SpectreN7
Renegade For Life
Yo!
Spectre here, taking a break from being a shadow agent protecting the galaxy, and looking for some roleplay partners. Nice to meet ya.
Lately, I've been on a samurai kick, and would love to write a roleplay based in Japan. I have two characters I want to flesh out: a Yakuza member (modern-based) and samurai/possible ronin (Feudal Japan). Sheets for these guys are provided below. While I may have some very rough plot bunnies and ideas for them, the intention is to build a plot around both of our characters; so please come at me with an idea of who you want to play! I don't require extensive character sheets: I'm just asking for the general vibe of the sort of character you'd be interested in writing opposite of mine. Also, both of these boys can be paired against both men and women.
Before I introduce my characters, here's what you can expect from me:
A Bit About Me As A Writer:
- I adore detailed posts, though I also believe in quality over quantity. My average sits around 300-500 words, though I’ve been known to go double that, depending on the scene and number of characters involved. I don't expect my partner match; post what comes naturally to the scene.
- I can promise around 2 posts a week. Sometimes I can fit in more; just depends on the day. I'm a patient partner, and will never pressure you for a reply.
- OOC communication is encouraged! I want to make sure we’re both comfortable and having fun in the roleplay.
- I enjoy romance, but characters must have chemistry. I have a preference for writing males, but can also write females as side characters; pairings will depend on the sexuality of the characters involved.
- I am over 21, and would prefer to write with others over the age of 18.
- If Interested In Writing With Me: Please send me a PM with a writing sample and your ideas/interests.
My Characters:
THE RONIN OF KABUKICHO
"I love the smell of gasoline; I light the match to taste the heat."
Name: Miyamoto Akira
{Born Satake Akira}Age: 32
Birthday: November Fifth
Family:
- Miyamoto Aiko (Twin Brother)
- Satake Akane & Toru (Birth Parents -- Deceased)
- Miyamoto Masaru (Adoptive Father -- Deceased)
Height: 6'1"
Build: Lean Frame, Muscular Build
Eye Color: Storm Grey
Hair Color: Black
Notable Scars:
- Small scar over his left eyebrow.
- Gash across his right set of ribs.
Akira and Aiko don't remember life before the orphanage. Their birth parents -- outspoken opponents of the local criminal syndicate -- were murdered in their home, leaving their two sons in the hands of the state. From then on, it was the brothers against the world.
The lifestyle their forgotten progenitors fought so hard against came easily to the twins; they were clever, tough, and well-versed in survival. By the time they were young teens, they were ingrained in the criminal underground of Shinjuku, mostly taking part in streetfights; it was during one of these events that they met Miyamoto Masaru.
At the time, Masaru was the second-in-command of the Miyamoto-Kai, one of the largest criminal families in Japan, operating out of Tokyo. Impressed with the brothers' prowess, skill, and sharp minds, he took them under his wing, and inducted them into not only his criminal family, but also his personal one; Akira and Aiko took his surname with pride, and quickly rose through the ranks, along with their adoptive father, who became the kumicho: boss of the family.
In recent years, a war has broken out over the seat of the Miyamoto-kai: Kabukicho. With Masaru murdered by the rival Yakuza family vying for their turf, leadership has been thrust into the hands of his oldest (by a few minutes) adopted son, Aiko.
Serving as his brother's second-in-command and earning a reputation as his ruthless enforcer, Akira is raging a war on the streets of Japan, hell-bent on revenge.
Plot Bunnies & Suggestions For Your Character:
- A character related to the rival family's boss, who ends up captured by the Miyamoto-Kai. While treated (relatively) well, he/she is still a hostage being looked after by Akira.
- A fellow Yakuza member, who perhaps was a childhood friend of Akira?
- A civilian -- a reporter, private investigator, law enforcement, ect. -- who somehow has been wronged by the rival family; they must get in bed with the Miyamoto-Kai to go after the greater evil.
- A tattoo artist (who did Akira's), restaurant owner, doctor/nurse, flower shop keeper (Akira goes in regularly to buy flowers for his parents' graves), or some other civilian, who has built a rapport with Akira; their friendship is jeopardized when the war breaks out.
