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Kaithe Dame Member
Vylinius of Varathia
- Last Seen: 4 hrs ago
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- Posts: 636 (0.27 / day)
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Status
Recent Statuses
20 days ago
No peace among the Stars.
3
likes
2 mos ago
Biseual Harem RP but all they do is watch Sopranos and then quote the YouTube Poops to each other during sex
5
likes
11 mos ago
'SHINE. It liked that name. S H I N E.'
1
like
2 yrs ago
Deny / Defense / Depose.
8
likes
Bio
I like writing about strange people put into uncomfortable situations that force them to think creatively to overcome them. Brain worms currently include the Yakuza franchise, The Last Sovereign JRPG, Dragon Age, WH40K, Disco Elysium, and True Detective. Writing sample down below.
docs.google.com/document/d/1lqyAAPIJh…
docs.google.com/document/d/1lqyAAPIJh…
Most Recent Posts
Rewritten so it isn't just babbling.
Bump.
“The whole modern world has been shaped by lopsided outcomes.”
Jared Diamond's a hack and kind of a loser, but, cool quote.
Hiya. I happen to be in the market for people interested in a story similar to my Losing Dogs prompt; a gratuitously, shamelessly indulgent story about taxes and logistics and debauched smut all rolled into one. I have... a lot of ideas for this, few of which I actually consider vital to my enjoyment and that I hope my GM accepts as 'helpful suggestions' rather than things they absolutely have to take heed of.
Currently the plot in my head goes like this; long before our story begins, the world was brought to ruin by an attack by demonkind, lead by an unseen Overlord whose reach seemed unfathomable. Through technology, flesh, and the exploitation of the needs and desires of mortals, demonkind was on the verge of victory - before the Fellowship arrived.
True heroes one and all. Kind and brave and most cunning indeed.
Bringing hope when there was one and leading where they were needed and creating leaders where they could, the demons were defeated, and the Overlord cast back into the abyss after a fateful duel that saw their empire crumble.
So it is written.
. . . Our story starts after that.
It starts with the Overlord's return, their eyes opening to a congregation of followers just as shocked as they are that their ritual succeeded, probably having really gotten used to retirement and not having to deal with paperwork and orgies anymore.
It starts with these followers, pitiful and few compared to the legions they once commanded, explaining that things just aren't really working out the way they were supposed to and that it'd be great if the title of Overlord was assumed once more and peace brought back to a disparate, horrid world that had been created after their defeat.
What this all means, really, is that our plot opens with the former Overlord, near conqueror of the universe, being brought back to the world of mortals by some diminutive groupies who offer their unholy patron their meager resources to help 'get the band back together' as it was. The world sucked once they left. A lot. And this absolutely horrible idea might just be the least horrible idea available to them.
Thus; an underdog story of sorts following the relife and times of a strange BBEG, now deeply crestfallen, and their struggle to get everything back on track and wring whatever use they can out of what's been handed so generously to them to rebuild their empire.
Maybe get some revenge on those pesky heroes who betrayed them too while they're at it.
This is a very nerdy plot that while it may include a lot of kink is not for the faint of heart when it comes to epic storytelling involving statecraft, warfare, and fiscal and legislative responsibilities. More importantly; the inhumanity of the state, exploitation of human beings, Jared Diamond actually being kind of a hack, and racism.
The player character's success is not a given to me. I'm very comfortable with MC failing, suffering various forms of defeat, and possibly even death.
Kinks will vary with the discussed-and-decided upon gender of our MC; some givens may include fantasy interracial, spankings, D/s relationships, internalized homophobia, breeding, complex (and also sensual) palace dynamics / 'harem' stuff, but mostly it's a lot of backstabbing and murder. Disaster bisexuals, disaster lesbians, outfit play, enthusiastic-and-not-so enthusiastic consent.
