Phi
oh baby baby it’s a wild world
UPDATED: April 27, 2022
Y'all this year is just as rough as the two before it. Warmer weather is starting to reappear but I'm stuck here doing grad school from my couch. I’m thinking a couple of nice RPs might tide me through the dreary days, maybe you’d like to join me?
A bit about me: I go by Phi, she/they, grad student in linguistics. I just turned 30 and started my existential crisis about what I'm doing with my life. So, naturally, I'm turning back to the love of RP I've had since Neopets. I love to OOC, gush over our characters, and just chat / make friends too. As for writing: I'm more into quality than quantity, both in the writing and in the ideas behind it, but my responses average from min. 3-4 paragraphs to max. 8-10. My favorite part of writing is character development, exploring a character’s psyche and watching them open up to others. I’m into creating new societies, inventing backdrops and bystanders, and in general plotting like crazy. The only thing I’m not into is historical-political world-building, but may be open to it (maybe!). I just never paid attention in history class…
As for pairings, I loovee a good slow burn, organic-feeling FxF pairing, and strong femme and nb characters in general, but I also like to double and will play dudes on the side if I feel like it. In any case, I'll very very rarely write out anything beyond kissing (I'm ace), but I do enjoy romance. My dream partner is someone who’s in it for the long-term, or at least will be consistent and not drop it without chatting about it, who’s maybe also a bit chatty on the side.
Okay, after all that chatter, here are some plot ideas I have. I should say, I LOVE original plots, things I haven’t heard before, things that are not whatever x whatever but story lines with potential, so if you have some, please please please let me know. They probably exceed my own creativity. I have a couple of characters whose stories kind of died before they got going, so I'll share those here as well as some ideas I have (warning, long):
Ideas:
Cute characters who never really got their chance:
Nell, my favorite little doll. f// only with this one, she's super gay -- happy to have her in a wide variety of post-apocalyptic or dystopian settings.
Seaside vibes, ft. some sort of natural disaster / mythical or magical force or creature / culture war / conflict of some type. Happy to center either one of these characters (brother/sis):
Dystopian, two worlds collide, my character from an underground communal society, yours from a nature-based / tribal type of thing maybe?
Out of this world sisters, I'd probably rework them a little (too little conflict rn imo, they didn't work great, but I think they can be salvaged):
Y'all this year is just as rough as the two before it. Warmer weather is starting to reappear but I'm stuck here doing grad school from my couch. I’m thinking a couple of nice RPs might tide me through the dreary days, maybe you’d like to join me?
A bit about me: I go by Phi, she/they, grad student in linguistics. I just turned 30 and started my existential crisis about what I'm doing with my life. So, naturally, I'm turning back to the love of RP I've had since Neopets. I love to OOC, gush over our characters, and just chat / make friends too. As for writing: I'm more into quality than quantity, both in the writing and in the ideas behind it, but my responses average from min. 3-4 paragraphs to max. 8-10. My favorite part of writing is character development, exploring a character’s psyche and watching them open up to others. I’m into creating new societies, inventing backdrops and bystanders, and in general plotting like crazy. The only thing I’m not into is historical-political world-building, but may be open to it (maybe!). I just never paid attention in history class…
As for pairings, I loovee a good slow burn, organic-feeling FxF pairing, and strong femme and nb characters in general, but I also like to double and will play dudes on the side if I feel like it. In any case, I'll very very rarely write out anything beyond kissing (I'm ace), but I do enjoy romance. My dream partner is someone who’s in it for the long-term, or at least will be consistent and not drop it without chatting about it, who’s maybe also a bit chatty on the side.
Okay, after all that chatter, here are some plot ideas I have. I should say, I LOVE original plots, things I haven’t heard before, things that are not whatever x whatever but story lines with potential, so if you have some, please please please let me know. They probably exceed my own creativity. I have a couple of characters whose stories kind of died before they got going, so I'll share those here as well as some ideas I have (warning, long):
Ideas:
- Dystopian setting of some sort where my character (Nell, below) is searching for something important and runs into your character on the road
- Mermaid/harpy x human (see seaside vibes below) with some other interesting plot ideas
- Or any sort of setting in like rural/past Scandinavia maybe oil company comes in to destroy the traditional way of life
- Underground society meets up with either like flying or nature-related above-ground society (last idea on my list below)
- Any sort of two worlds colliding type of a thing. I like to play characters who are hard on their luck / struggling / kinda sad mostly
- Up for other things too, and will update this list as I brainstorm more, but try me!
Cute characters who never really got their chance:
Nell, my favorite little doll. f// only with this one, she's super gay -- happy to have her in a wide variety of post-apocalyptic or dystopian settings.
It hadn’t always been this way. There were moments dancing on the edge of her memory in which there had been a warm place to sleep, familiar voices in the next room over, people who knew her entire history, had watched her grow up. Once, she had belonged somewhere. There was one single place to call home, a mentor that would guide her in her craft, there was conversation over a warm bowl of stew. There was a tiny, warm body, a weight that she could carry around on her hip, a little being that loved her unconditionally.
