The great ash-grey walls of Montgomery Castle cast long shadows toward the west, deepened by the intense morning sun that hung still low in the sky. And the silver birth wood forest took on a heavenly glow as it basked its bark in warmth of a spring morning. Lying between these two climates; the dark western wall of the castle, and the illuminated trees, there was a well-trodden dirt path, beat flat by beast and man, and it served as a bridge between the worlds. A scarfed girl, her steps leisurely as her brown eyes bobbed between the castle and forest, navigated her way from darkness into light. The sun shone through the thin cloth wrapped around her head as she turned to look around, passing a cart of spliced logs. The peasant who drove it had been awake loading the damned thing since the sun’s first whispers of day doused the horizon. He paid her little heed, and she continued on her way pleasantly.
Eira used to be afraid when she passed strangers out in the open, afraid that they could see that she did not belong there, afraid that they could somehow know with a glance that the girl had no business outside of those ash-grey walls. However, she learned quickly that most people kept to their business, and as long as she acted as if she belonged, very few would question her. Even as she left the castle boundaries, under the guise that she would be visiting the local Parish for morning prayer, not even those who knew her questioned the girl. Instead she walked out without drawing a blink of an eye, and when she came to the crossroad between Montgomery’s Parish and its forest, she took a left instead of a right.
The noises of a spring forest were just reaching the young woman’s ears, the different birds chittering away as they often did. It was so natural and organic, dynamic in its lilt, and it brought calm to Eira’s breast. Noises in the castle were often so mechanic, echoing down the halls and regurgitating once over themselves. It was the clatter of pans, the shuffle of feet, the repeating of words and the sound was ugly and crass. Though here, there was a peace and openness that Eira found comforting. Every direction but west, the girl was greeted with openness; an open field, an unwinding path, a limitless forest. But then when she looked behind her toward the castle she saw only one thing; a high, dead end wall. Perhaps that was way she risked her father’s rage to visit the forest so frequently, the girl liked the tantalize her fingers across the flames of freedom, knowing there were a thousand opportunities, but always returning to the castle that she felt she hated.
Why?
It was a question Eira had debated herself, an analytical girl, dissecting even her own wants and actions as if she was a third party, viewing from a distance. Her ultimate thesis came down to the security that the castle provided her. Walls were limiting. They limited the world she could get into, but as well, it limited the world from getting in to her. Off every direction, there was something great, but there was also something terrible, and Eira was a slave to that terror. But she felt relatively safe upon the boundary between her known world and what lie outside it, especially since she’d come to explore the paths through the forest, never venturing so far that she couldn't see the castle rose up in defiance upon its stony hill.
A leather bounded book in her hand, and a vial of ink and quill stashed in a satchel draped across her shoulder, the girl searched for a lonely spot to sit. A dozen yards or so within the trees, Eira stopped and turned off toward the right, where a path had been carved through the thicket by the numerous deer and other creatures that claimed this forest as their own. She seemed to know where she was going, venturing a few steps, and then creeping behind the thick base of a hazel. Out of sight from the path, though close enough that she’d hear any approach, Eira felt safe enough to sit, withdrawing her ink and quill, and dying the tip black as she began to write.
At her modest 5’2”, Eira was always admittedly jealous of her elder sister’s, in her opinion, more graceful height. Well into her nubile years, she was still often seen and treated as a child, which she faulted not only to her girlish stature, but to the fact that she was not the eldest. Even Gwillyn, her younger by a year, was often allowed more responsibility and independence then Eira herself. Though that, she knew, was not due to their age, but to the simple fact that God had borne him a man, and she a lady. An unpleasant reality of life the girl accepted at face, but resented at heart.
Her brown eyes were the same richness as her hair, which was a few shades lighter than her siblings, and contrasted well with a skin tone becoming to women of her stature. The girl was very fond of burgundy, champagne, and colors of a similar pallet, and her wardrobe attested to such favor. Like her sister, and any moral woman of her day, Eira dressed modestly, tight collared dresses, and long binding sleeves to match. Her chestnut hair was rarely, if ever, seen out of the elaborate crown braids she’d perfected in her childhood, and so its profound length was lost to anyone besides the matrons charged with her or her elder sister. Either way, her shear veils did well in hiding away the silky wisps of hair that had fallen out of their place in her braid.
•Personality: The middle, and perhaps, the least important of three children; one sibling the eldest, and the other, the heir, Eira has lived her life with a grudging knowledge that she was often, and would perhaps always be, ignored. When men propositioned her father for a daughter’s hand in marriage, they always requested the hand of his eldest daughter, Catrin. And he always denied them. Though Eira herself, truthfully, did not yet wish to be married, she did however resent the fact that she was never sought after like her sister. This led to a budding envy toward Catrin, one not filled with malice, but still, in the dark recess of her mind, it tick-tick-ticked to her subconscious, a reminder like that of an inconvenient itch, of her own inadequacy.