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I'm a multi-graph writer with writing samples in my profile; this post is searching for a GM. While I'm still workshopping large parts of this prompt, the working theory is that it takes place during the Dance of Dragons. The MC is a freedman slave stumbled upon during the War in the Stepstones by Lord Corlys before being turned over to Viserys as an entertaining gift; a Pentosi (man/woman) with a knack for entertainment. This is intended to be a high stakes, politically charged RP involving economics, war, statecraft, so on, so if that isn't your thing, then this likely isn't for you. The text below is what I'm imagining as a prequel / prologue to our story.
A WEAVER HAS MOCKED THEIR FUTURE IN INK, spelling out its doom from front to back, top to bottom, with a flowing black tatau in a tongue none recognize. When first she saw it, their Lord's wife called it beautiful - and commanded them to keep it hidden for their own good.
Hidden or no, the doom written on their skin cannot be avoided. Sylvan's fate will haunt them all the way to the end, and it shall be the death of them. It begins with hazy memories of their past.
You already know how it ends.
-=-
When her heart first beats, it is nearly her last.
Before her heart began to beat, there was nothing but darkness and silence. It was not unpleasant, but rather a deep and dreamless sleep from which an eternity had sprawled in every direction, formless. Without shape she had drifted, without thought she had been. Perhaps she remembered something of fire, of existence and possibility But these things became no more than dreams within eternity. Until she was born. And she drew breath.
No air fills her lungs. Instead, water as cold as ice floods her mouth, her throat, her lungs, devouring oxygen and casting away the last vestiges of her slumber. What dust from sleep that had remained is now gone. Now, she’s drowning in existence. The noise of thundering water fills her ears, and the taste of salt saturates in her tongue. A dull, throbbing ache spreads her from lungs, a cold, numb horror which threatens to overwhelm her breath-starved body.
She doesn’t know anything but the terror of drowning. But that doesn’t mean she is alone, born to die. Around her, the world indeed exists, though she knows nothing of it. Her ignorance is nearly fatal.
A worldly woman would have known to swim to the moon, to the only light in a sea of darkness, but she does not. All she does is drown.
---
In a world she has never seen, two men stare out from the deck of their ship toward a strange disturbance in the water.
“You’re jumping at ghosts, Corlys,” one of them says. A tired and bitter old man, wrapped in two layers of robes to keep out the winter air, though it’s little help. “We’re the first ship. How could anyone be ahead of us?”
That question is at the front of Corly's mind, as well, as he watches intently. Indeed, they’re the front and vanguard of an entire fleet of ships. The waters should be dead, yet the water churns and froths with desperation. Feeding fish, perhaps. Or some sort of magic. Or…
“A survivor from Mannforth’s fleet, perhaps.”
The old man scoffs, but he turns to study the disturbance again, just in time.
Briefly, almost impossible to notice, a hand breaks the surface of the water, catching moonlight and then returning to the depths just as quickly as it had come. Both men blink, turn to each other, and call at the top of their lungs at the same time. “Overboard!”
Their ship roars to life, the crew, once idle with dread, now burst into action with their newfound purpose to save the distant drowner, no matter the cost. With that incentive above all others, they move with tremendous speed, steering the rudder and casting the sail in the direction needed to coast the wind and cut a clear path to the drowner.
---
She suffers in a prison of darkness. A cruel way to die for anyone, but for her, a worse fate than could ever be deserved. Slowly sinking beneath her own clumsy weight, falling toward darkness just as within she falls to the dark. To a bitter, gathering nothing. In a way, she feels closer to the nothingness she’d once been every passing moment, but now that nothingness is no longer perfect.
However briefly she has lived - she has lived.
And she lives long enough to feel something new. Pain. Specifically, pain, because of a clumsy oarsman smacking her while attempting to give her something to hold onto. He misses, and hits her ribs. Not that his failure means much, since a rope collects around her shoulders at the same time, dragging her up above the surface of the water, into glorious air. Into existence.