Nowadays, she had little time to reflect on those memories, as her needs were much more pressing. Like now, digging around in the wastebins outside of a bar, looking for something that might be salvageable, whether it be raw materials, a large piece of wood from discarded furniture, or something that still looked safe to eat. Over the past several months (or was it years?), the young woman had lost a lot of weight, her dark leather jacket and scuffed but sturdy workpants hanging loosely over her shrinking frame. Dark circles under her grey-blue eyes revealed that she had started to become rather sickly, seemingly picking up every illness she came across and getting sick on the rare occasions she had a thick and greasy meal.
How she looked, or felt for that matter, had become merely a side concern for Nelson, who had been spurred on by adrenaline in what seemed to be a useless search for months now. In her quietest moments, she knew that the search she was on was not only a waste of time but also likely to lead to a quiet, unknown demise on a cold winter night, and maybe that’s exactly why someone had gone through the trouble of tracking her down to deliver the news to her in the first place. Maybe Ailynn was in no danger at all, but Nell knew that she had to try, no matter the cost. There was no alternative.
Finding a slightly stale but otherwise perfectly good roll, Nell let the weight of her body and her oversized canvas pack rest against the cold stone wall on the back side of the bar, slipping carefully down to a seat while avoiding the intricately carved wooden longbow that was tied haphazardly to the side of the pack with a length of orange bungee cord. It wasn’t until she took the break that she realized that her fingers were trembling. Slowly, she ate, running her spare hand through her white blonde hair, now several inches long after she had unceremoniously chopped it off several months ago, tired of the appraising stares of men everywhere she went. Now, when people stared, their eyes were more full of pity, but she could handle that a bit better. And honestly, she liked the look, the row of metal rings through her eyebrow and upper ears, the cropped off hair, and the desperation in her eyes that had faded to more of a “try me, I dare you”.
Nell was only halfway through the bread roll, which was starting to settle heavily into her stomach, when there was a commotion inside and she sprung to her feet, tucking the rest of the bread into the pocket of her jacket. She didn’t need trouble and wasn’t sure why it always seemed to find her. And it really wasn’t a good time for it, as the lightheadness of the hunger mixed with the heavy, dry crumbs settling in her stomach made her vision blur, and she steadied herself shakily against the wall.
Through the heaving swirl of her vision, she saw the source of the commotion, or perhaps its outcome, as two barmaids came cursing from the bar, dragging a heavy, limp weight behind them towards the trash pile. When Nell saw their load, what used to be a man with a thick, ungodly gash through the top of his skull, she promptly heaved violently once, twice, before the world went black.
When she awoke again, she was propped up in a corner booth inside of a warm establishment, and one of the barmaids was pressing a cold cloth to her forehead. Flinching away from the unfamiliar touch, her hands flailed nervously until she found the familiar cloth of her pack beside her on the bench and she visibly relaxed. Half-chewed and soggy bread bits were spattered down the front of her top.
Once, life had been easy, warm, and familiar. Now, Nell ran on adrenaline, and stopping too long, thinking too hard, would zap the last bit of strength from her. And that she couldn’t risk. Not now.
Nowadays, she had little time to reflect on those memories, as her needs were much more pressing. Like now, digging around in the wastebins outside of a bar, looking for something that might be salvageable, whether it be raw materials, a large piece of wood from discarded furniture, or something that still looked safe to eat. Over the past several months (or was it years?), the young woman had lost a lot of weight, her dark leather jacket and scuffed but sturdy workpants hanging loosely over her shrinking frame. Dark circles under her grey-blue eyes revealed that she had started to become rather sickly, seemingly picking up every illness she came across and getting sick on the rare occasions she had a thick and greasy meal.
How she looked, or felt for that matter, had become merely a side concern for Nelson, who had been spurred on by adrenaline in what seemed to be a useless search for months now. In her quietest moments, she knew that the search she was on was not only a waste of time but also likely to lead to a quiet, unknown demise on a cold winter night, and maybe that’s exactly why someone had gone through the trouble of tracking her down to deliver the news to her in the first place. Maybe Ailynn was in no danger at all, but Nell knew that she had to try, no matter the cost. There was no alternative.
Finding a slightly stale but otherwise perfectly good roll, Nell let the weight of her body and her oversized canvas pack rest against the cold stone wall on the back side of the bar, slipping carefully down to a seat while avoiding the intricately carved wooden longbow that was tied haphazardly to the side of the pack with a length of orange bungee cord. It wasn’t until she took the break that she realized that her fingers were trembling. Slowly, she ate, running her spare hand through her white blonde hair, now several inches long after she had unceremoniously chopped it off several months ago, tired of the appraising stares of men everywhere she went. Now, when people stared, their eyes were more full of pity, but she could handle that a bit better. And honestly, she liked the look, the row of metal rings through her eyebrow and upper ears, the cropped off hair, and the desperation in her eyes that had faded to more of a “try me, I dare you”.
Nell was only halfway through the bread roll, which was starting to settle heavily into her stomach, when there was a commotion inside and she sprung to her feet, tucking the rest of the bread into the pocket of her jacket. She didn’t need trouble and wasn’t sure why it always seemed to find her. And it really wasn’t a good time for it, as the lightheadness of the hunger mixed with the heavy, dry crumbs settling in her stomach made her vision blur, and she steadied herself shakily against the wall.