However, being the middle child did have its benefits, as Eira sustained a healthy relationship both with her elder sister and younger brother, along with a laxer upbringing comparatively to Catrin, who had far more expectations placed upon her. Though Eira was not exactly sharp tongued, she was a very free thinker with varying conventions on what ought to be acceptable of ladies such as herself. Most of those thoughts, however, Eira keeps unspoken, only rarely sharing them with Catrin or Gwillym, because she was bright enough to know how dangerous an unfiltered mouth could be. Still, once impassioned, the girl chomps at the bit to rant and express her ideals, and so she has taken an interest in writing, under the guise of wishing to master her penmanship, but in reality, it is not the flowery shape of the words that interests her nearly as much as their meaning. Save a few essays of free thought she keeps hidden within the bindings of her thick bible, Eira burns her writings shortly after their conception.
Though Eira was not exactly untrustworthy, she was exceptionally sneaky, often venturing from her expected place within to keep, sometimes within the company of Gwillym, and sometimes on her own. It was a trait only she, the forgotten middle child, could properly develop because surely if Catrin or Gwillym went missing for as long as she sometimes did, they’d be discovered gone. However, for Eira, her mother and matrons often figured the girl was in her room, reading or practicing her writing, when really the girl was elsewhere. On the rare occasion she was caught, Eira was able to either lie or play dumb, and because she was treated as no great importance, the girl escaped with a light punishment in most cases.
•Nobility Title: Viscountess
•Martial Status: Unmarried
•Biography: Born in the height of winter, Eira was the second daughter to Viscount Gwallter Hilarius Hywel, who had been hoping vehemently for a son to secure his legacy. However, instead the midwife presented the man with a second daughter, and though he did not resent the girl, he was however, disappointed. She grew up under the constant supervision of different nursemaids and matrons, taught the manners of a lady from a very young age, though her interest in courtesy feigned as the girl’s mind blossomed past such arbitraries and repetitions quickly. Still, she learned as she was meant to, though never prided herself in the same way Cadi always had.
As children, her and her elder sister had been inseparable, Catrin, a green eyed four-year-old, dragging behind her the bundled toddler that was Eira, playing dress up and treating the girl as her own personal doll because at the time, Eira’s understanding of language was limited to babbled words and points, so she was unable to protest. As they aged, they would play together in the courtyard, soon accompanied by an even younger sibling, that cherished son Viscount Gwallter had always wanted.
She was not an exceptionally naughty child, nor was she pure in her goodness, though like most, she bobbed between the two hemispheres, reciting her prayers, though sinning all the same as mortal men were prone to do. Just beginning her adult life, Eira knows that soon the freedoms of her youth will be stripped away by the oppressive nature of marriage, should her husband so wish to rid her of them, and so with an almost nervous zeal, the girl clings to what childhood remains, while still yearning for the independence of adulthood she knows she likely will never have.
•Starting Location: Montgomery
•Likes: Writing, listening to gossip/talk of the war, riding
•Dislikes: Her own shortcomings/irrelevance when compared to her siblings, lectures
The product of generations of gentle breeding, Princess Vera has, or at least had, not only the predisposition to beauty, but the means in which to uphold such an appearance. Prior to being led away from her home in some desperate line of invalids, she'd been quite taken up with her own vanity, as nubile girls tended to be, still new to the male attention they'd just begun to receive. She stands at a modest 5'4", with a narrowness that can be accounted to both the natural slimness she'd inherited from her mother, along with the awkward transition phase puberty had left her in. Not quite yet a woman, she still tries to hold herself with the maturity and dignity expected of her, having been taught since her girlhood how a Princess ought to act, and despite the expected rebellion adolescence brought, she did well to fit the mold. Since the departure from the capitol, a change has befallen the Princess. She's taken a grim mood, and like a plague, whatever sadness or depression rots her soul, has also taken a toll on her outward appearance. Her blue eyes are cupped by purple bruises, the products of sleeplessness. Though she remains hygienic, she abandoned the intricate braids and up-dos she'd once been fond of for a simple silver-blonde braid down her back. Travelling exhausts her, but the true haunt lies not in perils of the journey, but the fear and guilt she feels from what they are escaping; the destruction of her people, her home, her family.
Name: Princess Vera Drewery
Age: 16 years old
Personality:
Most would describe the refugee Princess's presence as ghastly. Since the caravan set north, she'd grown cold and quiet. Though in the public, one might mistake her coldness to a clandestine determination, those who witnessed her privately would know the girl was far from hardened. On the contrary, she had gone completely numb from the situation, not a panicking ball of fear, but rather a unresponsive specter. She was frightened, yes, but more so that frightened, the girl was guilty. Though she had no part in the city's downfall, the escalation of such taking place throughout her childhood where she was but a terrible witness, still, as Princess, she knows that the people will look to her as their leader, the entity to which they pledge their loyalty to in exchange for protection from such horrors. Yet, she was just a girl, just as vulnerable and as helpless as these refugee children, fleeing, just as them, a great Armageddon.
