Sisyphus26
New Member
Hii!! My name is Sisy!! I’m an 18-year-old high school senior with a strong passion for all forms of art, but particularly writing and the performing arts. My music taste is all over the place, but my most consistent enjoyment comes from the orchestral pop genre and artists such as Cojum Dip and Miracle Musical (Not Tally Hall, though. Yes, I know that CD and MM are TH side projects, but I just can’t get behind TH’s music for some reason.) I play a ton of Dungeons and Dragons, and my favorite content creators on Youtube are Game Grumps and Coryxkenshin. If that doesn’t describe my sense of humor, then I don’t know what does. I’m working on my own novel, and I’m hoping I can get that done before I graduate.
When it comes to writing, I’m a long-term novella RPer. Depending on my partner’s posts, my shortest posts are around 1500 words, and my longest, 7000-ish? It depends on the circumstances, but I typically like to match or exceed my partner’s post’s word count. As for what I hope to receive, I expect my partner to either slightly fall short of, match, or exceed my post’s word counts. Quality is important too! Of course, I don’t mind spelling errors or grammar mistakes, but I love flowery language and descriptions. When I say long-term, to be entirely honest, I’m not entirely sure of my own expectations. I’ve started long-term roleplays before, but they seem to peter out after a few months. I don’t want that to happen! If I’m going to roleplay with someone, I want them to commit, and match my enthusiasm with our story. Which is why I want both my partner and I to have an equal hand in constructing the story, arcs, character dynamics, etc. This doesn’t mean that I don’t love surprises and plot twists, because I do!! Not everything has to be planned beforehand, and I love the drama of a good unexpected event or twist.
Probably one of my most important criteria in a RP partner: this isn’t some sort of business arrangement! This is supposed to be a fun cooperative writing experience! Think of it as watching a show or playing a game you enjoy. I want you to get invested– talk to me about what you like, what you don’t like, geek out if you want to! I’m all down for (FREAKING OUT IN PARENTHESIS AT A SUDDEN PLOT TWIST!!!) It makes it so much easier and less stressful for me, since frankly, it’s really nerve-wracking to send people my writing! Fair warning, most of my roleplays are romance-based. So expect some sauce, I guess. Not sure what sauce would mean in this context, but whatevs. Also, I'm far more likely to RP with women. It's just a preference I have.
What I Expect Of My Partners
Please be aged 18 to ~30. Use your own moral principles to figure out if it’s acceptable for anyone above the age of 30 to be roleplaying a romance with an 18 year old.
Be committed! Don’t go into this expecting something short-term, because it’s not.
Please no ghosting
Respect. Respect me, respect my writing, and respect my characters. If you do so, I will respect you in turn.
Communication!!!! If you’re not enjoying our RP, or want to cut it off, tell me!!! Communication is key. Tell me what you like and don’t like!
Match my freak for the love of god (I say some weird shit, so feel free to let loose and say whatever within reason)
I better not catch you being homophobic, transphobic, racist, sexist, or bigoted in any way, shape, or form. I’ll get you istg don’t make me get the spray bottle
Must be comfortable with potentially sensitive subjects such as sexuality, gender, societal norms, and various forms of trauma. These subjects will never be the focus of an RP, but they will likely come up. Such is the nature of my writing and my characters.
Consistency!! I expect at least one post a week. I write at damn near the speed of light– I can almost guarantee you’ll get a reply within one-two days of your post. I don’t expect you to do the same, but I don’t want to be kept waiting for more than a week, especially if I drop everything to prioritize writing for you. I love rapid fire too!! (Obviously, if there are extenuating circumstances, I’m happy to wait longer. Real life takes priority over an RP.)
We will discuss no-nos, triggers, etc. before we RP.
What To Expect From Me
If there’s one thing to expect from me, it’s consistency. If I don’t post within a week, then there must be some extenuating circumstances. If you like quick responses, I’m the person for that!
Queer characters. I am queer myself, and I often put that aspect of myself into my characters.
I am 100% down for playing multiple characters at once!
Quality. I’m good at balancing quality and quantity; expect some damn good writing from me. Though, bear in mind, I write from personal experience, and there are definitely some things that I am not experienced in.
Everything I expect from you!
Stuff I Love
Action/Adventure mixed with Romance. Having a conduit for a romance makes it feel so much more natural to me!