- Zombie apocalypse in Japan? Akira is organizing the Yakuza to defend survivors in their headquarters, but with the city overrun, escape is the only option.
Writing Samples:
Formatting did not transfer with these samples, and I’m honestly too lazy to go back and fix it all. I apologize in advance, but promise that my posts will look better.
Fifty-seven.
Maverick had been counting. Not consciously, not deliberately, but somewhere in his mind something was keeping a tally, and with each added mark, he felt the burning underneath his skin intensify.
He lifted his hardened gaze from the counter to the picture that hung behind the bar, staring holes into the image as if it could conjure answers. The frame was wooden and carved, and held lovingly a photograph taken a few years back. He was in it with his dark brown hair trimmed, jaw clean shaven, and dressed in the uniform of the Navy. He was flanked by two others: on his left, the honey blond, blue-eyed, spitting image of a Viking named Leo, who, much like his name implied, had a mane of hair and massive beard that gave him the appearance of a lion, and on his right, the spitting image of Maverick himself with a bit more age, and a longer beard.
The chiseled image of his brother, whose green eyes shined with laughter, made his stomach turn, and his fingers twitch. He hadn't heard that sound for fifty-seven days.
"Damn," he groaned, tugging at his beard-which now was only trimmed enough so it couldn't easily be grabbed-as if he were trying to rip it from his jaw.
He had to get out of here.
Tugging the bomber jacket flung over the back of his chair free, the giant, muscled, tattooed ex-soldier clambered outside the bar without so much as a word, and just started walking at a brisk pace. He didn't know where he was going; he just knew that sitting still had been getting to him. And with the anger behind his feet, people parted out of his way like the Red Sea. Or perhaps it was the perpetual scowl in his eyes, the way he marched with a defined military step, or a combination of everything that made him seem like a guy just asking for a bullet.
About half an hour later, he had wandered into a marketplace, which, due to the late time in the evening, wasn't as alive as he assumed it would be during the day. It was still noisy, however, as the city often was; he could hear cars on the street over, yelling from a floor of a building above him, and the chitchat of the merchants between the lines of tented stalls. It was a welcomed reprieve; quiet left him alone with his boiling thoughts.
He looked up at the darkened sky, taking a moment just to breathe. It was winter in the city, and each time he exhaled, the discarded air formed a shivering cloud of smoke.
When the tension finally relaxed in his shoulders as much as it could, given who he was, he began strolling through the stalls. He spotted a fruit vendor, and reached into his pocket. As he was pulling out a few bucks to pay for an apple, he felt it. Again.
It was like he was being watched; he knew that feeling on a first name basis, given his history. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, alarms triggered throughout his id, his senses went on high alert, and his body stiffened. Yet there was also a chill around him, running down his spine, and it wasn't the kind of cold produced from the weather. That he wasn't used to it. That he couldn't explain.
Unable to help himself, his head turned swiftly to scan the area behind him. Once more, nothing out of the ordinary was there. Though, as he stared motionless, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye: a sliver of a silhouette. But as he tried to focus on it, as he had foolishly tried to do many times before, he found nothing.
He was left standing and frozen with a bitter taste on his tongue, wondering if he was losing his mind.
"Sir?"
The merchant jolted him back to life, and with a shake of his head, Maverick took his change, stumbled off to lean against a wall, and bit into the apple, keeping watch on the spot where the sensation had occurred, and resenting the fact that he couldn't shake it.
Maverick had been counting. Not consciously, not deliberately, but somewhere in his mind something was keeping a tally, and with each added mark, he felt the burning underneath his skin intensify.
He lifted his hardened gaze from the counter to the picture that hung behind the bar, staring holes into the image as if it could conjure answers. The frame was wooden and carved, and held lovingly a photograph taken a few years back. He was in it with his dark brown hair trimmed, jaw clean shaven, and dressed in the uniform of the Navy. He was flanked by two others: on his left, the honey blond, blue-eyed, spitting image of a Viking named Leo, who, much like his name implied, had a mane of hair and massive beard that gave him the appearance of a lion, and on his right, the spitting image of Maverick himself with a bit more age, and a longer beard.