The duality of her role as both a leader, and a helpless refugee, leave the girl confused and frightened of the decisions to come. She knows little outside a scholarly knowledge of where they were headed, and of what trials and tribulations were ahead. What she fears the most is what lies behind them, should they move too slowly, and her father's army fall too quickly. The idea of capture brings the girl nightmares, and her own mortality dawns on her once immortal mind. The realization that she is no longer a privileged elite, a carefree girl unknowing of the consequences of the world, brings with it only more fear and confusion for the Princess to sort through, leaving her to feel trapped in the labyrinth of fate.
Backstory:
Vera's childhood was as normal and as utterly bizarre as you'd expect from a little royal Princess. She had no tragedy, no ultimatum or curse to steer her far from the path of being your average girl, a little more refined, a little more cultured than a peasant girl, but with no remarkable trait to seperate her besides wealth and authority. Her life was comfortable, she did her schooling and listened to her parents; so had you asked an eight year old Vera where she expected to be when she was sixteen, she'd assume she'd be looking for a husband, rather than looking for refuge.
It is rumored that the heiress had been courting a young man before the invasion had begun, however, she never speaks of such a man, and rumors were plentiful within the castle walls. The day she was told that she would be leaving the city with the caravan, the Princess had first outright refused, the youngest and only unmarried child of a bountiful line. Her sisters were to being taken with their husbands, either fleeing as well, or barricading their own estate (should that estate still exist to barricade. Her brothers, those who were not within the King's service, would either remain at the castle to rule in their father's stead, or again fled in a different direction from the Princess and her parade. Now, separated from the comfort of her home, Vera must deal with the abandonment of her old life, and forge forward toward anew.
Skills and Abilities:
Journeyman embroidery: Raised in a castle among other women, Vera knows plenty in regards to sewing and the related crafts.
Professional penmanship/scholarship: Her handwriting is a lavish cursive font, a trait learned through her extensive schooling.
Journeyman communication/dialect: She has a refined tone and an expanded vocabulary. As well, she knows a decent amount about how to influence and manipulate people through conversation.
Journeyman dance: She knows many dances from her cultured upbringing.
Journeyman riding: Vera's been riding since she was little, though mostly for sport, she still has a decent level of control of a horse.
Novice politician: Surrounded by different Lords, Advisers, and various politicians, as she's grown in age, she's also grown more aware of the appearance needed to successfully rule. Most of the knowledge lies in little bits of wisdom her father and mother have bestowed to her, but she clings desperately to those shards of knowledge now more than ever.
Equipment:
-One well-bred riding horse -A leather bag filled with various seals, inks, and scrolls meant for official documentation -An arctic fox-fur lined cloak, trimmed with an icy silk and threaded in a dull lavender -Black leather riding boots -Various small pieces of jewelry with the royal crest upon them -A steel dagger -Heavy woolen stockings -A medium bag with a different set of clothes -Her tiara is also rumored to be hidden among what belongings she keeps strapped to her horse
The product of generations of gentle breeding, Princess Vera has, or at least had, not only the predisposition to beauty, but the means in which to uphold such an appearance. Prior to being led away from her home in some desperate line of invalids, she'd been quite taken up with her own vanity, as nubile girls tended to be, still new to the male attention they'd just begun to receive. She stands at a modest 5'4", with a narrowness that can be accounted to both the natural slimness she'd inherited from her mother, along with the awkward transition phase puberty had left her in. Not quite yet a woman, she still tries to hold herself with the maturity and dignity expected of her, having been taught since her girlhood how a Princess ought to act, and despite the expected rebellion adolescence brought, she did well to fit the mold. Since the departure from the capitol, a change has befallen the Princess. She's taken a grim mood, and like a plague, whatever sadness or depression rots her soul, has also taken a toll on her outward appearance. Her blue eyes are cupped by purple bruises, the products of sleeplessness. Though she remains hygienic, she abandoned the intricate braids and up-dos she'd once been fond of for a simple silver-blonde braid down her back. Travelling exhausts her, but the true haunt lies not in perils of the journey, but the fear and guilt she feels from what they are escaping; the destruction of her people, her home, her family.
Name: Princess Vera Drewery
Age: 16 years old
Personality:
Most would describe the refugee Princess's presence as ghastly. Since the caravan set north, she'd grown cold and quiet. Though in the public, one might mistake her coldness to a clandestine determination, those who witnessed her privately would know the girl was far from hardened. On the contrary, she had gone completely numb from the situation, not a panicking ball of fear, but rather a unresponsive specter. She was frightened, yes, but more so that frightened, the girl was guilty. Though she had no part in the city's downfall, the escalation of such taking place throughout her childhood where she was but a terrible witness, still, as Princess, she knows that the people will look to her as their leader, the entity to which they pledge their loyalty to in exchange for protection from such horrors. Yet, she was just a girl, just as vulnerable and as helpless as these refugee children, fleeing, just as them, a great Armageddon.