Contrasting characters. If our characters have nothing in common, it creates openings for them to learn and develop because of each other.
Queer romance.
Character arcs!!! I absolutely ADORE seeing how characters develop over time because of their experiences, especially if it's because of another character.
Tenderness + Angst (GRAHHH)
Enemies to lovers!!! No explanation needed!
PINING UGHHH
Characters with nuance and dimension. If you’re playing as a blank, one-dimensional archetype, I will get so bored.
Stuff I DON’T Love
Love at first sight. It doesn’t feel earned, y’know? They gotta pine for each other first!
School settings. Not sure why, they just feel kinda generic. There are exceptions for certain situations, though
Fandom RP. I’m too worried about portraying a character or world wrong to be comfortable writing in that sort of setting.
RPs based on subjects that are a little TOO real. This applies to subjects such as real-world wars, racism, sexism, r*pe, etc. There are exceptions, but these subjects must be handled with the utmost care and taste if brought up.
One-dimensional characters.
Toxic/dark romances. I just can't get behind it, I'm sorry
Some of My Characters
It’s so hard to fit these guys into short descriptions!! I have so many characters, but these are just a few. If you ask, I will provide you with a list of all of my characters!! Unless stated otherwise, these characters can be any sexuality.
Aesther– A young artist forced into the wrong archetype after a freak accident molded him into a “hero.” A bit awkward, clever, and strictly asexual.
Beau– A noble lord with probably the largest stick up his ass anyone’s ever seen. Put bluntly, an absolute prick, but if one puts in the effort, they will find that he’s not as bad as he makes himself out to be. (One of the best choices for an enemies to lovers plot.)
Celeste– The cold, calculating general with a face as mysterious as the rest of her personality. She is never seen without her featureless, porcelain mask. Strictly a lesbian, and often portrayed as being capable of manipulating electricity.
Silas– A blue-skinned, white-haired pirate with a penchant for the violin. One of my sassiest characters, often portrayed as a mage, and one of the most charming thieves you’ll ever meet. (Great for a possible “shanghai’d” plot!)
Andri– She’s not the smartest, but she’s the sweetest soldier you’ve ever seen! (Who can also throw you like a sack of potatoes.) She loves animals, metalwork, and could work very well for a more political plot.
A Lil Taste
Of course, you wouldn’t want to commit to me without seeing a touch of my writing. So here’s a couple of samples, starring Aesther and a teenage Silas.
When one gazes at a painting, one only perceives a scene. A portrait, a landscape, or something abstract, but one thing is always certain about a painting; it is a moment frozen in time, a concurrent reality. Suppose one were to look a little closer. Then they would see the finer details of the painting; the individual brush strokes, a tiny smile playing on the subject's lips, even the mistakes that the artist made. Mistakes were what artists dreaded the most. They could be seen as messy, or worse, the meaning of their work could be misconstrued because of one measly brushstroke out of place. A portrait of a woman gazing at her reflection in the mirror appreciatively could be a portrait of unfound vanity. A scene of a marsh could become a depiction of Hell.
One such mistake could be spotted in Familial Fragments. Despite being a simple landscape painting of a ruined homestead in a sunset-bathed forest, the story behind it made it special. Down the center of the canvas was a crack; a crack that split it in twain. Both halves of the painting were displayed next to each other, creating a cohesive whole, as one half was nothing without the other. Why couldn't the artist weld the two pieces back together again? For the painting didn't tell the story; the crack did.
But why couldn't the painting be enough on his own? Why did the destruction of such a beautiful thing have to be the only thing that gave him meaning?
There was a giant in the woods.
That was what the rumors were saying, at least-- A hill giant; the least threatening of them all. It was also the only kind of giant that would show up around this area, alongside three children stacked on each other's shoulders declaring “Fee, fi, fo, fum.”
Aesther didn't buy it. There had been many issues in the past with kids wandering around in frighteningly well-made costumes and terrorizing locals. It had become a “boy who cried wolf” situation. The rest of the village may have still believed that there were giants about, but Aesther knew better than to let these kids trick him thrice.
When Elaheh told him that it was dangerous to go out to finish his painting, he ignored the advice, lightheartedly chuckling while saying “If I get accosted by three infants in a trenchcoat, then I'll make sure to topple them over like so many giants before them.” Despite his protests, his sister forced him to carry their father's sword with him-- Just in case.
