UndeadTyrant
just a pile of bones
- The Nitty Gritty
- Originals
- Fallout 4/TV Series
- Red Dead Redemption 2
- Harry Potter
- Persona 4
- Until Dawn
- Mass Effect
CURRENTLY SEEKING
⇝ 7 out of 8 slots filled.⇝ To take place over threads, messages, Discord, email, or GDocs.⇝ Please message me with a sample of your writing to set something up.⇝ Craving wild west originals and Red Dead Redemption 2.
RULES
⇝ You MUST be 18+ to write with me. I’m in my 30s and I don’t feel comfortable with minors in my inbox.⇝ You MUST be a multi-para / novella style role player. I don’t have a set minimum or maximum, so I prefer partners who mirror. Please refer to my samples (located within the spoilers) to see my range.⇝ CCxOC only for fandoms.⇝ Doubling is required, but we do not have to double in the same fandom / universe / plot. If you would prefer to do two pairings from two different universes, we can. Role play is supposed to be fun, so as long as we’re both getting something we want, I’m good.⇝ My pairings will primarily be MF, with me playing the female lead; however, you might see the rare FF pairing. I’m happy to play any sexuality for your pairing, as well.⇝ You don’t see it here, but I am a massive goofball. I like chatting OOC, and I like making friends. Please be comfortable with that. (That said, I won’t share my real name or any photos.)⇝ Please don’t expect daily replies from me. I agonize over details and have spent over ten hours writing a simple four-paragraph reply before.⇝ I am ghost-friendly - the first time. Life happens and you don’t have to warn me when it does. However, if I don’t receive an in-character response after ten days, I’ll consider the role play dead and mark it for potential deletion. After two more weeks of no out-of-character contact, I will delete any servers / files associated with the role play to keep my space decluttered. This gives you 24 days of no OOC contact before I consider myself ghosted and delete our role play. I will usually reach out to you and give you a chance to tell me if you want to keep the RP going before I delete it, but it's not a guarantee. If I deleted our role play due to your absence and you want to write again, feel free to message me! But please be aware that if it happens again, I won’t be very inclined to role play with you in the future. It’s nothing against you! I’d still be happy to chat as friends.Camp could get loud at night. Uncle always wanted to celebrate, the girls always wanted to sing, and someone always wanted to sit around the campfire telling stories. Sometimes, if Arthur’s luck was high enough that day, the only sound would be the crackle of the campfire and Javier singing some soothing song in Spanish. But tonight was not one of those nights. Not only had Javier left to run a job of his own, but Uncle’s call to celebration had resulted in a cacophony of hooting and hollering from the poker table.
Arthur had to get out.
Of course, he wasn’t going to hold it against his friends for wanting to have a good time. Hell, he liked getting drunk and loud as much as the next feller - but he wasn’t about to do it in the dead of night, right in the middle of camp, when half the group was trying to sleep. That crossed a line. Karen must have noticed his scowl as he passed by the poker table, because she chortled over to Uncle: “Someone’s grumpy.”
Arthur ignored her and continued on his way to the horses. Once he reached them, he felt an immediate sense of ease. The open road’s freedom would soon embrace him once more, and the next time he stepped into camp, he wouldn’t be in such a bad mood. “C’mon, girl,” he said to the Ardennes he’d stolen from a ranch a couple days ago. He had yet to bond with her, but this would be the perfect time to get it done. She whinnied and bucked under Arthur’s weight as he mounted her, but he held on fast and stroked the fur around her neck until she calmed. “That’s a girl,” he soothed. “That’s a good girl, Brunhild.”
It took a little longer than normal to reach Valentine. The sky was clear tonight, cloudless, and provided the perfect opportunity to do a little star-gazing. Arthur knew enough about the stars so that he could always determine North from South, but he wasn’t as well-versed on astrology as Charles or Dutch. Even so, sometimes he just liked to look at them - twinkling up there, so far away but visible enough to dream about. The earth might have changed over the course of humanity, but the sky never did. Those same stars were the ones the Romans, Visigoths, and Gauls once watched. Outlaw cowboy he might have been, but Arthur Morgan still had enough sentimentality to care about things like that. Even if he didn’t say it out loud. Still, he took the time to sketch a quick constellation in his journal before mounting Brunhild again and finishing the rest of his journey to Valentine.
Smithfield’s Saloon was, as per usual, quite popular. A crowd of impatient patrons had congregated at the bar, shouting orders at a new hire that was struggling to keep up. As much as Arthur wanted to wash away his agitation with a few beers, he didn’t want to contribute to the poor boy’s barely-managed panic; the kid seemed on the verge of tears as it was. Arthur did vow, however, to leave a large gratuity.