The chiseled image of his brother, whose green eyes shined with laughter, made his stomach turn, and his fingers twitch. He hadn't heard that sound for fifty-seven days.
"Damn," he groaned, tugging at his beard-which now was only trimmed enough so it couldn't easily be grabbed-as if he were trying to rip it from his jaw.
He had to get out of here.
Tugging the bomber jacket flung over the back of his chair free, the giant, muscled, tattooed ex-soldier clambered outside the bar without so much as a word, and just started walking at a brisk pace. He didn't know where he was going; he just knew that sitting still had been getting to him. And with the anger behind his feet, people parted out of his way like the Red Sea. Or perhaps it was the perpetual scowl in his eyes, the way he marched with a defined military step, or a combination of everything that made him seem like a guy just asking for a bullet.
About half an hour later, he had wandered into a marketplace, which, due to the late time in the evening, wasn't as alive as he assumed it would be during the day. It was still noisy, however, as the city often was; he could hear cars on the street over, yelling from a floor of a building above him, and the chitchat of the merchants between the lines of tented stalls. It was a welcomed reprieve; quiet left him alone with his boiling thoughts.
He looked up at the darkened sky, taking a moment just to breathe. It was winter in the city, and each time he exhaled, the discarded air formed a shivering cloud of smoke.
When the tension finally relaxed in his shoulders as much as it could, given who he was, he began strolling through the stalls. He spotted a fruit vendor, and reached into his pocket. As he was pulling out a few bucks to pay for an apple, he felt it. Again.
It was like he was being watched; he knew that feeling on a first name basis, given his history. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, alarms triggered throughout his id, his senses went on high alert, and his body stiffened. Yet there was also a chill around him, running down his spine, and it wasn't the kind of cold produced from the weather. That he wasn't used to it. That he couldn't explain.
Unable to help himself, his head turned swiftly to scan the area behind him. Once more, nothing out of the ordinary was there. Though, as he stared motionless, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye: a sliver of a silhouette. But as he tried to focus on it, as he had foolishly tried to do many times before, he found nothing.
He was left standing and frozen with a bitter taste on his tongue, wondering if he was losing his mind.
"Sir?"
The merchant jolted him back to life, and with a shake of his head, Maverick took his change, stumbled off to lean against a wall, and bit into the apple, keeping watch on the spot where the sensation had occurred, and resenting the fact that he couldn't shake it.
It felt like a lifetime since he’d just stopped. Took a breath. Closed his eyes.
It pulled at Jaxon’s soul, an exhaustion that was more spiritual than physical. The consequence of living every moment in a fight, a struggle against the world, bruised knuckles pounding against the forces that’d keep him down, blood-coated teeth grinning in denial to be broken. There was pride in the battle, even if in the end it was hopeless, so deeply defining that he had painted it into his skin, but it was so tiring. And in the quiet, it begged the question: ‘was it worth it?’.
He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because of the arguing, the slamming, the muffled crying.
He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because of the pain that came in the aftermath of his mother’s death, the unheard pleas from a damaged boy that thought he was a man.
He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because of the sound of gunfire and war, and the fear that monsters were real, but they hid inside men instead of under beds. The fear that there was a monster inside him.
He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because he would wake up with wounds that had healed years before and a sweat-drenched brow, sometimes screaming and thrashing, wondering why God decided to leave him behind.
Tightening his arm around Kara’s waist, he breathed in her scent, took comfort in the sound of her soft voice, found sanctuary in her presence, and with a heavy exhalation of air, deemed it safe enough to let his guard down.
Paying in rest long overdue, his breathing and heartbeat slowed, and for the first time in years, his mind was silent.
It pulled at Jaxon’s soul, an exhaustion that was more spiritual than physical. The consequence of living every moment in a fight, a struggle against the world, bruised knuckles pounding against the forces that’d keep him down, blood-coated teeth grinning in denial to be broken. There was pride in the battle, even if in the end it was hopeless, so deeply defining that he had painted it into his skin, but it was so tiring. And in the quiet, it begged the question: ‘was it worth it?’.