Thus, armed with an old sword that hadn't been touched in decades, a nearly complete canvas, and a bag full of paints and worn brushes, Aesther marched into the woods like he had been doing for months now. It was that time of day just before sunset when the sun began to burn more orange than yellow. He had planned to leave around this time so when he got to the site of his painting, it would be the perfect golden hour. It was always dark outside when he returned home. He had been lectured enough by Elaheh and Dariush about being out after dark that he simply didn't care– typical eighteen-year-old cynicism.
The weather was warm enough for Aesther to wear his favorite linen tunic. He thought it was fashionable; the way the collar dipped low, but was tied together with string. Days such as these were why he loved his hobby so much. Long walks outside in the golden hour, the gentle wind brushing his skin and filtering through his hair. He even discovered an old coin in a tree hole that he pocketed for safekeeping. He tried not to think about how Ebi was likely going to wake him up at the crack of dawn and try to force him to learn to sword fight again. No matter how many times he refused, Ebi was stubborn. Coming from Aesther, that was a statement and a half.
After about half of the hour had passed, the artist had made it to his site: his old family home. Well, he didn't want to say it was his. It was positively ancient. He couldn't even recall the names of the family members that built the place. All he remembered was what his mother told him; that they were all called off to war, and when they returned, all that remained was a pile of rocks. The thick foliage around him was unscathed, so he assumed it had been long enough for them to replace the ones that had been incinerated in the war.
Aesther took a moment to admire the scenery before taking a seat on the grass. He didn't have the money, means, or the need to purchase an easel, so his lap would have to do as a perch for his canvas. He delicately laid out his paint containers and brushes around him. If he moved, he would likely knock half of them over, but he would rather stay still than have to bend over a hundred times to grab a different brush.
With that, he got to work. He stared at the canvas, idly fingering the coin that he picked up earlier. He had already painted the surrounding area; the trees, the grass, the wildflowers. Now he had to paint the ruins. It was going to be difficult. Not just painting the shapes, no; but capturing the history and the essence of the place was the hardest part of being an artist. It wasn't about the colors, the fluidity of the shapes, or the length, or firmness of the brush strokes. It was about the intention. That was the part that Aesther struggled to master in his pieces. He could see and interpret his surroundings onto a canvas just fine… but pouring his emotions and his ancestry into the same colors and shapes was a task that he couldn't seem to grasp.
But he tried. Oh, gods, did he try.
And he tried for hours. Many compare painting with playing an instrument, saying that they're far too different to be in the same category of “art.” But as the tip of his brush flicked and stroked the canvas, his movements could be likened to a professional musician. Creating art with nothing more than what he was given– hands, sticks, and some colors. But it could be said that it was easier to breathe life into a piece of music than a painting. With skill, Aesther planned to create an image that brought tears to the viewer's eyes just like any moving song.
In the end, Aesther lowered his brush. He did not sigh in satisfaction, nor did he smile. He only looked down at the canvas, eyes scanning the filled material. There was barely enough light left in the day to do so. He tried to put himself into the mind of someone who was seeing it for the first time; someone who hadn't spent every waking moment thinking about this painting, dreaming about it being finished and perfect, his fingers aching to complete it. And he came to a conclusion; this wasn't a collection of colors and shapes. This image had a life– a personality, a story, a family; it loved, it lost, and it breathed like any human that Aesther would have spoken to before coming here today.
And the artist sighed, allowing a joyous grin to spread across his face. His ancestors, the ones who lived and died here long ago, finally had a memorial-- A proper funeral.
One such mistake could be spotted in Familial Fragments. Despite being a simple landscape painting of a ruined homestead in a sunset-bathed forest, the story behind it made it special. Down the center of the canvas was a crack; a crack that split it in twain. Both halves of the painting were displayed next to each other, creating a cohesive whole, as one half was nothing without the other. Why couldn't the artist weld the two pieces back together again? For the painting didn't tell the story; the crack did.
But why couldn't the painting be enough on his own? Why did the destruction of such a beautiful thing have to be the only thing that gave him meaning?
There was a giant in the woods.
That was what the rumors were saying, at least-- A hill giant; the least threatening of them all. It was also the only kind of giant that would show up around this area, alongside three children stacked on each other's shoulders declaring “Fee, fi, fo, fum.”