But the water doesn’t leave her lungs. And so she falls unconscious after catching only a single glimpse of the moon, beautiful and whole, looking down at her.
“Huh,” says one voice, vague and distant and yet lovely in its sheer novelty. “It’s a Pentosi.”
A WEAVER HAS MOCKED THEIR FUTURE IN INK, spelling out its doom from front to back, top to bottom, with a flowing black tatau in a tongue none recognize. When first she saw it, their Lord's wife called it beautiful - and commanded them to keep it hidden for their own good.
Hidden or no, the doom written on their skin cannot be avoided. Sylvan's fate will haunt them all the way to the end, and it shall be the death of them. It begins with hazy memories of their past.
You already know how it ends.
-=-
When her heart first beats, it is nearly her last.
Before her heart began to beat, there was nothing but darkness and silence. It was not unpleasant, but rather a deep and dreamless sleep from which an eternity had sprawled in every direction, formless. Without shape she had drifted, without thought she had been. Perhaps she remembered something of fire, of existence and possibility But these things became no more than dreams within eternity. Until she was born. And she drew breath.
No air fills her lungs. Instead, water as cold as ice floods her mouth, her throat, her lungs, devouring oxygen and casting away the last vestiges of her slumber. What dust from sleep that had remained is now gone. Now, she’s drowning in existence. The noise of thundering water fills her ears, and the taste of salt saturates in her tongue. A dull, throbbing ache spreads her from lungs, a cold, numb horror which threatens to overwhelm her breath-starved body.
She doesn’t know anything but the terror of drowning. But that doesn’t mean she is alone, born to die. Around her, the world indeed exists, though she knows nothing of it. Her ignorance is nearly fatal.
A worldly woman would have known to swim to the moon, to the only light in a sea of darkness, but she does not. All she does is drown.
---
In a world she has never seen, two men stare out from the deck of their ship toward a strange disturbance in the water.
“You’re jumping at ghosts, Corlys,” one of them says. A tired and bitter old man, wrapped in two layers of robes to keep out the winter air, though it’s little help. “We’re the first ship. How could anyone be ahead of us?”
That question is at the front of Corly's mind, as well, as he watches intently. Indeed, they’re the front and vanguard of an entire fleet of ships. The waters should be dead, yet the water churns and froths with desperation. Feeding fish, perhaps. Or some sort of magic. Or…
“A survivor from Mannforth’s fleet, perhaps.”
The old man scoffs, but he turns to study the disturbance again, just in time.
Briefly, almost impossible to notice, a hand breaks the surface of the water, catching moonlight and then returning to the depths just as quickly as it had come. Both men blink, turn to each other, and call at the top of their lungs at the same time. “Overboard!”
Their ship roars to life, the crew, once idle with dread, now burst into action with their newfound purpose to save the distant drowner, no matter the cost. With that incentive above all others, they move with tremendous speed, steering the rudder and casting the sail in the direction needed to coast the wind and cut a clear path to the drowner.
---
She suffers in a prison of darkness. A cruel way to die for anyone, but for her, a worse fate than could ever be deserved. Slowly sinking beneath her own clumsy weight, falling toward darkness just as within she falls to the dark. To a bitter, gathering nothing. In a way, she feels closer to the nothingness she’d once been every passing moment, but now that nothingness is no longer perfect.
However briefly she has lived - she has lived.
And she lives long enough to feel something new. Pain. Specifically, pain, because of a clumsy oarsman smacking her while attempting to give her something to hold onto. He misses, and hits her ribs. Not that his failure means much, since a rope collects around her shoulders at the same time, dragging her up above the surface of the water, into glorious air. Into existence.
But the water doesn’t leave her lungs. And so she falls unconscious after catching only a single glimpse of the moon, beautiful and whole, looking down at her.
“Huh,” says one voice, vague and distant and yet lovely in its sheer novelty. “It’s a Pentosi.”
Bump.
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