He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because of the arguing, the slamming, the muffled crying.
He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because of the pain that came in the aftermath of his mother’s death, the unheard pleas from a damaged boy that thought he was a man.
He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because of the sound of gunfire and war, and the fear that monsters were real, but they hid inside men instead of under beds. The fear that there was a monster inside him.
He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because he would wake up with wounds that had healed years before and a sweat-drenched brow, sometimes screaming and thrashing, wondering why God decided to leave him behind.
Tightening his arm around Kara’s waist, he breathed in her scent, took comfort in the sound of her soft voice, found sanctuary in her presence, and with a heavy exhalation of air, deemed it safe enough to let his guard down.
Paying in rest long overdue, his breathing and heartbeat slowed, and for the first time in years, his mind was silent.
He smelled burning smoke, faint, yet the scent was strong, and underlined with another more tainted and vile. Shifting his jaw (not out of revulsion), he slightly parted his lips, and let the air sink into his mouth, so he could taste the bitter ash on his tongue to confirm--even if he already knew--what was near. A grunt rumbled from his throat, before he subtly cast a glance out of the corner of his single, visible, pale blue eye (the other of which was covered by a patch) to examine the wall mirror within the corner of the room.
He saw what he one might expect to see at a royal party such as the likes of this: well-dressed women and men, dancing and laughing, parading around the ballroom in which he stood on the edge of, pockets of the people taking up post to talk and gossip, and a few wary, yet interested gazes thrown in his direction, which, if he cared enough to, he could pick up their whispered conversations of the savage within their King's walls. But all that hardly interested him at all.
His attention was stolen by the specter reflected back at him in the silver surface of the mirror: a woman in her twenties with a simple dress singed to pieces, exposing bits of her blackened skin. Her eyes were hollow sockets of coal, and smoke rose from her form like she was a dying fire, minutes away from fading into oblivion. And he had no time nor patience to deal with a wraith, and no fondness for the stench of burnt flesh.
Jack Walker had always been sensitive--or as his father had described it, cursed and marked by the devil--to the other side, the great darkness that stretched motionless between time. He had seen things that no living man should see, and bore scars on his muscular body from lingering spirits' wrath from when he was young and green, possessing no knowledge of how to deal with such things.
Lifting his bearded chin, his eye bore into the stare of the specter's, challenging in the calmest of ways, yet threatening the might of a storm should it push him. To stare into an abyss of hate and pain, one must be carved from immovable stone, and just as empty.
I have no fear for you to feed from, thing.
The words not only resonated unspoken within his mind, but also within the stance of his body: back and shoulders kept straight as an arrow, hefting him to his frightening full height, and left, gloved hand kept clutched at his belt, near the hilt of the silver-lined dagger hidden beneath the black overcoat he wore, which also concealed the tribal-like markings that covered his body.
And should you try, I will send you to a place worse than Hell.
He had been given to the Silver Order out of fear as a boy, by a desperate leech that could barely call itself a man, nonetheless his father, and the hunters of darkness had taught him how to commune with the same powers he now fought against, to fight fire with fire. Jack had taken quickly to it, perhaps at a frightening pace, but that was what made him valuable to the Order: his innate penchant for violence.
The charred outline of the wraith vanished from his view in response to his warning, collapsing in on itself in a pillar of sudden, bright flame, and leaving behind a puff of dark smoke only visible to those touched with the same curse. Soon, the smell of burnt flesh faded from underneath his nose, and Jack grunted once more in satisfaction. Lifting the top hat held against his side by his right hand, he settled it upon his head, before turning swiftly to exit the zoo of upright-walking animals.
He held just as little patience for the living as he did the dead, particularly those that lived locked inside gilded cages, blinded by choice to the chaos that ate away at the bars keeping them captive. If he had it his way, he would not be here, but the superiors above him within the Order would not pass up the opportunity to gain backing from the Crown, not with the visions plaguing their Grand Master. With a threat on the horizon, Jack preferred to close ranks, but his disagreements with the hierarchy had distinguished him from others of his kind.