Aesther didn't buy it. There had been many issues in the past with kids wandering around in frighteningly well-made costumes and terrorizing locals. It had become a “boy who cried wolf” situation. The rest of the village may have still believed that there were giants about, but Aesther knew better than to let these kids trick him thrice.
When Elaheh told him that it was dangerous to go out to finish his painting, he ignored the advice, lightheartedly chuckling while saying “If I get accosted by three infants in a trenchcoat, then I'll make sure to topple them over like so many giants before them.” Despite his protests, his sister forced him to carry their father's sword with him-- Just in case.
Thus, armed with an old sword that hadn't been touched in decades, a nearly complete canvas, and a bag full of paints and worn brushes, Aesther marched into the woods like he had been doing for months now. It was that time of day just before sunset when the sun began to burn more orange than yellow. He had planned to leave around this time so when he got to the site of his painting, it would be the perfect golden hour. It was always dark outside when he returned home. He had been lectured enough by Elaheh and Dariush about being out after dark that he simply didn't care– typical eighteen-year-old cynicism.
The weather was warm enough for Aesther to wear his favorite linen tunic. He thought it was fashionable; the way the collar dipped low, but was tied together with string. Days such as these were why he loved his hobby so much. Long walks outside in the golden hour, the gentle wind brushing his skin and filtering through his hair. He even discovered an old coin in a tree hole that he pocketed for safekeeping. He tried not to think about how Ebi was likely going to wake him up at the crack of dawn and try to force him to learn to sword fight again. No matter how many times he refused, Ebi was stubborn. Coming from Aesther, that was a statement and a half.
After about half of the hour had passed, the artist had made it to his site: his old family home. Well, he didn't want to say it was his. It was positively ancient. He couldn't even recall the names of the family members that built the place. All he remembered was what his mother told him; that they were all called off to war, and when they returned, all that remained was a pile of rocks. The thick foliage around him was unscathed, so he assumed it had been long enough for them to replace the ones that had been incinerated in the war.
Aesther took a moment to admire the scenery before taking a seat on the grass. He didn't have the money, means, or the need to purchase an easel, so his lap would have to do as a perch for his canvas. He delicately laid out his paint containers and brushes around him. If he moved, he would likely knock half of them over, but he would rather stay still than have to bend over a hundred times to grab a different brush.
With that, he got to work. He stared at the canvas, idly fingering the coin that he picked up earlier. He had already painted the surrounding area; the trees, the grass, the wildflowers. Now he had to paint the ruins. It was going to be difficult. Not just painting the shapes, no; but capturing the history and the essence of the place was the hardest part of being an artist. It wasn't about the colors, the fluidity of the shapes, or the length, or firmness of the brush strokes. It was about the intention. That was the part that Aesther struggled to master in his pieces. He could see and interpret his surroundings onto a canvas just fine… but pouring his emotions and his ancestry into the same colors and shapes was a task that he couldn't seem to grasp.
But he tried. Oh, gods, did he try.
And he tried for hours. Many compare painting with playing an instrument, saying that they're far too different to be in the same category of “art.” But as the tip of his brush flicked and stroked the canvas, his movements could be likened to a professional musician. Creating art with nothing more than what he was given– hands, sticks, and some colors. But it could be said that it was easier to breathe life into a piece of music than a painting. With skill, Aesther planned to create an image that brought tears to the viewer's eyes just like any moving song.
In the end, Aesther lowered his brush. He did not sigh in satisfaction, nor did he smile. He only looked down at the canvas, eyes scanning the filled material. There was barely enough light left in the day to do so. He tried to put himself into the mind of someone who was seeing it for the first time; someone who hadn't spent every waking moment thinking about this painting, dreaming about it being finished and perfect, his fingers aching to complete it. And he came to a conclusion; this wasn't a collection of colors and shapes. This image had a life– a personality, a story, a family; it loved, it lost, and it breathed like any human that Aesther would have spoken to before coming here today.
And the artist sighed, allowing a joyous grin to spread across his face. His ancestors, the ones who lived and died here long ago, finally had a memorial-- A proper funeral.
“Listen, O listen for the poor boy’s fiddle
Its weaving and whining, the music’s spindle
Bound to make the wealthy man bristle
And become the poor boy’s mus-ed kindle.”
