contact, for kindness. For anything remotely gentle in this dark Abyss. Again I could see myself at eight, nine, ten years old. Wishing someone would save me, or even give me some reprieve. Slowly, I slid my palm up the wall and onto the ledge where the bars began. My back twinged in protest but I kept my hand pressed to the stone.
“You can touch me,” I offered quietly. “Whenever you feel alone, or scared.” Khith’s eyes burned into me. “No one can live without kindness for long. Even I have had constant kindnesses in my life, when things were dark. But it is your choice, and it always will be. I want you to have somewhere safe, somewhere kind, even if it isn't me. Somewhere you can remember that there's compassion in the world. You don't trust anything now, and maybe you never will again. But if you have hope for anything, I want you to have hope for yourself.”
Silence. Utter silence. For a moment I thought maybe I had gone too far. Offered him too much, too fast. All I could see through the bars were Khith’s gleaming eyes, desperate and utterly conflicted, and then they disappeared. A soft shifting of cloth against hay, then more quiet. It seemed Khith had turned away. And that was fine. I just leaned my head back down onto my thin pillow and closed my eyes, letting myself drift back into sleep.
Then came the softest touch on my hand, startling me slightly. A fingertip beneath mine, and that was it. Silence. Khith’s slowing pulse lulled me to sleep.
[/hider]
I love D&D, and I'm a Dungeon Master for a couple of fools that I love to death.
My favorite book series is A Court of Thorns and Roses, by Sarah J. Maas.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">If you're here to check me out and see how I write, here's an example of some of my best.<br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Sample.">Sample. [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">I woke in my cell without remembering falling unconscious. I was on my stomach, and when I moved I could feel the restriction of bandages covering the lashes on my back. So they were a punishment, but of course the Emir had to mend his broken toys. How else would they continue to amuse him?<br><br>The Emir. I laid there and recalled his eyes, lit from within with cruel delight as he kissed me. As his tongue ran across my lips and tasted my blood, my fear, as I struggled to move away… I could feel the bile burning the back of my throat. Ignoring the agony of my back and ribs, I pushed out of the cot and fell to my knees in front of the bucket in the corner. For a few minutes I was quietly, thoroughly sick. Since I’d had no food in some time, all that came up was the revolting crimson of Silas’s blood, and it did not taste as good coming up as it had going down. I pressed my cheek to the cool stone wall beside me, feeling the gentle ooze of blood as the lashes on my back protested my movements. The inside of my mouth tasted like rotten meat and iron, almost enough to get me heaving again.<br><br>I moved my head around, looking to see if the guards had left me anything to eat. They had, and right beside the cot. I was surprised by that small kindness. Maybe they’d enjoyed my fight. Either way, it was much easier to reach as I slowly hauled myself back onto the cot, lying on my stomach as before. I supposed the Emir hadn’t ordered my meals to be restricted in any way, because instead of the stale bread and broth I’d expected, I found a mostly cooled bowl of stew and a small wooden pitcher of water. I brought it up to the cot and ate slowly, trying to move only my wrist and hand. Any larger movements pulled at the lacerations on my back.<br><br>After my bowl emptied I set it back on the floor and closed my eyes, letting my fatigue take over. I drifted in and out of sleep, waking when I heard nearby doors slam closed or a nearby slave started wailing. Between fits of dozing I would stare at the Chain around my wrist. Were it not a symbol of oppression I might find it almost pretty. Solid black but for a single thread of gold ink that almost blended into my light brown skin. It circled my wrist completely. If I ever escaped, I would Break the links to show I was owned by only myself. I would need to find someone to help, to burn the links in a very specific way so any officials looking at it would think it were real. So many had escaped and Broken the links themselves, only to be found out because the scars healed wrong. They were cut down or brought back to their hell.<br><br>I must have drifted off while thinking, because the next time I woke I felt someone’s fingertip very lightly tracing the side of my face. There was no malice in this touch, just curiosity. Gentleness. Nothing like the softly malign touch of the Emir. I sighed and leaned into it, and the finger quickly withdrew. The owner of that finger was breathing quickly, almost… panicked? My eyes opened and I looked around.<br><br>Night had fallen, and there was nearly no light at all in my cell. The dim moonlight was all that gave the room shape. The silver light caught on a pair of eyes above me. Violet eyes. Now I could see the willowy shape of Khith in the cell beside mine. My cot was against the wall with the bars, and Khith sat on his own cot on the other side. My elven eyes could see much better in the dark than any human’s, so I could see Khith clutching his hand to his chest as if touching me had burned him.<br><br>“That was you.” It was not a question. “How long were you doing that?” Silence greeted me, but I hadn’t really expected a response. I stayed where I was, laying on my stomach. I wouldn’t have moved even if I could have. “It was nice,” I said softly. At this, Khith glanced at me.<br><br>It was a hunger in Khith’s eyes. A desperate, raging need for contact, for kindness. For anything remotely gentle in this dark Abyss. Again I could see myself at eight, nine, ten years old. Wishing someone would save me, or even give me some reprieve. Slowly, I slid my palm up the wall and onto the ledge where the bars began. My back twinged in protest but I kept my hand pressed to the stone.<br><br>“You can touch me,” I offered quietly. “Whenever you feel alone, or scared.” Khith’s eyes burned into me. “No one can live without kindness for long. Even I have had constant kindnesses in my life, when things were dark. But it is your choice, and it always will be. I want you to have somewhere safe, somewhere kind, even if it isn't me. Somewhere you can remember that there's compassion in the world. You don't trust anything now, and maybe you never will again. But if you have hope for anything, I want you to have hope for yourself.”<br><br>Silence. Utter silence. For a moment I thought maybe I had gone too far. Offered him too much, too fast. All I could see through the bars were Khith’s gleaming eyes, desperate and utterly conflicted, and then they disappeared. A soft shifting of cloth against hay, then more quiet. It seemed Khith had turned away. And that was fine. I just leaned my head back down onto my thin pillow and closed my eyes, letting myself drift back into sleep.<br><br>Then came the softest touch on my hand, startling me slightly. A fingertip beneath mine, and that was it. Silence. Khith’s slowing pulse lulled me to sleep.</div></div><br>I love D&D, and I'm a Dungeon Master for a couple of fools that I love to death.<br>My favorite book series is A Court of Thorns and Roses, by Sarah J. Maas.</div>
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puddingpunter