Through the heaving swirl of her vision, she saw the source of the commotion, or perhaps its outcome, as two barmaids came cursing from the bar, dragging a heavy, limp weight behind them towards the trash pile. When Nell saw their load, what used to be a man with a thick, ungodly gash through the top of his skull, she promptly heaved violently once, twice, before the world went black.
When she awoke again, she was propped up in a corner booth inside of a warm establishment, and one of the barmaids was pressing a cold cloth to her forehead. Flinching away from the unfamiliar touch, her hands flailed nervously until she found the familiar cloth of her pack beside her on the bench and she visibly relaxed. Half-chewed and soggy bread bits were spattered down the front of her top.
Once, life had been easy, warm, and familiar. Now, Nell ran on adrenaline, and stopping too long, thinking too hard, would zap the last bit of strength from her. And that she couldn’t risk. Not now.
Seaside vibes, ft. some sort of natural disaster / mythical or magical force or creature / culture war / conflict of some type. Happy to center either one of these characters (brother/sis):
Einar. The name he was given at birth and the destiny he seemed to carry since that very day: one who walks alone. As if it were an honor to be so thoroughly different to those around you that you were doomed to always be either one step ahead or one step behind the others. The weight of this destiny hung heavy around his neck, pulling his shoulders into a rounded hunch as he outgrew his childish body too young, growing taller and more muscular than his peers in a body that felt like a garish costume. His name proved to be a curse Einar could never quite shake and at some point, he stopped trying entirely.
Thrudur, born when Einar was still a small child, took to her name in quite the same way, with quite the opposite effect. Power and strength, daughter of Thor fit her like a glove. The growth spurt passed over her, leaving her delicate in comparison to her brother, but she was all muscle and grit inside and out. Ever since they were kids, she had a history of greatness, competing in swimming races every summer, helping neighbors sew fields and pull in hauls from the sea, and never complaining even when the hours were long or the cold rains rolled in. Even after working from sun-up to sundown, Thrudur could be counted on to drink profusely, be the last to leave a gathering, and generally be the warm-hearted center of attention at feasts.
Einar rather preferred his solitude. He had never been the strongest nor most talented child, and he spent most of his life suffocating under his father’s expectations for his firstborn son. His pure size and the propensity of his body towards strength spared him some of his father’s most scathing critiques, but he never felt comfortable in his life, never feeling as if he was where he belonged or who he was supposed to be. Despite his imposing looks, he stumbled often, dropped or crushed things by accident, and was generally clumsy in his body.
But at least one thing he could do with grace. Any moment he could manage to get away, Einar would walk to the edge of the small sprawl of the coastal village, following a snaking path ground by his own footsteps up into the rocky cliffs that overlooked his hometown. The path was steep and rocky, and it didn’t lead to anywhere anyone wanted to go. There, he knew, no one would disturb him. And it was there he did his best work.
Page after page he had filled with this same scene, the same square miles of coastline, the same swirling depths. Charcoal was his preferred medium, as it was easy to come across; he had learned which twigs to feed to the fire to produce the perfect blend of softness, the darkest darks. Some days, the waters were peaceful, like a never-ending piece of glass. Others, the waves were capped in a heavy foam, resentful and dangerous, throwing themselves against the cliffside. By now, he could draw all these scenes by heart, knew exactly how to wipe at the page with the sleeve of his tunic to portray the thickest froth.
There were probably a few who knew of Einar’s folly, but no one dared mention it, not even his usually fearless little sister. Thrudur would never admit she was worried about her brother but she could acknowledge the swirling shame that blossomed in her stomach when she heard him slip out of the house again, and knew where he was going. Such a selfish folly, when they had to ration candle wax in the long, dark days of winter when the shallows were frozen solid and their neighbors shivered in their beds. Being a fisher was a source of pride to her – it was hard work, and dangerous at that, but it was honest, and everyone in their family as far back as their father could remember had been fishers here, in this town. Almost everyone they knew was the same, the men, women and even the children too, and nearly every home had at least one solid wooden boat pulled up into the garden.
The honor of living on this particular island, following a traditional way of life was passed down to Thrudur from their father. His aging eyes and weak step were a constant reminder to her that someone had to step up. Clearly, it wouldn’t be her brother. Maybe that’s why she decided to say something that morning, sitting in the pre-dawn haze in the kitchen around a skinny candle, eating a piece of coarsely ground brown bread with salted herring, when her brother suddenly pushed in the front door with a gust of icy wind. Or maybe she was just annoyed about her meager hours of sleep she had achieved the night before and the hangover pressing on the sides of her skull.
“Where have you been?”
The question stopped Einar dead, the cold morning wind causing the candle to flicker on the table. It’s a question he’s been waiting for, but also thought would never come, a delicate truce unexpectedly broken. A lie he’d hoped he’d never have to tell.
“Oh god, stop standing there like an idiot. You know I know… And shut the damn door before your father freezes to death in his bed.” Thrudur hardly looked up from her bread.
Sheepishly, Einar let the door close heavily behind him. His arm was pressed tight to his jacket, supporting the bound notebook pressed between his tunic and the wind-breaking leather. When he spoke, his voice sounded much softer and smaller than one would expect from a man who towered over six feet, with a muscled upper body pressing against his tunic in defined bulges, a man with a curly orange beard already streaked with tinges of white.