The collective, rhythmic sounds of boots slamming onto a wooden floor permeated the tavern’s space, conveying the joyous atmosphere of the moment. At the center of it all, perched atop a stained table, was a lithe boy no older than fifteen. He had an appearance that one would consider strange if they were a foreigner, but to the people of Portfil, he was rather commonplace. Steel-blue skin, stark white eyes lacking pupils, and a pair of horns accompanied by a devilish tail. He launched into an earworm of a chorus, skilled fingers manipulating the instrument with ease.
“Rise up, my friends, and listen well
For the poor boy’s fiddle weaves a spell
Leave stomping feet to drown out the knell
And the poor boy’s fate to soon be befell.”
There was something beautiful about a lively tavern. Sure, it wasn’t typically the cleanest of places, especially during the evenings, but there was a sense of companionship that one could find nowhere else. That, along with the promise of a free meal and a share of the coins he gathered, was what drew Silas to perform at the Spiffy Seahorse Bar and Inn. It was certainly not spiffy– quite the opposite, actually– but it was what Silas considered his home away from home.
But he felt that his performances were always over far too quickly. Before he knew it, he was taking a shallow bow and allowing the smattering of applause in the room to wash over him before energetically leaping off of the table he stood upon. The buzz of activity filled the room soon after; boisterous laughter, conversation, and the sounds of exchanging coins due to card games lost and won.
The boy retrieved his small cup from just below the table and peered inside. Two gold coins. He beamed– incredible! Normally he yielded a small amount of silver, and that was on a good day. Silas tipped the cup into his hand and reveled in the sound of the coins clinking together. He then bounced toward the bar, where the innkeep stood waiting for her portion.
The innkeep, a rough-looking human woman of about forty, extended a calloused hand over the bar without a word. Silas, still beaming a toothy grin, placed one of the gold coins into her waiting palm. The innkeep glanced down, raised an eyebrow, and scoffed lightly before haphazardly dropping the coin into the pocket on her stained apron.
Silas turned and glanced out the window, only to find that the sun had set, and the lanterns outside had been lit. The boy winced. Mother was surely going to lay into him when he got home.
Its weaving and whining, the music’s spindle
Bound to make the wealthy man bristle
And become the poor boy’s mus-ed kindle.”
The collective, rhythmic sounds of boots slamming onto a wooden floor permeated the tavern’s space, conveying the joyous atmosphere of the moment. At the center of it all, perched atop a stained table, was a lithe boy no older than fifteen. He had an appearance that one would consider strange if they were a foreigner, but to the people of Portfil, he was rather commonplace. Steel-blue skin, stark white eyes lacking pupils, and a pair of horns accompanied by a devilish tail. He launched into an earworm of a chorus, skilled fingers manipulating the instrument with ease.
“Rise up, my friends, and listen well
For the poor boy’s fiddle weaves a spell
Leave stomping feet to drown out the knell
And the poor boy’s fate to soon be befell.”
There was something beautiful about a lively tavern. Sure, it wasn’t typically the cleanest of places, especially during the evenings, but there was a sense of companionship that one could find nowhere else. That, along with the promise of a free meal and a share of the coins he gathered, was what drew Silas to perform at the Spiffy Seahorse Bar and Inn. It was certainly not spiffy– quite the opposite, actually– but it was what Silas considered his home away from home.
But he felt that his performances were always over far too quickly. Before he knew it, he was taking a shallow bow and allowing the smattering of applause in the room to wash over him before energetically leaping off of the table he stood upon. The buzz of activity filled the room soon after; boisterous laughter, conversation, and the sounds of exchanging coins due to card games lost and won.
The boy retrieved his small cup from just below the table and peered inside. Two gold coins. He beamed– incredible! Normally he yielded a small amount of silver, and that was on a good day. Silas tipped the cup into his hand and reveled in the sound of the coins clinking together. He then bounced toward the bar, where the innkeep stood waiting for her portion.
The innkeep, a rough-looking human woman of about forty, extended a calloused hand over the bar without a word. Silas, still beaming a toothy grin, placed one of the gold coins into her waiting palm. The innkeep glanced down, raised an eyebrow, and scoffed lightly before haphazardly dropping the coin into the pocket on her stained apron.
Silas turned and glanced out the window, only to find that the sun had set, and the lanterns outside had been lit. The boy winced. Mother was surely going to lay into him when he got home.