A fistfight looked like it was about to break out over at the poker table; some buffoon accused another of cheating, and insults about wives started flying around. The two main instigators stood, one with a broken bottle in hand and the other with a knife. The saloon went silent. Everything stood still for a tense few moments. Then the man with the knife started laughing, and the man with the broken bottle laughed too. They dropped their weapons and embraced.
“You’re right, Mikey - my wife is a whore!” bellowed one.
“And my mother does need fifteen horses just to pull her in a carriage!” cried the other.
The jaunty piano tune started up again, and the patrons of the bar got back to their excited chattering. Arthur looked back to the young bartender to discover that the boy had taken the distraction as an opportunity to catch up on orders. Most of the crowd was starting to dissipate now that they’d gotten their drinks. Deciding that now was the time to get his order in, Arthur approached the bar - then stopped when he heard a slimy Irish accent slide and sleaze its way through the other voices in the saloon: “- killed him there, I did. Ol’ Colm didn’t even bat an eye.” He said it Irish too - Colom. Just like Sean liked to tell people was the right way - Colom.
His eyes followed the voice to see a middle-aged man with a protruding belly and fat fingers sitting at a table. On his lap was an uncomfortable-looking woman that Arthur identified as one of the saloon’s many prostitutes. The O’Driscoll held her firmly around the waist and only pulled her closer every time she tried to put some space between them. “Personally,” continued the O’Driscoll, “I thought it was a gruesome death. A painful one. But ol’ Colm didn’t even bat an eye.” He laughed, breathing whiskey into the poor girl’s face as he leaned in for a kiss. He couldn’t reach her face, so he settled for her shoulder instead. “He’s seen worse than what I can do, I reckon.” And he laughed at her continued discomfort.
Arthur’s stomach churned at the display, but he didn’t intervene. Not yet. He usually fought better with a couple of drinks under his belt anyway. Besides, the man groping the prostitute in his lap wasn’t the only O’Driscoll in the bar. It looked like he had at least seven friends with him - and they were already aware of Arthur’s presence. Getting involved now would only be bad for him.
He arrived at the bar and gave it a tap. “Just a beer for me,” he said, paying in advance. The young man nodded, wiped sweat from his brow, and got to pouring the drink. “First night workin’ the bar?” Arthur asked over the music and conversation.
“Yes, sir,” said the young man. “I was hired just yesterday. My pa told me that it was time I got a job.”
“How old’re you?” Arthur asked, accepting the beer as it was placed before him.
“Sixteen, sir,” said the young man. “I hope to save up so I can attend university.”
Arthur could have howled with laughter at that. Could have, but he didn’t. He took a long, grateful drink of beer before furrowing his brow and asking, “Now why in the hell would you wanna do somethin’ like that?”
“I’d like to be a lawyer, sir. A defense attorney, to do my part in protecting each American citizen’s rights -” He kept speaking, but Arthur mostly tuned him out. Hell, he remembered being young and idealistic. It may not have been about the same subject - Arthur never really cared about the law or politics or any of that kind of stuff - but he’d always dreamed of a free life, and thought frequently about what it meant. Dutch might have been the main reason for that. Arthur smiled fondly at the idea and reached into his pocket to withdraw a money clip. He counted ten dollars in singles and slid them over to the boy.
“If you were really smart, you’d put that toward buying yourself some land, tucked away somewhere civilization can’t reach you for another hundred years. But I reckon law school’s as good a reason as any to waste your money.”
“Sir, I can’t accept this -”
“Then throw it away,” Arthur said. “But open up a tab for me, just for the night. I’ll pay it off on my way out.” He drank down the rest of his beer and settled the glass back down on the bar. “And get me another one of those.”
Jane watched, amused, as he went to handle the body all on his own. She would have helped him - it was her intention to help him - but there was something funny about watching men work. They were all stubborn, even when they made bad decisions. Hell, show Jane a man who wasn’t stubborn, and she’d give up the lifestyle for good. But it was, at the very least, a decent enough sign that he wasn’t there to do her any harm. He couldn’t very well attack her while huffing and puffing under the weight of a carpet and a dead body. It was enough to settle her nerves, so she walked around to the front of the cart and placed her rifle in the driver’s seat just as the wood creaked under the weight of Roger’s corpse.
