mountaingoat
mushi-shi
Hello! I am mountaingoat. I'm 26, go by any pronouns, and have been roleplaying for a long time. Most importantly, I'm looking for some new friends to write with! If you read the below and are interested in hashing something out, please shoot me a PM.
What I'm Looking For:
What I'm Looking For:
- Lazy Lit, as the title says. This is code for, we both write exactly as much as we feel is necessary, with no pressure to reach arbitrary word counts or match each other's posts. We can write novella posts to set up a scene, we can write short posts to keep dialogue flowing nicely. We trust each other to deliver quality, regardless of quantity.
- Patience. How often I post depends a lot on my work schedule, how busy my weekend is, how tired I am afterwards, and how long my post is going to be. As such, there will be times where I take a couple weeks to respond, and other times where we're both online and we can go back and forth trading posts for a couple hours. I'm totally OK with you checking in if I'm taking a little while. As for you, I have zero expectations as to post frequency. I'll check in once every so often, but once I'm invested, you can literally take months to respond and I'll still be happy to hop back in, whenever you're ready.
- OOC chat. I like to eventually become friends with my RP partners. Trading RP-inspired playlists, gushing about characters, talking about life, I'm all about it. If we vibe, I imagine this will come naturally. Discord is my preferred OOC platform.
- Long term. I like to actually finish stories, sue me.
- No Doubling required. I prefer we focus on one story, one set of characters we're passionate about, to start with, and make that world vibrant with side characters as we wish.
- Romance not required. I like it, don't need it. Other dynamics (friends, siblings, mentors, rivals, coworkers, etc.) welcome. Character development is king for me.
- LGBTQ+ friendly.
- Ghost-understanding. I do it sometimes, but I try not to. I'll always try to be communicative, and hope you will be too, but I can also take a hint. If I've ever ghosted you, or vice versa, feel free to reach back out! If we are in the plotting stages, generally my policy is to get back to you within a week, and if it seems like it will take longer than that, to check in with you so you know I'm still interested. Ideally you would do the same!
- I'm partial to MxM and MxF since my main characters are usually but not always male. That being said, I'm open to anything!
- Plotting. I like to get a small bit of direction going before starting. I like world building. I like hard-won character growth. I also like surprising my partners--so let's get a general direction going with which we're both comfortable, then improvise from there. Always open to further planning, but I am also easy going enough to just see where things lead if it feels right. With that in mind, I prefer to reveal my characters to you gradually, and not through character sheets.
- Happy to incorporate darker themes and topics. I just want it to have a greater purpose beyond misery for misery's sake. I want depth!!! Interesting character dynamics!!! My favorite stories are ones with ample angst, then gradual healing, and a deeply cathartic glimmer of hope by the end. I'm happy to have that happen via grand fantasy fetch quest, slice of life in a quiet town, grungy noir murder mystery backdrop, or just about anything.
- Fandoms, or original worlds. For fandoms, I prefer canon x canon or oc x oc, but not oc x canon (except in the cases of Mass Effect and Dragon Age, sorry, I just love my protagonists so much and selfishly want to write them forever). Semi-original worlds inspired by fandoms are welcome, too (for example, Doctor Who ripoff, without the burdens of Doctor Who lore). If you have an original world with lots of lore and fun stuff, feel free to throw it at me!
- A short writing sample would be helpful. I'll provide one below. I think this will help us judge whether our writing styles mesh, before getting too deep into the weeds of plotting.
- I prefer to write over PMs or Google Docs. I can make Discord work if that's a dealbreaker, I just hate the character limit there. I can also make email work if none of the other options are to your liking.
- Mass Effect Trilogy - My male Shepard, your Kaiden. I just love them together. Could also be convinced to do OCs in this universe.
- Pokemon Colosseum / Gale of Darkness-inspired - I'm not huge into Pokemon actually, but I have a good few thoughts on a grittier, more Wild West Pokemon story in the Orre region, and sort of an alternate version of the story in the games. My character invented the snag machines before Cipher/Team Snagem started using them for evil; our characters become vigilantes, stealing back Shadow Pokemon and purifying them, while on the run from the law. Open to taking canon characters from other fandoms and inserting them here as an AU.
- Digimon Frontier - Picking up at the end of the story, or maybe skip forward to when the kids are adults and a new Digimon disaster breaks out. I'm interested in playing Koji, and in you playing Takuya, and their friendship/rivalry/potential romance if adults. I like the idea of them dealing with the trauma of their Digimon adventure, and the difficulties of returning to normal everyday life after saving the world.