Thrudur shook her head impatiently, casting a silent shame in her brother’s direction in a way only family can. With the last bite of her breakfast, she wiped crumbs down the sides of her overalls and pushed the chair back loudly across the floor. Her hair, the same shade and equally as thick and unruly as her brother’s, was tucked tightly into a thick braid that fell down her back, but she dressed in overalls and sturdy boots, never a skirt or bonnet like some of the women in town.
Standing from the table, she pushed past her brother and left the warm wooden interior of their modest home. The morning air greeted her face with a sting and she gulped in big breaths of the dampness, pausing for a moment to steady her pounding pulse. Thinking about her brother brought a certain urgency to her breath, one she knew well, fear mixed with embarrassment. He’d be the end of this family. And then all that would be left was her.
Meanwhile Einar, feet shuffling across the wooden floorboards, tucked his sketchbook under his mattress in the room he shared with Thurdur. Their father was still sleeping, as he wasn’t well recently and some days would hardly rise from bed at all. Einar let his body fall heavily onto the bunk, and his head onto to his large, calloused palms. All his life, he had failed to live up to the expectations that were piled upon him, and now he could hardly move for the weight. If the simple act of documenting beauty in his sketchbook was enough to trigger so much shame, to cause so much judgement, how was he supposed to survive in this world? And what was the point in trying? Deep down, he knew his sister was tired, bone-tired like he was, from fighting all day for survival, from coming home soaking wet after nine hours hauling fish in the freezing rain, from lifting soup to the lips of their father. Thrudur just had a different way of coping with it, as he saw most nights when she crawled back into bed hours after he had fallen asleep, stinking of the pub. But he knew better than to try to take that away from her.
Destiny was a fickle thing, but why try to skirt the inevitable? Einar came into this world to walk it alone, and he would walk it alone for the rest of his days. Always either a step ahead or a step behind, and often, he wasn’t sure which.
Thrudur, born when Einar was still a small child, took to her name in quite the same way, with quite the opposite effect. Power and strength, daughter of Thor fit her like a glove. The growth spurt passed over her, leaving her delicate in comparison to her brother, but she was all muscle and grit inside and out. Ever since they were kids, she had a history of greatness, competing in swimming races every summer, helping neighbors sew fields and pull in hauls from the sea, and never complaining even when the hours were long or the cold rains rolled in. Even after working from sun-up to sundown, Thrudur could be counted on to drink profusely, be the last to leave a gathering, and generally be the warm-hearted center of attention at feasts.
Einar rather preferred his solitude. He had never been the strongest nor most talented child, and he spent most of his life suffocating under his father’s expectations for his firstborn son. His pure size and the propensity of his body towards strength spared him some of his father’s most scathing critiques, but he never felt comfortable in his life, never feeling as if he was where he belonged or who he was supposed to be. Despite his imposing looks, he stumbled often, dropped or crushed things by accident, and was generally clumsy in his body.
But at least one thing he could do with grace. Any moment he could manage to get away, Einar would walk to the edge of the small sprawl of the coastal village, following a snaking path ground by his own footsteps up into the rocky cliffs that overlooked his hometown. The path was steep and rocky, and it didn’t lead to anywhere anyone wanted to go. There, he knew, no one would disturb him. And it was there he did his best work.
Page after page he had filled with this same scene, the same square miles of coastline, the same swirling depths. Charcoal was his preferred medium, as it was easy to come across; he had learned which twigs to feed to the fire to produce the perfect blend of softness, the darkest darks. Some days, the waters were peaceful, like a never-ending piece of glass. Others, the waves were capped in a heavy foam, resentful and dangerous, throwing themselves against the cliffside. By now, he could draw all these scenes by heart, knew exactly how to wipe at the page with the sleeve of his tunic to portray the thickest froth.
There were probably a few who knew of Einar’s folly, but no one dared mention it, not even his usually fearless little sister. Thrudur would never admit she was worried about her brother but she could acknowledge the swirling shame that blossomed in her stomach when she heard him slip out of the house again, and knew where he was going. Such a selfish folly, when they had to ration candle wax in the long, dark days of winter when the shallows were frozen solid and their neighbors shivered in their beds. Being a fisher was a source of pride to her – it was hard work, and dangerous at that, but it was honest, and everyone in their family as far back as their father could remember had been fishers here, in this town. Almost everyone they knew was the same, the men, women and even the children too, and nearly every home had at least one solid wooden boat pulled up into the garden.
The honor of living on this particular island, following a traditional way of life was passed down to Thrudur from their father. His aging eyes and weak step were a constant reminder to her that someone had to step up. Clearly, it wouldn’t be her brother. Maybe that’s why she decided to say something that morning, sitting in the pre-dawn haze in the kitchen around a skinny candle, eating a piece of coarsely ground brown bread with salted herring, when her brother suddenly pushed in the front door with a gust of icy wind. Or maybe she was just annoyed about her meager hours of sleep she had achieved the night before and the hangover pressing on the sides of her skull.
“Where have you been?”