One might ask why the Order had sent a lone wolf into a den of sheep. Uncouthly shoving past a few other guests, who muttered in disapproval under their breathes, Jack made his way toward the side entrance of the palace, and his gaze fell upon the answer. Due to the color of his skin, Abbot Deming, Jack's mentor and partner for many years, could not move around unnoticed as easily as he could.
"The place has a few lingerers," Jack spoke, his voice a low, both in volume and tone, rumble, once he had reached Abbot, and made sure no one was eavesdropping. "But they warrant no attention. The envoy is waiting for us on the second floor balcony."
He saw what he one might expect to see at a royal party such as the likes of this: well-dressed women and men, dancing and laughing, parading around the ballroom in which he stood on the edge of, pockets of the people taking up post to talk and gossip, and a few wary, yet interested gazes thrown in his direction, which, if he cared enough to, he could pick up their whispered conversations of the savage within their King's walls. But all that hardly interested him at all.
His attention was stolen by the specter reflected back at him in the silver surface of the mirror: a woman in her twenties with a simple dress singed to pieces, exposing bits of her blackened skin. Her eyes were hollow sockets of coal, and smoke rose from her form like she was a dying fire, minutes away from fading into oblivion. And he had no time nor patience to deal with a wraith, and no fondness for the stench of burnt flesh.
Jack Walker had always been sensitive--or as his father had described it, cursed and marked by the devil--to the other side, the great darkness that stretched motionless between time. He had seen things that no living man should see, and bore scars on his muscular body from lingering spirits' wrath from when he was young and green, possessing no knowledge of how to deal with such things.
Lifting his bearded chin, his eye bore into the stare of the specter's, challenging in the calmest of ways, yet threatening the might of a storm should it push him. To stare into an abyss of hate and pain, one must be carved from immovable stone, and just as empty.
I have no fear for you to feed from, thing.
The words not only resonated unspoken within his mind, but also within the stance of his body: back and shoulders kept straight as an arrow, hefting him to his frightening full height, and left, gloved hand kept clutched at his belt, near the hilt of the silver-lined dagger hidden beneath the black overcoat he wore, which also concealed the tribal-like markings that covered his body.
And should you try, I will send you to a place worse than Hell.
He had been given to the Silver Order out of fear as a boy, by a desperate leech that could barely call itself a man, nonetheless his father, and the hunters of darkness had taught him how to commune with the same powers he now fought against, to fight fire with fire. Jack had taken quickly to it, perhaps at a frightening pace, but that was what made him valuable to the Order: his innate penchant for violence.
The charred outline of the wraith vanished from his view in response to his warning, collapsing in on itself in a pillar of sudden, bright flame, and leaving behind a puff of dark smoke only visible to those touched with the same curse. Soon, the smell of burnt flesh faded from underneath his nose, and Jack grunted once more in satisfaction. Lifting the top hat held against his side by his right hand, he settled it upon his head, before turning swiftly to exit the zoo of upright-walking animals.
He held just as little patience for the living as he did the dead, particularly those that lived locked inside gilded cages, blinded by choice to the chaos that ate away at the bars keeping them captive. If he had it his way, he would not be here, but the superiors above him within the Order would not pass up the opportunity to gain backing from the Crown, not with the visions plaguing their Grand Master. With a threat on the horizon, Jack preferred to close ranks, but his disagreements with the hierarchy had distinguished him from others of his kind.
One might ask why the Order had sent a lone wolf into a den of sheep. Uncouthly shoving past a few other guests, who muttered in disapproval under their breathes, Jack made his way toward the side entrance of the palace, and his gaze fell upon the answer. Due to the color of his skin, Abbot Deming, Jack's mentor and partner for many years, could not move around unnoticed as easily as he could.
"The place has a few lingerers," Jack spoke, his voice a low, both in volume and tone, rumble, once he had reached Abbot, and made sure no one was eavesdropping. "But they warrant no attention. The envoy is waiting for us on the second floor balcony."
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