- Dragon Age - My male mage Lavellan and your Dorian. I have a BIG post-Trespasser plot in mind. We could basically write our own Dragon Age: The Veilguard before it comes out. Like Mass Effect, I could also be convinced to play OCs in this universe.
Stranger Things- I play Hopper, you play Joyce, post-ST4? If we go with this, I'll want to rewatch some episodes first, so it may take a little bit longer to get off the ground.Beastars / Zootopia- I find both universes interesting. Could play OCs solving a murder mystery or something. Also have some thoughts on like, a Hunger Games-esque hunting ground where cash-strapped prey animals get paid to be hunted by wealthy predators who are above the law and want a thrill. If the prey survives, they get a large cash prize. Some prey animals roll the dice in the arena as a career, and become more and more expert at staying alive. Not too many thoughts on this besides finding the worlds interesting and wanting to give them a little more nuance.- Naruto - I play Kakashi, you play Iruka, during the time skip between Naruto and Shippuden? I want to set them up as unlikely friends, with some potential for romance. Really interested in exploring the drawbacks of ninja society and Iruka leading the charge against the societal norm of exploiting child soldiers. Maybe he is petitioning the council to raise the minimum graduation age at the Academy (an idea I stole from an unfinished fanfic I read like 10 years ago, rip), and Kakashi, the poster boy child soldier, is bemused but eventually becomes convinced that Iruka is right. We could take them on missions because it's fun, but I'm also interested in digging into the culture of the Hidden Leaf a little more too. Could also play Kakashi with, like, Genma or Yamato in ANBU or something, or we could do OCs together!
- Mushi-shi
Doctor Who- I could play 11 or 12, you could play Jack Harkness, RIver Song, Clara, pretty much anyone? Or 15 and Rogue??? Or we do a ripoff of Doctor Who, where we play with time travellers who cross paths out of sync. Somewhat prefer the latter.- Persona 3 - I really like the idea of taking the concept of the Dark Hour, and applying it elsewhere in other non-Persona stories. But for actual Persona 3 stuff, I love Shinjiro, Akihiko, Mitsuru, Junpei, Yukari, and both male and female MCs.
- Wolf's Rain
Fullmetal Alchemist- Fargo (TV) - OCs in this universe.
- His Dark Materials - OCs in this universe. I'm not very well-versed--only read a few of the books and watched the movie as a kid, but I love the concept.
- How to Train Your Dragon - Fix-it AU of the third film? OCs?
- If there are some fandoms you love, feel free to mention them and I'll let you know if I have an interest. Could even mix and match canons from different fandoms, in a new AU.
Since Haven–since Corypheus–Mahanon’s dreams had taken on a new form. Or an old one, really. It went like this: total darkness, uncertain awareness. Then pinpricks of light, soft and faded, gaining prominence, until he realized he was sprawled on a forest floor, facing the sun as filtered through the summer canopy. Branches swayed in the warm east wind, and the leaves rattled, rejoicing to an old wisdom he would never know. Birds chattered and whooped. The grass was parched with drought, its crisp blades tickling his arms.
It had not rained in months. This was important.
And, just as important, this forest was home. Not his current home, but his old home. His first home. Dread filled him up, chilling his blood despite the heat of the season. He knew what would happen next. Discarding the insouciant mood of the afternoon, the pleasant heaviness of rest after play, Mahanon found his feet and filled up his lungs to call for his brother. He would not wait for disaster to strike. They would run–they would run, now–but the yell burst forth breathless, soundless, useless.
In the dream, what happened next never matched the well-worn archives of memory. It was here that the dream-memory would warp like the bindings of an old book coming undone, pages fleeing from the spine, and an alternate series of events would unfold as if written by another's quill.
As Mahanon stood yearning for a brother who was not there, the birds went silent, the leaves stilled in reverence, and someone erupted from the brush–not Tevinter slavers with glinting blades and cage-laden wagons, but the Elder One himself. The mottled flesh of his face creased with vengeance as his Blighted hand outstretched to Mahanon, aglow with fatal magic. A branch appeared in the elf’s palm, knotted and crude. It was a child’s toy, a sword in fantasy alone. He held the so-called weapon aloft, a boy standing up to a god.
He would lose. He would try not to tremble.
Great wings blotted out the sun. He cast his gaze up into the jaws of an archdemon. Its undulating throat flickered with fire.
These ancient trees were nothing but kindling.
Flames tickled his flesh, and then consumed it.
Everything, erased.