The duality of her role as both a leader, and a helpless refugee, leave the girl confused and frightened of the decisions to come. She knows little outside a scholarly knowledge of where they were headed, and of what trials and tribulations were ahead. What she fears the most is what lies behind them, should they move too slowly, and her father's army fall too quickly. The idea of capture brings the girl nightmares, and her own mortality dawns on her once immortal mind. The realization that she is no longer a privileged elite, a carefree girl unknowing of the consequences of the world, brings with it only more fear and confusion for the Princess to sort through, leaving her to feel trapped in the labyrinth of fate.
Backstory:
Vera's childhood was as normal and as utterly bizarre as you'd expect from a little royal Princess. She had no tragedy, no ultimatum or curse to steer her far from the path of being your average girl, a little more refined, a little more cultured than a peasant girl, but with no remarkable trait to seperate her besides wealth and authority. Her life was comfortable, she did her schooling and listened to her parents; so had you asked an eight year old Vera where she expected to be when she was sixteen, she'd assume she'd be looking for a husband, rather than looking for refuge.
It is rumored that the heiress had been courting a young man before the invasion had begun, however, she never speaks of such a man, and rumors were plentiful within the castle walls. The day she was told that she would be leaving the city with the caravan, the Princess had first outright refused, the youngest and only unmarried child of a bountiful line. Her sisters were to being taken with their husbands, either fleeing as well, or barricading their own estate (should that estate still exist to barricade. Her brothers, those who were not within the King's service, would either remain at the castle to rule in their father's stead, or again fled in a different direction from the Princess and her parade. Now, separated from the comfort of her home, Vera must deal with the abandonment of her old life, and forge forward toward anew.
Skills and Abilities:
Journeyman embroidery: Raised in a castle among other women, Vera knows plenty in regards to sewing and the related crafts.
Professional penmanship/scholarship: Her handwriting is a lavish cursive font, a trait learned through her extensive schooling.
Journeyman communication/dialect: She has a refined tone and an expanded vocabulary. As well, she knows a decent amount about how to influence and manipulate people through conversation.
Journeyman dance: She knows many dances from her cultured upbringing.
Journeyman riding: Vera's been riding since she was little, though mostly for sport, she still has a decent level of control of a horse.
Novice politician: Surrounded by different Lords, Advisers, and various politicians, as she's grown in age, she's also grown more aware of the appearance needed to successfully rule. Most of the knowledge lies in little bits of wisdom her father and mother have bestowed to her, but she clings desperately to those shards of knowledge now more than ever.
Equipment:
-One well-bred riding horse -A leather bag filled with various seals, inks, and scrolls meant for official documentation -An arctic fox-fur lined cloak, trimmed with an icy silk and threaded in a dull lavender -Black leather riding boots -Various small pieces of jewelry with the royal crest upon them -A steel dagger -Heavy woolen stockings -A medium bag with a different set of clothes -Her tiara is also rumored to be hidden among what belongings she keeps strapped to her horse
I'd totally be interested in something historically oriented, here's a writing sample!
Above the Southern Gate into Bal'vold, Evening.
In front of Colonel Andrew Moore stood five thousand men. Their dark eyes shined by the torch light that flickered between the masses, reflected from their armor, and projected around. Each man was silent as a corpse, and he bet many would end the night like that. Still, the Colonel took a deep breath, watching his men with a mixture of pride, and a sad realization. This was all he had left, half of his ten thousand were either in the grave, or had fled home, and quite honestly, he wished to join them. This was an impossible feat, to take the city of Bal'vold, and though his superiors told him they were winning, he did not believe it. This stubborn and wretched land was made of mud, and fought as hard against them as the dwarves. It seemed like he was forever being outflanked, forever loosing troves of men to the damned forests, and the fabled beasts of legend that apparently inhabited it. Of course, the sensible Moore knew better then to believe such nonsense, but it was quite haunting, still, and in his moments of doubt, often he'd catch himself remarking on how those glowing balls of light, obviously some sort of exotic relative to their fireflies, in some light, seemed to be surrounding a tiny body. And if you listened, it seemed like the chiming laughter of a child. But that was the talk of fools, for everyone knew there was no such thing as magic, and Fae.
"Men!" He'd begin, shaking away the thoughts of what craziness surrounded him, and deepening his voice, reassuring, and in every respect, that of a natural born leader. These were his men, and he had one final chance to lead them. The General had given him his ultimatum, the southern door into Bal'vold fell tonight, or the King would be giving them an unpleasant visit. He thought he could fear nothing more, until the messenger informed him that his family would be receiving one shortly after, and that awoke a whole knew form a terror to the man, who did not even realize he could be so fearful.
"Men!" Once more, he repeated, before his speech began, " Tonight, we take the southern gates of Bal'vold, you and I will stride into Bal'vold, and we shall secure it in the name of our brave King. As we speak, our brethren are securing the Eastern, Western, and even the Great Northern gates. And they're waiting oh-so patiently for us, to knock down these midget-savage's door, and burn this fucking city from the ground up."