The question stopped Einar dead, the cold morning wind causing the candle to flicker on the table. It’s a question he’s been waiting for, but also thought would never come, a delicate truce unexpectedly broken. A lie he’d hoped he’d never have to tell.
“Oh god, stop standing there like an idiot. You know I know… And shut the damn door before your father freezes to death in his bed.” Thrudur hardly looked up from her bread.
Sheepishly, Einar let the door close heavily behind him. His arm was pressed tight to his jacket, supporting the bound notebook pressed between his tunic and the wind-breaking leather. When he spoke, his voice sounded much softer and smaller than one would expect from a man who towered over six feet, with a muscled upper body pressing against his tunic in defined bulges, a man with a curly orange beard already streaked with tinges of white.
Thrudur shook her head impatiently, casting a silent shame in her brother’s direction in a way only family can. With the last bite of her breakfast, she wiped crumbs down the sides of her overalls and pushed the chair back loudly across the floor. Her hair, the same shade and equally as thick and unruly as her brother’s, was tucked tightly into a thick braid that fell down her back, but she dressed in overalls and sturdy boots, never a skirt or bonnet like some of the women in town.
Standing from the table, she pushed past her brother and left the warm wooden interior of their modest home. The morning air greeted her face with a sting and she gulped in big breaths of the dampness, pausing for a moment to steady her pounding pulse. Thinking about her brother brought a certain urgency to her breath, one she knew well, fear mixed with embarrassment. He’d be the end of this family. And then all that would be left was her.
Meanwhile Einar, feet shuffling across the wooden floorboards, tucked his sketchbook under his mattress in the room he shared with Thurdur. Their father was still sleeping, as he wasn’t well recently and some days would hardly rise from bed at all. Einar let his body fall heavily onto the bunk, and his head onto to his large, calloused palms. All his life, he had failed to live up to the expectations that were piled upon him, and now he could hardly move for the weight. If the simple act of documenting beauty in his sketchbook was enough to trigger so much shame, to cause so much judgement, how was he supposed to survive in this world? And what was the point in trying? Deep down, he knew his sister was tired, bone-tired like he was, from fighting all day for survival, from coming home soaking wet after nine hours hauling fish in the freezing rain, from lifting soup to the lips of their father. Thrudur just had a different way of coping with it, as he saw most nights when she crawled back into bed hours after he had fallen asleep, stinking of the pub. But he knew better than to try to take that away from her.
Destiny was a fickle thing, but why try to skirt the inevitable? Einar came into this world to walk it alone, and he would walk it alone for the rest of his days. Always either a step ahead or a step behind, and often, he wasn’t sure which.
Dystopian, two worlds collide, my character from an underground communal society, yours from a nature-based / tribal type of thing maybe?
Original idea: In this plot, two totally different societies collide, or at least, two individuals do, though their families and friends at home think it’s a horrible idea / would react badly if they ever found out about their secret. My character lives in an underground bunker of sorts, that is huge, spanning hundreds of rooms connected with hallways, all made of metal and stone and built into a huge rocky cliff. Everyone inside this hive lives in the same schedule: bells ring to announce communal meal times, everyone’s workdays start at the same times, lights-out is as predictable as sunrise. My character is a welder in this society, and likes the work, but is slowly growing more and more bored of this caged-in existence – until they get slop duty, and bringing the tash outside, catch a glimpse outside the high walls that surround the enclosure. They see your character, and are immediately fascinated – either your character is a different humanoid species or a different culture or tribe. I could imagine this as like some beautiful, tribal sort of character, who lives totally in touch with nature, a stark contrast to my character’s underground world. Or I could imagine a race of angel-like humans with huge wings flying in the sky. In any case, my character’s community is not going to like seeing them, and might even injure them if they come too close. Again, lots of room for plotting, I have a character in mind that is female and think fxf would be super cute, but my character could easily be made male, too, or we could do fxm if you have a particularly soft/feminine male character in mind.
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A violent tug on the arm, a sharp push, some indiscriminate shouting… copper-brown skin rubs dark, muddy eyes, blinking into the artificial din of the low-ceilinged room. The woman grunts, but it does little to stop the insistent bothering. “Fuck Jace, easy man, you’re gonna scare a girl half to death”, the thick-built girl mutters, clearly not scared half to death as she pulls the rough wool blanket up to her chin and turns over to face the wall.
“Come on Terris, really, you’ve got to get up, the bell will be ringing any second now”, Jace replies in his high-pitched voice, absolutely dripping with anxiety that matches the over-adrenalinized blue eyes. “You know what Clellan said last time, if you’re late again…” The boy seems to nearly jump from foot to foot with nervous energy.
“…it’s slop duty for three weeks this time, I know, I know,” comes the muttering from the bunk, the girl’s wide and tattooed shoulders sighing visibly. “Go on, I’m coming.” But she doesn’t rise until the skinny boy has scurried out of the room. In fact, she doesn’t rise for quite some time, but rather accidentally drifts back off to sleep, pulled back under by the warmth of the bed and the headache pounding behind her temples from the night that went on just a little too long last night.