A voice resonated at the base of his skull:
You are not strong enough to stop it. Let me help you. Let me take you.
Mahanon startled into consciousness. Instead of dragonfire raining from above, he saw the vaulted ceiling of his quarters, cobbled stone by stone by long-dead craftsmen. The sheets adhered to his skin with sweat, and when he threw off the heavy quilt, the high mountain cold settled over him like a balm. Bare feet met the ornate bedside rug. He sunk his toes in. It grounded him.
These demon dreams had grown more common since he gained the power of the Anchor. He figured its Veil-bending light was as irresistible to spirits and demons as a candle was to moths at dusk. Perhaps the Anchor was not due all of the blame, though. It was true he was scared. Uncertain. Drawing on strength he wasn’t sure he possessed. Such doubts tended to attract demons. He was not tempted by the nighttime offers of power and glory, but the stakes had evolved, and so had his responsibility to resist. If his guard faltered just once, an essential part of him would be lost forever–and the world with it.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, and released a clouded breath. A peek towards the balcony revealed a purple sky. Dawn was approaching. Sleep, after everything, would surely elude him.
Good morning, Skyhold.
He wrapped himself up against the cold and stepped out into the castle halls with no path in mind. He found new routes, new rooms, each one layered in dust from the Exalted Age or earlier. One grand room full of books caught his interest–a place to return to later, to be sure. Eventually, he left the shelter of the castle walls to walk along the battlements. The night guard had become accustomed to the new Inquisitor’s early-morning strolls. Quiet words of greeting were exchanged. Mahanon didn’t linger to chat–there was something too sacred about the mountain’s dawn silence to want to disrupt it for long.
By the time the afternoon arrived, he’d already completed his daily combat training, war table meeting, and had several audiences with travel-weary diplomats eager to collect intelligence on the fledgling Inquisition. They had commanded the world’s attention–now it was a question of whether Mahanon, and by extension the Inquisition, could keep hold of it.
After ushering out an auspicious lord who had solicited his land as an outpost in exchange for Inquisition protection, Josephine surprised Mahanon with the most unusual of assignments: an etiquette lesson, this afternoon, after lunch. “This is most necessary,” she had said. “Without these skills, you will never turn the most discerning of dignitaries–and purses–to our cause.”
The busyness of the day had lifted his spirits from the morning’s low, but this task needled his pride. Him, lacking etiquette? What, because of his Dalishness? It wasn’t his fault these shemlen carried all of these strange expectations. Did he really need to assimilate himself to using peculiar silverware in a particular pattern, to performing bows and handshakes as individually appropriate according to lineage and arbitrary titles? Why was earnestness to save the world not sufficient?
Mired in moral outrage as he was, Mahanon took a very long lunch–then vanished down into those dusty hallways he’d discovered this morning, intent on finding a place where Josephine and her shiny little spoons would not find him. He would feel guilty later, and accept the lesson from her eventually, however humbling. It would be a valuable cultural exchange, he told himself. He would go.
Just not yet.
He let his eyes adjust to the darkness of the corridor. On light feet he followed the trail of memory to the room with all the enticing old books. A little bit of quiet reading would do him some good. But as he approached, he realized someone else had claimed this outpost before him. When he realized who it was, his lips curled up in a mischievous grin. Mahanon halted at the entrance of the room, boots kicking up a century of dust. He crossed his arms as if affronted, and announced himself, voice bouncing off the walls, “Two questions. First–how dare you steal my secret hideaway? And second–what are you reading?”
Without waiting for an answer, he moseyed up to peek over Dorian’s shoulder. With him he brought the lightly spicy scent of pipe-smoked Gossamer Elfroot. The magic bauble of light danced in his dark eyes, electrifying the green flecks that had only appeared since the Anchor. Voice warm with interest, he continued, “I see Elvish. And… rather detailed dragon anatomy?”
It had not rained in months. This was important.
And, just as important, this forest was home. Not his current home, but his old home. His first home. Dread filled him up, chilling his blood despite the heat of the season. He knew what would happen next. Discarding the insouciant mood of the afternoon, the pleasant heaviness of rest after play, Mahanon found his feet and filled up his lungs to call for his brother. He would not wait for disaster to strike. They would run–they would run, now–but the yell burst forth breathless, soundless, useless.
In the dream, what happened next never matched the well-worn archives of memory. It was here that the dream-memory would warp like the bindings of an old book coming undone, pages fleeing from the spine, and an alternate series of events would unfold as if written by another's quill.