A roar of approval erupted, men battered their shields together, their swords, a rumbling of bodies, a smack of steel on steel, leather on leather. They were ready to destroy this city, after many failed campaigns, they were ready to see into the great underground city of Bal'vold, and bring these dwarven shits to their knees. Raising his hand, the men quieted, and Moore gave a grin, " Many of you probably have heard that Jewelstine has fallen. In the south, those fucks are going home, while we stand here and rot, a thousand miles away from a decent bed, and our lonely wives. If we're not quick, I bet the lot of them will be keepin' our women company soon 'nough, the lucky bastards. Know what I say to that? I think it's time we go home too, I think it's 'bout time Bal'vold falls." Another roar came, louder this time, as the man drew his sword, and hopped from the raise platform. They'd shout, in joy, in rage, readying themselves for battle. It was good of them to do so, because less then a hundred meters away, the desolate cave that led to the underground city of Bal'vold stood. Hoping on a well trained horse, Moore gestured them forward, and in an unorganized and barbaric mass, they'd rush forward. It was time to meet with their brethren in the center of Bal'vold, it was time to go home.
--
Corporal Andrew Moore lay bashed and bloody on the stony ground, his horse had been shot from beneath him, and was screeching loudly to his side, the man having luckily flown far enough away to have not been crushed beneath it, but he'd been thoroughly trampled by his own men during the battle, the cave opening into a massive cavern. Intricately carved stone walls rose to the ceiling, with only tiny slits for a Dwarven archer or cannon to shoot from. One massive door rose nearly as high, of a thick and weathered wood. Lifting his head, Andrew's vision spun, and he'd feel an urge to vomit, however, he'd fight it, listening to the screams of beast and man alike, and scattered around were the dead and dying.
Had they made it at least, had they done it? He urged himself to sit up, but as he did, and looked toward those massive iron-banded doors, he saw that they were closed, and once more his vision spun, and he'd vomit down his front. Interestingly enough, as he stared down at himself, he was covered in a mixture of his own blood, and his horses. He found a few arrows poking through his thigh and stomach, and laid back miserably. He was going to die. Though, oddly enough he felt no pain, rather a soothing numbness. Every sense told him he should be screaming, but instead, in the dimness of the cavern, he reflected on his life. Most notably, he thought of how he had not struck down a single dwarf, and felt a bit of regret with that. Somewhere in the back of his mind...he knew that the gates not opening would be bad...The King-..his mind whispered, but then he felt like laughing.
What could the King do now? He was going to die-...Then horror struck him, and the man tried to sit up once more, his eyes painfully opening...and his breath coming out in ragged gasps. His family...By the Gods...
In front of Andrew, a pale face looked over him...his wife-..wasn't it? With white hair, and white eyes...No, his wife had hair of copper...and her eyes were green. This girl-...it must be his daughter then. The man smiled to her, and she smiled back, cradling him against her lap, yes..it was his daughter, she had gotten big, when he'd seen her last, she'd just been in a cradle. His mind fumbled over that, she should only be a toddler, but this girl looked older. Parts of him reminded that there was no time to be worrying about that. He'd try to raise a hand, to touch her face, cooing weakly, " Coleen..." The girl nodded, lightly pushing his hand away, and he obeyed.
"Hello Corporal...What is your name?" She'd ask cheerily, and the man puzzled. Shouldn't his daughter know her own fathers name? But he chided himself soon after, how silly, she was just a baby, how would she know his name.
After blinking up at him, and releasing a sigh, feeling comforted against her lap, and wondering why he'd sat up at all, the man answered, " Corporal Andrew Moore, dear." He'd croak out, and his daughter smiled once more, which pleased him.
Then, her eyes went dark, and this made him cringe, " Rest now, You have lost the battle." He nodded, knowing his daughter was disappointed, and when she lowered her lips to his, he'd think it to be a kiss, but then..the world went black, and he felt his body cringe, and the pain became suddenly realize, then vanish...tears coming to his body, but he was soothed once more. Her voice cooed despite her lips against his, urging him to close his eyes, to let go. He was eager to let go, feeling himself go limp, and soon, and felt nothing, saw nothing, said nothing. Of course, he did not realize he was dead, Isa had to look at the withered corpses of an old man, shrunken in his proud uniform, and covered in a mixture of his own blood and vomit. Disgusted, the Witch pushed him away, noting his name.
Zarr would not reach him in time, but there were three more idiots that did survive this pathetic attempt at taking the city. Only one door had even opened, the eastern gate was rammed opened, and the force entered the city, eager to meet with the other three, however, that did not happen. And just as quickly as the doors had opened, they closed...and two thousand men were trapped inside, without any hope of escape, within an hour, they were either taken prisoner, or killed once the dwarves ran out of place to keep them. Her master would not much like this defeat, and she supposed it was about time for her to return, and tell him. Glancing around at all the dead and dying, the witch picked a rather young man, with a gash across his belly.