It wasn’t until the high-pitched shrill of the warning bell pierced the room that Terris regretted hurrying Jace off. Cursing, she sat straight up, suddenly very awake, and jumped out of bed, pulling one leg into the thick navy jumpsuit hanging over the edge of the bed, and then the other, hopping as she pulled them up, tucking her arms into the sleeves and zipping the long zipper along the front. Hurriedly, she tied heavy black work boots that had seen better days and grabbing a black canvas sack from where it had been discarded at the end of the iron bedframe, half-ran out the door.
From the small cave-like bedroom with space enough for just her and Jace’s beds, she made her way into a main room with a worn sofa and fireplace, from which she could see into the empty rooms of the other bunkies that shared this pod. They were all gone off to work by now, but maybe she’d make it before the second bell still. In any case, she’d have to go without breakfast, and she hated going without breakfast.
Hurrying down the hallways, she narrowly avoided a collision with a full cart of dirty breakfast dishes as she simultaneously tried to blink the sleep out of her eyes and run a hand through her thick dark hair, which was a mix of dreadlocks and braids, adorned will all manner of copper and steel bobbles and rings. The girl had rough features, nothing dainty about her from her nose to the width of her shoulders to the way she lumbered down the hallway on muscular thighs and thick bootsoles, brushing partially against the stone-hewn, narrow hallways of the Hive, or the bunker, as she thought of it.
The second workbell rang as she was only steps from the welding workshop, and she cursed loudly again, prompting a prudish shushing from a child-minder walking around the corner holding the hand of a toddler. She nodded her head apologetically before opening the door to the blast of warm air, the nervous pale face of Jace dressed already in his welding gear, and her very agitated-looking boss, Clellan.
“I know, I know, slop duty for three weeks this time,” she muttered, dropping her bag loudly against her workbench, and slipping on the thick leather glpves and the welding mask that waited where she had left them yesterday. Clellan sighed loudly, and so began another day in this clockwork life.
Terris liked welding, she really did, the impervious coldness of metal taking color and warmth and fluidity, the ability to create new things that were strong, dependable. But mostly, she fused sheet metals, repaired the metallic parts of the Hive that stuck out from the cool stone of the mountain side, and went around fixing furniture for the residents from time to time. There was little art and a lot of monotony, the rhythmic nature of days that repeated themselves without end. No weekends and never an end to the work. No fresh air, no adventure, no beauty, just more of the same wherever she looked. The Hive was supposed to keep them safe, but at what cost? Was it really worth safety for more of the same, moment after moment, for more of the soul-crushing boredom not even a stiff drink could alleviate?
So what if she had slop duty? At least it was something to do when her shift ended, some new level of misery to add something to her life. But no breakfast, that part just sucked.
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A violent tug on the arm, a sharp push, some indiscriminate shouting… copper-brown skin rubs dark, muddy eyes, blinking into the artificial din of the low-ceilinged room. The woman grunts, but it does little to stop the insistent bothering. “Fuck Jace, easy man, you’re gonna scare a girl half to death”, the thick-built girl mutters, clearly not scared half to death as she pulls the rough wool blanket up to her chin and turns over to face the wall.
“Come on Terris, really, you’ve got to get up, the bell will be ringing any second now”, Jace replies in his high-pitched voice, absolutely dripping with anxiety that matches the over-adrenalinized blue eyes. “You know what Clellan said last time, if you’re late again…” The boy seems to nearly jump from foot to foot with nervous energy.
“…it’s slop duty for three weeks this time, I know, I know,” comes the muttering from the bunk, the girl’s wide and tattooed shoulders sighing visibly. “Go on, I’m coming.” But she doesn’t rise until the skinny boy has scurried out of the room. In fact, she doesn’t rise for quite some time, but rather accidentally drifts back off to sleep, pulled back under by the warmth of the bed and the headache pounding behind her temples from the night that went on just a little too long last night.
It wasn’t until the high-pitched shrill of the warning bell pierced the room that Terris regretted hurrying Jace off. Cursing, she sat straight up, suddenly very awake, and jumped out of bed, pulling one leg into the thick navy jumpsuit hanging over the edge of the bed, and then the other, hopping as she pulled them up, tucking her arms into the sleeves and zipping the long zipper along the front. Hurriedly, she tied heavy black work boots that had seen better days and grabbing a black canvas sack from where it had been discarded at the end of the iron bedframe, half-ran out the door.
From the small cave-like bedroom with space enough for just her and Jace’s beds, she made her way into a main room with a worn sofa and fireplace, from which she could see into the empty rooms of the other bunkies that shared this pod. They were all gone off to work by now, but maybe she’d make it before the second bell still. In any case, she’d have to go without breakfast, and she hated going without breakfast.
Hurrying down the hallways, she narrowly avoided a collision with a full cart of dirty breakfast dishes as she simultaneously tried to blink the sleep out of her eyes and run a hand through her thick dark hair, which was a mix of dreadlocks and braids, adorned will all manner of copper and steel bobbles and rings. The girl had rough features, nothing dainty about her from her nose to the width of her shoulders to the way she lumbered down the hallway on muscular thighs and thick bootsoles, brushing partially against the stone-hewn, narrow hallways of the Hive, or the bunker, as she thought of it.
The second workbell rang as she was only steps from the welding workshop, and she cursed loudly again, prompting a prudish shushing from a child-minder walking around the corner holding the hand of a toddler. She nodded her head apologetically before opening the door to the blast of warm air, the nervous pale face of Jace dressed already in his welding gear, and her very agitated-looking boss, Clellan.