As Mahanon stood yearning for a brother who was not there, the birds went silent, the leaves stilled in reverence, and someone erupted from the brush–not Tevinter slavers with glinting blades and cage-laden wagons, but the Elder One himself. The mottled flesh of his face creased with vengeance as his Blighted hand outstretched to Mahanon, aglow with fatal magic. A branch appeared in the elf’s palm, knotted and crude. It was a child’s toy, a sword in fantasy alone. He held the so-called weapon aloft, a boy standing up to a god.
He would lose. He would try not to tremble.
Great wings blotted out the sun. He cast his gaze up into the jaws of an archdemon. Its undulating throat flickered with fire.
These ancient trees were nothing but kindling.
Flames tickled his flesh, and then consumed it.
Everything, erased.
A voice resonated at the base of his skull:
You are not strong enough to stop it. Let me help you. Let me take you.
Mahanon startled into consciousness. Instead of dragonfire raining from above, he saw the vaulted ceiling of his quarters, cobbled stone by stone by long-dead craftsmen. The sheets adhered to his skin with sweat, and when he threw off the heavy quilt, the high mountain cold settled over him like a balm. Bare feet met the ornate bedside rug. He sunk his toes in. It grounded him.
These demon dreams had grown more common since he gained the power of the Anchor. He figured its Veil-bending light was as irresistible to spirits and demons as a candle was to moths at dusk. Perhaps the Anchor was not due all of the blame, though. It was true he was scared. Uncertain. Drawing on strength he wasn’t sure he possessed. Such doubts tended to attract demons. He was not tempted by the nighttime offers of power and glory, but the stakes had evolved, and so had his responsibility to resist. If his guard faltered just once, an essential part of him would be lost forever–and the world with it.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, and released a clouded breath. A peek towards the balcony revealed a purple sky. Dawn was approaching. Sleep, after everything, would surely elude him.
Good morning, Skyhold.
He wrapped himself up against the cold and stepped out into the castle halls with no path in mind. He found new routes, new rooms, each one layered in dust from the Exalted Age or earlier. One grand room full of books caught his interest–a place to return to later, to be sure. Eventually, he left the shelter of the castle walls to walk along the battlements. The night guard had become accustomed to the new Inquisitor’s early-morning strolls. Quiet words of greeting were exchanged. Mahanon didn’t linger to chat–there was something too sacred about the mountain’s dawn silence to want to disrupt it for long.
By the time the afternoon arrived, he’d already completed his daily combat training, war table meeting, and had several audiences with travel-weary diplomats eager to collect intelligence on the fledgling Inquisition. They had commanded the world’s attention–now it was a question of whether Mahanon, and by extension the Inquisition, could keep hold of it.
After ushering out an auspicious lord who had solicited his land as an outpost in exchange for Inquisition protection, Josephine surprised Mahanon with the most unusual of assignments: an etiquette lesson, this afternoon, after lunch. “This is most necessary,” she had said. “Without these skills, you will never turn the most discerning of dignitaries–and purses–to our cause.”
The busyness of the day had lifted his spirits from the morning’s low, but this task needled his pride. Him, lacking etiquette? What, because of his Dalishness? It wasn’t his fault these shemlen carried all of these strange expectations. Did he really need to assimilate himself to using peculiar silverware in a particular pattern, to performing bows and handshakes as individually appropriate according to lineage and arbitrary titles? Why was earnestness to save the world not sufficient?
Mired in moral outrage as he was, Mahanon took a very long lunch–then vanished down into those dusty hallways he’d discovered this morning, intent on finding a place where Josephine and her shiny little spoons would not find him. He would feel guilty later, and accept the lesson from her eventually, however humbling. It would be a valuable cultural exchange, he told himself. He would go.
Just not yet.
He let his eyes adjust to the darkness of the corridor. On light feet he followed the trail of memory to the room with all the enticing old books. A little bit of quiet reading would do him some good. But as he approached, he realized someone else had claimed this outpost before him. When he realized who it was, his lips curled up in a mischievous grin. Mahanon halted at the entrance of the room, boots kicking up a century of dust. He crossed his arms as if affronted, and announced himself, voice bouncing off the walls, “Two questions. First–how dare you steal my secret hideaway? And second–what are you reading?”
Without waiting for an answer, he moseyed up to peek over Dorian’s shoulder. With him he brought the lightly spicy scent of pipe-smoked Gossamer Elfroot. The magic bauble of light danced in his dark eyes, electrifying the green flecks that had only appeared since the Anchor. Voice warm with interest, he continued, “I see Elvish. And… rather detailed dragon anatomy?”
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