If any medics were coming to retrieve the living, which they weren't, the boy may have a chance. If he was really ambition, he may even be able to crawl to safety, but Isa would reach him much sooner, at her touch, he stopped screaming, and looked startled at her, murmuring, "Mum?"
She'd nod along, sighing, and with a few minutes, she'd leave another shrunken old man on the battlefield, wrinkled and liver-spotted. His white hair clutching desperately to his head and chin, and skin hanging from his bones. That was enough for now, and within a moment, it was as if the Witch had never been there, all that was left were two impossibly old corpses.
Did you like that? My play on words right there, eh? Pretty good, heroin, heroine, like, the drug, and a female hero? Yeah, I thought it was pretty witty too.
Alright, enough with my fictional conversations! Welcome to my Interest Check, as you might have noticed, it's conveniently filed away in the 1v1 Interest Check bin, as in, I am in search of some one on one roleplays with you wonderful people! I'm Alex by the way, and as you must be anticipating, I've got a few base rules to set. I'll try to keep it short and sweet, nobody likes reading the same stuff over!
1. I like quality over quantity, if I feel like you're writing style is below what I am used to, I most likely will not enjoy the rolepaly.
2. I've no limits with much of anything, I do tend to fade to black, but if you don't want to, be my guest in describing every bodily fluid you can put a name to, just don't expect me to be so inclined. Gore, on the other hand-... I love me some grittiness.
3. This is not as much of a requirement, as it is a preference. I love antagonists, if you figure yourself a good bad guy, send me a PM, because I will eat it right up. That being said, emotionally complex characters, with detectable personalities are a million times better than some run-of-the-mill cliche, evil, mustache twirling villain.
4. I tend to play the female role, and prefer MxF pairings. But I've no issue with doubling, and tend to multi-character eitherway.
Right, so, those are my basic rules, I'm actually not a very picky person, and as some of my other partners have said, I am a 'aggressive' plotter, aggressively excited, I assure you! I like to yell out ideas, and just wild plot twists with no warning. Now, here are some Settings/Pairings I'd be interested in. There are a million others, but these few will give you an idea! I've arranged them according to time period, from the most modern I'm willing to go, to way back in ye' old history.
WWII Eastern Europe's Monarchy Victorian England French Revolution Some Got'damn Pirates Industrial England World Exploration The Enlightenment German Principalities Renaissance Italy Crusades Middle-Eastern/African Civilization during Middle Ages Dark Ages Mutha'fuckin' Vikings Mongolian's bein' Mongolians Rome Fantasy (High, Mid, Low) Steampunk
Now, as you might of noticed, some of those aren't even settings, but you get the idea! Now onto my pairings...
Axis Soldier x Civilian Axis Soldier x Captured Allied Nurse/Troop Captured Axis Soldier x Allied Nurse/Troop Axis Soldier x Refugee Allied Soldier x Allied Nurse Allied Soldier x Axis Nurse/troop
Czar x Czarina Russian Serf x Russian Serf Other Nobility shit.
Fancy Victorian Nobleman x Fancy Victorian Noblewoman Fancy Victorian Nobleman x Shit poor Factory Worker Woman King x Queen King x Courtesan Poor people with all this lushness 'round them.
Revolutionary x Monarchist French Police Officer x Man who stole bread
Pirate x Pirate British Captain x Pirate I'unno, Pirate Bullshit.
Factory Worker x Factory Worker
Explorer x Native Explorer x other explorer
Philosopher x Dumb person Dumb Person x Philosopher Philosopher x Wife
Fucking Prince x Prince(ss) WARING NATIONS YO' Werewolf x not werewolf Dissenting Prince x Diplomat Nobility x Serf Lotsa' stuff
Person from farmland x City person Painter x painter Nobility x peasant Nobility x Serf
Knight x Civilian Nobleman x Soldier Knight x Foreign Preistess
Master x Slave King x White Diplomat
King x Queen Prince x Princess Lord x Lady Knight x Damsel in Distress Literally anything ever.
Viking raider x Unfortunate raidee Viking man x Viking wife Shield maidens and shit.
Genghis Khan esque x Poor Villages. Mongolian x Other Mongolian
Gladiator x Gladiator Russel Crowe x Me (Yummy) Emperor x Empress Peasant x Peasant
Elves and shit. Magic yo'
Human x Faerie
Thief x Thief
There y'go, lots...and lots...of pairings. All of them I made up on the spot, and most are pretty generic.
In case you need one, here's a writing sample, and if you're interested in role playing with me, just shoot me a PM. Even if you don't got any idea what you want to do, I'm willing to plot, and we'll have one soon enough!
Thanks for reading my interest check, lovelies, hopefully I'll see some of you soon!
Above the Southern Gate into Bal'vold, Evening.