“I know, I know, slop duty for three weeks this time,” she muttered, dropping her bag loudly against her workbench, and slipping on the thick leather glpves and the welding mask that waited where she had left them yesterday. Clellan sighed loudly, and so began another day in this clockwork life.
Terris liked welding, she really did, the impervious coldness of metal taking color and warmth and fluidity, the ability to create new things that were strong, dependable. But mostly, she fused sheet metals, repaired the metallic parts of the Hive that stuck out from the cool stone of the mountain side, and went around fixing furniture for the residents from time to time. There was little art and a lot of monotony, the rhythmic nature of days that repeated themselves without end. No weekends and never an end to the work. No fresh air, no adventure, no beauty, just more of the same wherever she looked. The Hive was supposed to keep them safe, but at what cost? Was it really worth safety for more of the same, moment after moment, for more of the soul-crushing boredom not even a stiff drink could alleviate?
So what if she had slop duty? At least it was something to do when her shift ended, some new level of misery to add something to her life. But no breakfast, that part just sucked.
Out of this world sisters, I'd probably rework them a little (too little conflict rn imo, they didn't work great, but I think they can be salvaged):
Original idea: Inspired by Becky Chambers books (really good, you should read them) – Outer space consists of different planets/species/cultures as well as spacers who live on ships of all sizes, from moderate 10-person vessels to huge orbiters containing whole societies. Your character somehow ends up on a planet that has not yet been colonized by interstellar law, something of an outpost for those who don’t want to be part of the bureaucracy and law. There, they meet my character, who has been living on the barren, dusty planet for some time and made a little living for themselves there, maybe as a tinkerer, or maybe in a more steampunk, programmer/tech way. We could figure all that out!
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Oil dripped from the woman’s elbows like viscous black blood, coffee-colored hands invisible as they rattled around in the motor of a rusted orange motorbike. After wiping the muddy substance down on the sides of her baggy overalls, she pushed the thick dreadlocks out of her face, where they were sticking to the sweat running in rivulets down her forehead. The locks tingled with the sounds of the golden bobbles and rings braided in, as they rubbed against the rings and studs that lined her upper ears. Here on Icarro, which shared with its namesake the quality of being just a bit too close to its own sun, there was little concept of seasons, but the brief period of “winter” was just coming to an end, and with it, the few days of relief from the height of the atmospheric harshness. Days were shorter here, just several hours, as were seasons. Now, Icarro’s sun, a magnificent inferno, was just beginning to peak over the horizon, already covering a significant portion of the horizon line, so the woman’s day of work would have to wait a few hours until “tomorrow”.
Andrann was born and raised on this little rock, like so few others here, most of whom were escaping some element of their life in the intergalactic alliance or on one of the more easily habitable planets. The heat, the blinding UV of the planet were all she had ever known, and her body had adapted to the hardship as she grew. Though she was small, standing only a few inches above five feet, she was strong and sturdy, tough inside and out, like everything was on this little sphere of dusty red rock, baking in the sunlight. Beneath the loose overalls, she wore just a black bandeau over her thin chest, her stomach bare to catch any sort of breeze that might pass through the airy armholes of the overalls. On her feet were thick-soled work boots, of course, which she never took off, as she knew of far too many critters crawling just beneath the surface of the red sand that might take offense to the presence of her toes.
Tucking her wrench into one of the deep pockets of her overalls, Andrann turned to head back to the adjoining entrance of her burrow-like home, just showing out of a small red foothill of stone. It took quite an effort to pull open the heavy airlock door, even for someone as used to working with her hands as Andrann was, but it was a necessary defence against the dust storms that rolled through the planet with some regularity, so that their home wasn’t flooded with thick layers of silt. Once inside, she descended a winding corridor ever deeper into the rock, , the temperature dropping with each step. Andrann let her fingers trail along the smoothed stone walls as she descended.
“Erynn?” She called as she made her entrance, the corridor widening as it came towards a wide archway, past which a large cave-like space could be seen, furnished like a kitchen but with stalactites and natural rock columns punctuating the space. Sitting at the bar-like counter was a young woman who looked noticeably similar to Andrann: short, muscular, deeply tanned brown skin, with thick and curly dark hair, hers cut short and spilling out from a headband on her head. Most suited to the indoor climate, Erynn wore a light-colored linen shirt and loose green pants of a similar material. Perched on the bar stool, Andrann’s older sister was typing away on a laptop-like device, the screen filled with code that seemed nonsene to Andrann’s eyes.
“Getting hot out there?” Erynn asked, who dreaded any reason that would force her from their cool cave home, out into the unforgiving wild of Icarro. She chuckled as her sister nodded, wiping again at the sweat still pearling on her forehead. “I made lunch.”
Andrann smiled thankfully as she noticed the sandwiches sitting on the kitchen counter, an oversized grasshopper-like leg sticking out from beneath the slice of homemade bread, dripping with a red sauce. Not bothering to wash her hands, she took a seat next to Eyrnn and began to eat hungrily. “Thanks,” she managed with a satisfying crunch. She had been so involved in her work, she hadn’t realized the hungry tremor in her fingers.
