Multiple Settings ※ indigo's crap sack of horrible ideas and bad jokes (no, I will not write a werewolf mafia romance unless it's ironic)

[shortindigo]

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Hello, everyone! It's nice to meet you! My username is indigo (shortindigo technically), my pronouns are he/they, I'm 19, I'm a writer but I've only recently decided to take a plunge into the hungering abyss that is role-play. Honestly, I meant to do this like... last year? Instead, I just kinda made one garbage post and forgot this site existed lol. I recently got some free time, so... I'm here. With mental illness. And time. And lore.

☠ RULES / EXPECTATIONS / BASIC SURVIVAL GUIDE

~ 18+. I'm 19, my characters are adults, themes can get dark. Duh, no minors.
~ I am not ghost friendly. If something’s not working, just say so. I do not take it personally. We can talk about it like adults. But if you vanish mid-plot without a single “brb dying,” I will turn your OC into an offscreen furry living happily in Scandinavia in my head cannon.
~ I don't have many boundaries, but the few I do have are iron clad. I'll tell you about em further in private.
~ We can be friendly outside of role-play! I like world-building, character building, character brain rot packaged in dumb memes, but please don't assume we're best friends unless I hand you my private contact info. Basic social awareness, people.
~ I'm consistently able to reply about four times a week, sometimes more depending on circumstances. I write well and I write meticulously. Not an elitist, but I know what I'm passionate about :p
~ I use tone indicators if needed. Especially if we're messing around OOC, just ask me cause I forget sometimes lol. I believe in being funny and accessible.


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Craving Plots/Genres

1. Victorian Era Political Fantasy
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❝ Prophet boy,
Chosen by the sun,
Do you hear the laughter of gods
mocking those silent moonlit vows?
Cursed daughter,
Ever persecuted by despair,
Do you regret being defiant
to the very end?❞​

Ramiel of Malleus. A border-lord who harbors the royal member of the family and advises them amidst financial negotiations - the city states to their east have risen, slowly clawing their way to strength after the bloody Century Of Fire. They wish for more trade routes to be opened, for the Kingdom of Euhias is a vast and rich land with untapped markets the merchant class is eager to exploit. Days pass with debates and head splitting politics.
They are then attacked by groups of assassins. Vanguards of an army that marches to take the Whitsone Stronghold and various delegates sent to negotiate, yet is no mere Forisian swill that has taken up the banners of the old Empire of Horsad - steam powered rails, mighty legions wielding muskets, and a gaggle of demi-gods gathered in one final, glorious push after decades of aggressive pushing. The air tastes of soot and fate.

And still, they argue. Even as Whetstone's gates are weighed against foreign coin and dying gods march beneath false suns, the court clutches pearls and writes declarations, bickering over tax negotiations and only agreeing over the most dire matters. Ramiel watches from the wooden chair, the frozen throne hovering behind him. He watches, with one known factor;

History does not favor men like him, those who trade honor for survival, who only kneel to whisper threats and his king. History looks at men like him the way a noble looks at peasants begging for bread.

But only men like him survive to be history.

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Ramiel Malleus.
Age: 29
Occupation: Duke of Shallowford, Eldham, and Whitstone Stronghold
Alignment: Lawful Depressed.
Fun Facts;
Trusts his horse and dog and no one else.
Once ended a hostage negotiation with a limerick.
Hates wine.
Definitely has a tragic backstory but just pretends it's indigestion and onions.
Speaks 4 languages fluently and in none of them he has ever been emotionally vulnerable.
Keeps a dagger hidden in his boot, poison in his coat, and flintlock pistol on his waist.
Has an old dog named 'Stone' that bites anyone that isn't him and hates fish.
Had a fiancee once. Ended when he looked at her, and called her inbred.