In front of Colonel Andrew Moore stood five thousand men. Their dark eyes shined by the torch light that flickered between the masses, reflected from their armor, and projected around. Each man was silent as a corpse, and he bet many would end the night like that. Still, the Colonel took a deep breath, watching his men with a mixture of pride, and a sad realization. This was all he had left, half of his ten thousand were either in the grave, or had fled home, and quite honestly, he wished to join them. This was an impossible feat, to take the city of Bal'vold, and though his superiors told him they were winning, he did not believe it. This stubborn and wretched land was made of mud, and fought as hard against them as the dwarves. It seemed like he was forever being outflanked, forever loosing troves of men to the damned forests, and the fabled beasts of legend that apparently inhabited it. Of course, the sensible Moore knew better then to believe such nonsense, but it was quite haunting, still, and in his moments of doubt, often he'd catch himself remarking on how those glowing balls of light, obviously some sort of exotic relative to their fireflies, in some light, seemed to be surrounding a tiny body. And if you listened, it seemed like the chiming laughter of a child. But that was the talk of fools, for everyone knew there was no such thing as magic, and Fae.
"Men!" He'd begin, shaking away the thoughts of what craziness surrounded him, and deepening his voice, reassuring, and in every respect, that of a natural born leader. These were his men, and he had one final chance to lead them. The General had given him his ultimatum, the southern door into Bal'vold fell tonight, or the King would be giving them an unpleasant visit. He thought he could fear nothing more, until the messenger informed him that his family would be receiving one shortly after, and that awoke a whole knew form a terror to the man, who did not even realize he could be so fearful.
"Men!" Once more, he repeated, before his speech began, " Tonight, we take the southern gates of Bal'vold, you and I will stride into Bal'vold, and we shall secure it in the name of our brave King. As we speak, our brethren are securing the Eastern, Western, and even the Great Northern gates. And they're waiting oh-so patiently for us, to knock down these midget-savage's door, and burn this fucking city from the ground up."
A roar of approval erupted, men battered their shields together, their swords, a rumbling of bodies, a smack of steel on steel, leather on leather. They were ready to destroy this city, after many failed campaigns, they were ready to see into the great underground city of Bal'vold, and bring these dwarven shits to their knees. Raising his hand, the men quieted, and Moore gave a grin, " Many of you probably have heard that Jewelstine has fallen. In the south, those fucks are going home, while we stand here and rot, a thousand miles away from a decent bed, and our lonely wives. If we're not quick, I bet the lot of them will be keepin' our women company soon 'nough, the lucky bastards. Know what I say to that? I think it's time we go home too, I think it's 'bout time Bal'vold falls." Another roar came, louder this time, as the man drew his sword, and hopped from the raise platform. They'd shout, in joy, in rage, readying themselves for battle. It was good of them to do so, because less then a hundred meters away, the desolate cave that led to the underground city of Bal'vold stood. Hoping on a well trained horse, Moore gestured them forward, and in an unorganized and barbaric mass, they'd rush forward. It was time to meet with their brethren in the center of Bal'vold, it was time to go home.
--
Corporal Andrew Moore lay bashed and bloody on the stony ground, his horse had been shot from beneath him, and was screeching loudly to his side, the man having luckily flown far enough away to have not been crushed beneath it, but he'd been thoroughly trampled by his own men during the battle, the cave opening into a massive cavern. Intricately carved stone walls rose to the ceiling, with only tiny slits for a Dwarven archer or cannon to shoot from. One massive door rose nearly as high, of a thick and weathered wood. Lifting his head, Andrew's vision spun, and he'd feel an urge to vomit, however, he'd fight it, listening to the screams of beast and man alike, and scattered around were the dead and dying.
Had they made it at least, had they done it? He urged himself to sit up, but as he did, and looked toward those massive iron-banded doors, he saw that they were closed, and once more his vision spun, and he'd vomit down his front. Interestingly enough, as he stared down at himself, he was covered in a mixture of his own blood, and his horses. He found a few arrows poking through his thigh and stomach, and laid back miserably. He was going to die. Though, oddly enough he felt no pain, rather a soothing numbness. Every sense told him he should be screaming, but instead, in the dimness of the cavern, he reflected on his life. Most notably, he thought of how he had not struck down a single dwarf, and felt a bit of regret with that. Somewhere in the back of his mind...he knew that the gates not opening would be bad...The King-..his mind whispered, but then he felt like laughing.
What could the King do now? He was going to die-...Then horror struck him, and the man tried to sit up once more, his eyes painfully opening...and his breath coming out in ragged gasps. His family...By the Gods...
In front of Andrew, a pale face looked over him...his wife-..wasn't it? With white hair, and white eyes...No, his wife had hair of copper...and her eyes were green. This girl-...it must be his daughter then. The man smiled to her, and she smiled back, cradling him against her lap, yes..it was his daughter, she had gotten big, when he'd seen her last, she'd just been in a cradle. His mind fumbled over that, she should only be a toddler, but this girl looked older. Parts of him reminded that there was no time to be worrying about that. He'd try to raise a hand, to touch her face, cooing weakly, " Coleen..." The girl nodded, lightly pushing his hand away, and he obeyed.