The sister knew little of the galaxy besides Icarro and in some ways, both were content with that reality. It was harsh, this little stone spinning its way around the all-encompassing heat of a massive star, but it was free. Though they had learned from their parents, and on their own, they had never had to sit in a school room, being scolded for every wiggle or distracting thought. As they grew, they had played in the sun, learning the habitats of the most dangerous critters, stretching their legs and adding callus to their palms. As they grew older, Eyrnn had retreated a bit into the comfort and safety of their home, but Andrann stayed wild, not able to spend a day without getting her hands dirty. Without the grounding care her sister gave her, she’d probably go off getting herself lost, forgetting to drink water or eat, lost in this project or the next. And without Andrann’s enthrallment with life, her unending curiosity and passion, well Eyrnn would probably grow far too bored of this little corner of the galaxy. Together, though, they managed somehow to thrive, despite the odds.
----
Oil dripped from the woman’s elbows like viscous black blood, coffee-colored hands invisible as they rattled around in the motor of a rusted orange motorbike. After wiping the muddy substance down on the sides of her baggy overalls, she pushed the thick dreadlocks out of her face, where they were sticking to the sweat running in rivulets down her forehead. The locks tingled with the sounds of the golden bobbles and rings braided in, as they rubbed against the rings and studs that lined her upper ears. Here on Icarro, which shared with its namesake the quality of being just a bit too close to its own sun, there was little concept of seasons, but the brief period of “winter” was just coming to an end, and with it, the few days of relief from the height of the atmospheric harshness. Days were shorter here, just several hours, as were seasons. Now, Icarro’s sun, a magnificent inferno, was just beginning to peak over the horizon, already covering a significant portion of the horizon line, so the woman’s day of work would have to wait a few hours until “tomorrow”.
Andrann was born and raised on this little rock, like so few others here, most of whom were escaping some element of their life in the intergalactic alliance or on one of the more easily habitable planets. The heat, the blinding UV of the planet were all she had ever known, and her body had adapted to the hardship as she grew. Though she was small, standing only a few inches above five feet, she was strong and sturdy, tough inside and out, like everything was on this little sphere of dusty red rock, baking in the sunlight. Beneath the loose overalls, she wore just a black bandeau over her thin chest, her stomach bare to catch any sort of breeze that might pass through the airy armholes of the overalls. On her feet were thick-soled work boots, of course, which she never took off, as she knew of far too many critters crawling just beneath the surface of the red sand that might take offense to the presence of her toes.
Tucking her wrench into one of the deep pockets of her overalls, Andrann turned to head back to the adjoining entrance of her burrow-like home, just showing out of a small red foothill of stone. It took quite an effort to pull open the heavy airlock door, even for someone as used to working with her hands as Andrann was, but it was a necessary defence against the dust storms that rolled through the planet with some regularity, so that their home wasn’t flooded with thick layers of silt. Once inside, she descended a winding corridor ever deeper into the rock, , the temperature dropping with each step. Andrann let her fingers trail along the smoothed stone walls as she descended.
“Erynn?” She called as she made her entrance, the corridor widening as it came towards a wide archway, past which a large cave-like space could be seen, furnished like a kitchen but with stalactites and natural rock columns punctuating the space. Sitting at the bar-like counter was a young woman who looked noticeably similar to Andrann: short, muscular, deeply tanned brown skin, with thick and curly dark hair, hers cut short and spilling out from a headband on her head. Most suited to the indoor climate, Erynn wore a light-colored linen shirt and loose green pants of a similar material. Perched on the bar stool, Andrann’s older sister was typing away on a laptop-like device, the screen filled with code that seemed nonsene to Andrann’s eyes.
“Getting hot out there?” Erynn asked, who dreaded any reason that would force her from their cool cave home, out into the unforgiving wild of Icarro. She chuckled as her sister nodded, wiping again at the sweat still pearling on her forehead. “I made lunch.”
Andrann smiled thankfully as she noticed the sandwiches sitting on the kitchen counter, an oversized grasshopper-like leg sticking out from beneath the slice of homemade bread, dripping with a red sauce. Not bothering to wash her hands, she took a seat next to Eyrnn and began to eat hungrily. “Thanks,” she managed with a satisfying crunch. She had been so involved in her work, she hadn’t realized the hungry tremor in her fingers.
The sister knew little of the galaxy besides Icarro and in some ways, both were content with that reality. It was harsh, this little stone spinning its way around the all-encompassing heat of a massive star, but it was free. Though they had learned from their parents, and on their own, they had never had to sit in a school room, being scolded for every wiggle or distracting thought. As they grew, they had played in the sun, learning the habitats of the most dangerous critters, stretching their legs and adding callus to their palms. As they grew older, Eyrnn had retreated a bit into the comfort and safety of their home, but Andrann stayed wild, not able to spend a day without getting her hands dirty. Without the grounding care her sister gave her, she’d probably go off getting herself lost, forgetting to drink water or eat, lost in this project or the next. And without Andrann’s enthrallment with life, her unending curiosity and passion, well Eyrnn would probably grow far too bored of this little corner of the galaxy. Together, though, they managed somehow to thrive, despite the odds.
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