╚══════⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯══════╝

2. Modern Romance, Fluff and Mild Angst. Small town Maine, 2018.

They broke up a long time ago. No yelling, no final straws - just the slow, painful drift of two people who loved each other deeply but didn't manage to make it work. He moved to Vancouver for university and wealth, she stayed upstate. That was that.

Now, years later, he's back, not for her - but for his brother's wedding. He drives to the ceremony in an old beaten up truck his late father gifted him. He sees her in the seating.

And Theo doesn't know what to do with that information. Doesn't know what to do with the version of her that lives outside his poems hidden under a bed, doesn't know what to do with a version of her that's still familiar. He's expected, for years, to be angry or sad or... anything. Instead, he's in that middle ground - stunned, bitter, aching, and quietly bracing for impact.

They orbit each other for weeks after that. It feels like a bad joke - he's there to relax and help his younger brother settle, she's staying with family. They keep bumping into each other. In grocery aisles, old foggy porches with too many memories, old spaces none of them claimed but still haunt. It's not even toxic. It's not explosive. It's just... quiet, the kind of silence that festers when two people who could recognize each other by feeling alone now barely know how to say hello.

Theodosius Massey.
Age: 28
Occupation: Civil engineer, part-time guitarist, secret poet
Fun facts;
Keeps a pile of old poems, song lyrics, written letters tucked underneath his bed, never re-reads them.
Once fixed a shattered window at 2am because it annoyed him.
Raised his younger brother at 16 alone after his parents passed away due to an accident.
Once got arrested at 19 for climbing a lighthouse to take a photo for his ex.
Still uses the same guitar from high school.
Has a really specific coffee order he never changes - just hands the barista a crumpled sticky note and prays they don't initiate social interaction.
Wears two rings around his neck from his parents.


Anddd done! Thank you for patiently reading through this. If you have a pitch to me about any fandoms you love, any plots you have lying around, show me! Have a nice day!


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[shortindigo]

Boop

 

[shortindigo]

Bumparoo

 

[shortindigo]

“You look at me and it’s almost… funny.


You look at me and I feel human, real, tangible.


And what does that say, for someone like me?


For someone who hates - hates and hates and hates the flesh that conceals my sick bones of pete,


For someone who can barely tolerate the never ceasing drumming of existence,


For someone who looks at wonder and beauty and only ever thinks of the pitiless expiry,


How can you make me feel human?


Part of me wonders, to an extent,


if it’s because you are as broken as I am.


Mayhaps it is because your soul too, has worn it’s fingernails down


scraping at your ribcage, begging to be let go,


trying to claw and claw something like peace,


or silence,


or death


or the luxury of forgetting.





You -


You with your eyes buried like newly rooted vegetables in spring,


You with your smile that’s bright and trembles like a lamb,


Mayhaps you look at me not with love,


but recognition.


Like two wisps staring at each other in the mirror,


the moon draping itself over us like an unwanted guest,


wondering who perished first.





And what does that make us?


Companions in rot?


Fellow pilgrims to the altar of the great jest that is existence?


What a romance,


What a love story,


Two fetid corpses festering in the shade,


Bleeding from our wounds in crimson ichor,


Hands clasped in the gutter.





You look at me, and I feel human.


And that’s the cruelest kindness of all.


Because all my life, I was never meant to be human -


I felt more comfortable a cryptid, a concept,


hovering over classrooms,


a small ghost haunting parks and playgrounds and homes,


never alive,


never real.


Because I don’t remember the shape of hope,


the scent of spring before it sours and turns into autumn,


the flicker of fighting to be alive simply for living itself,


and I know I cant afford it.





You make me feel like I might deserve something.


I don’t.


I know I don’t.


There’s necrosis, petrification, decay in me older than anyone I’ve ever met,


And sorrow that speaks in little stabs along my skin,


and builds cathedrals of agony in my marrow.





And still you look.


And still you stay.





Why?





Why do you hold my hand


like it doesn’t burn?



You look at me

And it’s almost funny.

But I’m not laughing.”

- Theodosius Massey.