"Hello Corporal...What is your name?" She'd ask cheerily, and the man puzzled. Shouldn't his daughter know her own fathers name? But he chided himself soon after, how silly, she was just a baby, how would she know his name.
After blinking up at him, and releasing a sigh, feeling comforted against her lap, and wondering why he'd sat up at all, the man answered, " Corporal Andrew Moore, dear." He'd croak out, and his daughter smiled once more, which pleased him.
Then, her eyes went dark, and this made him cringe, " Rest now, You have lost the battle." He nodded, knowing his daughter was disappointed, and when she lowered her lips to his, he'd think it to be a kiss, but then..the world went black, and he felt his body cringe, and the pain became suddenly realize, then vanish...tears coming to his body, but he was soothed once more. Her voice cooed despite her lips against his, urging him to close his eyes, to let go. He was eager to let go, feeling himself go limp, and soon, and felt nothing, saw nothing, said nothing. Of course, he did not realize he was dead, Isa had to look at the withered corpses of an old man, shrunken in his proud uniform, and covered in a mixture of his own blood and vomit. Disgusted, the Witch pushed him away, noting his name.
Zarr would not reach him in time, but there were three more idiots that did survive this pathetic attempt at taking the city. Only one door had even opened, the eastern gate was rammed opened, and the force entered the city, eager to meet with the other three, however, that did not happen. And just as quickly as the doors had opened, they closed...and two thousand men were trapped inside, without any hope of escape, within an hour, they were either taken prisoner, or killed once the dwarves ran out of place to keep them. Her master would not much like this defeat, and she supposed it was about time for her to return, and tell him. Glancing around at all the dead and dying, the witch picked a rather young man, with a gash across his belly.
If any medics were coming to retrieve the living, which they weren't, the boy may have a chance. If he was really ambition, he may even be able to crawl to safety, but Isa would reach him much sooner, at her touch, he stopped screaming, and looked startled at her, murmuring, "Mum?"
She'd nod along, sighing, and with a few minutes, she'd leave another shrunken old man on the battlefield, wrinkled and liver-spotted. His white hair clutching desperately to his head and chin, and skin hanging from his bones. That was enough for now, and within a moment, it was as if the Witch had never been there, all that was left were two impossibly old corpses.
Caught in a daze, Sara was stirred by presence of another- a man. A man in the Black Shields uniform, at that. Her eyes had been deep out, past the initial crowd around them, exploring the mannerisms of the huddled crowds, and was amused to find how they separated themselves by group. It’d seem Lords of similar region often were together, which in her mind made sense, they knew each other, of course they would stand bunched together. The girl was hoping to find a Lord she recognized from northern Grosswik to lead her to her uncle, but even that was impossible with so many bodies. Her grey eyes turned away from the crowd as that man sat beside her, regarding him curiously, just as he began to speak.
A soft smile crossed her lips, crinkling the corners of her eyes as one hand came graciously to her breastbone, fingertips pressed softly to the warm skin, “Thank you, Sir-…” Her hand lifted then, to push back a feather of hair behind her ear, “You are too kind. I don’t mind in the slightest, but it’s not my mind that matters. Mr. Hoffman is here, is he not? Mr. Terryn Hoffman? I do not mean to nag you-…but for your own sake, it might be best if you sat up, looked vigilant.” As she spoke, her pleasant smile never faltered, finding his nonchalant attitude humorous. Surely, he was making a joke, no actual guard would ever think sleeping while you were supposed to be watching over the Crowned Prince would be acceptable. If Terryn found him here like this, he’d likely be livid. Sara couldn’t even imagine her father’s reaction, usually such a calm, steady man, but to see this mockery of soldiery would awake demons within him.
“Here, speak with me then, that ought to keep you awake. I am Lady Sara Medved, daughter of Lord-Captain Nikolas Medved- of the Black Shields.” She added, giving him a sweet grin because that information was probably startling. He could not have predicted that the girl he would slump beside would be the daughter of an officer, a influential one at that. Politely, she offered the man her ivory gloved hand, the bracelet of pearls falling down her wrist toward the elbow with a pleasant clanking.
“And you, Sir?” Though he would know just by looking at her, she was still fairly young, the young lady carried herself with a sort of finesse and politeness very becoming to her. She spoke with a pleasant accent to her word, careful to take the time and annunciate, and unlike the other, she seemed to care little if he was a commoner or noble. Sara had no way of knowing then, and she’d assumed wrongly that because he was a grunt soldier in the Black Shields, he surely was a layman. Also unlike the other, Sara lacked the same bias, having lived among commoners her entire life, and though she might have preferred to speak to a noble, not out of hate, but for her enthrallment in their lifestyle, any conversation at this point was welcomed
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