“It pays well enough, though I rarely see a dime for it,” she answered. “And laugh about the dresses all you want, but all that tells me is how short-sighted you are.” She came walking around to the back again, set in perpetual motion now that the stage was prepared for her next character. “I don’t buy anything I can take, and I don’t take anything I can’t use.” With a grunt, Jane pulled a bag out from between some heavy rugs and withdrew from it -
-- another dress. As she tugged it down the length of her body, she continued: “Luckily for me, everything has its use, so everything I take. I’ve even snatched someone’s dining table before. Chairs too.” The dress fit perfectly over the black fitted clothing she was already wearing, as if it had been designed specifically for that very purpose. It was relatively simple - no bells and whistles, and certainly nothing a wealthy person would be caught dead wearing. She knelt and cupped dirt into the palms of her hands then sprinkled it along her skirt to dress it down even further. “Not that I had need for the table itself, but I was able to sell it for cheap and mail the money to an orphanage in California.”
Jane released her hair from the bun she’d had it in and gave her head a good shake to make it look wind-blown. From her costume bag, she withdrew a small tin of dark gray powder. Jane dabbed her ring finger into it, then tapped the powder under her eyes. “Anyway,” she said as she worked, “in most circumstances, my name is Jane. But tonight, I’m Georgina Weatherby, the perpetually-exhausted carpet sales-widow. You want to make two hundred dollars, mister?” she asked, closing the tin and facing him fully now that her costume was in order. “Two hundred for tonight, and maybe a few thousand in a couple of days? Robbery is always more lucrative with an accomplice, and more exciting with shenanigans. All you have to do is close their front door for me, then join me on my drive to O’Creagh’s Run.”
Margaret Sutton had been a naughty, naughty girl - or so the law liked to say. It tickled Ruby pink how terrified this god-forsaken country was of a disobedient woman who refused to be owned. And it hadn’t been that difficult either, finding out about little Miss Sutton’s particular brand of disobedience. It had been a matter of seeing her wanted poster and doing a little digging around - if it could even be called digging. Most of Miss Sutton’s life had been laid out on the surface. She’d been a simple farming girl from a simple farming family, and she’d killed her husband. Basic, boring, and run-of-the-mill stuff.
That should have been enough for Ruby to go off of, but it never was. There was something thrilling to her about unlocking the little secrets. It made her feel powerful. She always wanted to dig deeper, always wanted to understand the why. Of course, she already knew why; undoubtedly, the man had been intolerably abusive, as was usually the case when a woman murdered her own husband. But what, precisely, had been the finer details? What were the motivating and mitigating factors?
What could she find to exploit?
As Ruby had soon come to discover over the course of her investigation into Margaret Sutton, there was plenty - and all found within a singular role: a sister, dead by suicide, and previously engaged to the same man Margaret soon after married. Intriguing. Ruby couldn’t have cared less about circling the rumor mill after that; she wanted to get the rest right from the source. She wanted to see the look in Miss Sutton’s eyes when Ruby mentioned that dear, darling, dead sibling.
Anything for that look.
And the best part of it? Ruby had it on pretty good authority (a little rat masquerading as a deputy) that Miss Sutton was being transported to another county on a very specific day, at a very specific time - and taking a very specific route. It was almost as if everything had lined up perfectly for Ruby. A little too perfectly, she’d noticed - but nothing ventured, nothing gained. And so when the time presented itself for her to wait atop a hill for a lawman’s wagon to come rolling through the valley below, she didn’t hesitate. Nor did she hesitate to pull the trigger.
The gunfire spooked his horses, but they didn’t barrel off. Good. Ruby would have killed them too, if she had to - but she’d rather not waste the ammunition. She returned her sniper rifle to its spot on her Shire’s saddle and said to him, “C’mon, LaFayette - let’s go meet our new friend.” She drove down the hill at a full and steady gallop, her horse kicking up dirt and grass as it barrelled onward. They slowed to a trot a few meters away from the wagon before stopping altogether. Ruby dismounted and approached.
“Good evenin’, ma’am,” she drawled, speaking loudly so as to be heard over the spooked horses’ whinnying and stomping. “You must be Margaret Sutton. Don’t you worry none - I ain’t here to cause you no harm. The name’s Ruby.” Upon reaching the wagon, she palmed at an interior pocket of her leather duster and withdrew a lockpick from its depths. “I’m in the business of rescuin’ damsels such as yourself from these vicious bastards of the law. Now you just hold on tight while I get that door open for you.” With a click, the lock came undone. Ruby swung the door open, and Margaret was once again a free woman.
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