Steise
New Member
Hello! My name is Steise. I've had a longish break from RPing and would like to get back into it. A little bit about me:
That's all, I think. PM me if you are interested!
- Been RPing for a while, and would describe myself as semi-lit/lit. It's mainly my post length that varies depending on the partner, but I'm usually good for 1-3 paragraphs at a time.
- Eastern US time zone
- I'm 27 years old, and ask that any partner be over the age of 18.
- I work fulltime teaching, but I can usually manage responses 1-3 times a week, depending on how busy life is.
- I can RP any gender comfortably, but do have a preference for female.
- I'm fine playing one character or multiple, but I do have a habit of throwing in extra characters for interest/plot reasons.
- I don't do fandom stuff. I only do original characters/plots. If your character is/is heavily based off of a fandom character, idc though.
- I don't have any particular triggers and I'm comfortable writing more intense/darker stuff.
- Regarding romance specifically: I only write MxF pairings, and prefer romance as a side-plot in addition to the main plot. I also won't write smut. I'm more comfy with fade-to-black type stuff if things start to get heavy sexually.
- I love fantasy, sci-fi, dystopian, and apocalyptic. I also love blending all of the aforementioned genres. High/low or time period doesn't matter to me as much.
- I'm OOC-friendly and would love to discuss ideas around our plots/characters.
- I will not be offended if you don't want to RP with me anymore, but please tell me. Please don't ghost, because I do get really excited and invested.
- Fantasy
- Shapeshifters - preference for a modern or futuristic time period, but I'm flexible. I do have a plot related to this one, BUT I am very open to any plots you might have as well. Just let me know!
- Fae - any time period
- Mythical/folk creatures/beings
- Gifted, people with powers type stuffs
- Shapeshifters - preference for a modern or futuristic time period, but I'm flexible. I do have a plot related to this one, BUT I am very open to any plots you might have as well. Just let me know!
- Sci-Fi
- Aliens/space exploration
- Cyborgs
- Definitely Unethical Experiments
- Dystopian
- Some funky amalgamation of the above.
The boy stood in the center of a growing crowd. He was scrawny, and at fifteen, he looked even younger. His skin seemed stretched taught over the bones therein, and it only appeared tighter around his wrists and hands, where he gripped a short sword. Him holding the weapon made for an incongruous picture, which did not go unnoticed by the crowd about him. He licked his lips. A bead of sweat streaked down his temple and over his cheek. His hand shook, but he held the recently acquired blade level with the merchant who had so forcefully torn at his shirt. Even now, the cloth that had once covered his chest fluttered limply to the side. The gap revealed a striking mark on his dark chest, and all eyes were drawn to it. The boy perspired under the heat of their gazes. Their was no sympathy here, and the only sort of salvation they would offer him might be death.
“Boy!” The gruff voice resonated off the closely constructed building around him.Startled, the boy whipped his head in the direction of the speaker. His wide eyes searched the crowd with ever increasing anxiety. To the left of the crowd stood a soldier, his hand already reaching for his sword. There would be no salvation there either.
“Sir,” the boy nodded. He managed not to stammer over his words, but the fear in them could not be concealed. His knees shook beneath him. He tried not to turn too much toward the man; the young fellow was not sure that the soldier had seen the mark on his chest. The longer he could conceal the fact, the better his chances were at escaping. He needed all the chances he could get.
“Put down the weapon! What is the meaning of this?” the soldier demanded.
The boy looked at the soldier and then at the crowd. No, he would not be putting the sword down any time soon. But before he could even answer, the crowd did it for him. All at once, their stunned silence from the initial moment he had grabbed the sword dissolved. They began to shout, only bits of phrases distinguishable between their own cacophony of voices. However, one phrase stood out above the rest:
“The boy is Scarlet! Just look at his chest!”
Well, there went his chance. The boy winced and sighed, cursing the circumstances around him. The soldier’s eyes went wide, and then hard like stones.
No sympathy there, either.
Fortunately, the boy was not expecting any, so at the very least, he was not disappointed. He also did not expect the soldier to move to quickly. Within an instant, the grown man had parted the crowd and was making his way toward the younger of the two. The crowd did not do this for the boy. In fact, he was forced forward, lest the suddenly ravenously outstretched hands were to capture him. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for an escape; there wasn’t one.
He did not want to fight, but at the moment, there seemed to be no other alternative. His eyes dared to linger on the soldier once more. The distance was almost closed now. Within a few steps, there would be no avoiding confrontation. The boy’s gaze lingered again. There was no way out now.
Or was there?
His eyes took in the warrior’s position. His legs were readying; soon they would be wide open. Seconds ticked by like minutes. The soldier swung, his arm and blade slicing through the air as if cutting the wind itself. The boy was in striking distance and the blade neared his neck like a peregrine falcon nears its prey.
The boy ducked.
It was a desperate move. The sword just barely missed him, taking with it a parting clump of now-sheared hair. The boy was glad it was just his hair. Continuing with one swift motion, he dove in between the soldier’s legs, his skinny, fragile form passing through easily. Before the soldier had time to bring the sword completely down again, the boy was up and running. However, he did not fail to notice the blade cutting into his shirt and ripping the article down the middle in the back.
Now, this time, the boy swung. It was a wild, inexperienced, and absolutely reckless motion - but it got the crowd out of the way. A stupid move was a stupid move, but if close enough it could be a fatal one, and few were willing to face that. Those that were left and had yet to move aside, the boy rammed into as hard as his undersized little body could manage. He had the element of surprise on his side, and so it worked.
The boy ran, now free from the crowd. He flung the sword to the ground, not caring where it landed. His legs burned him and his feet pounded so forcefully against the street that it was painful. Every inhalation was like a gasp for air, and his lungs felt much like his legs did. He focused on running. Faster, faster, always faster. He needed to get away. People faded from his peripheral vision in the time it took him to blink. They avoided him at first, confounded as to who this strange boy was, and why he was running like a loon. This soon changed, however, as cries of “Scarlet! Scarlet!” rang out behind him. Then the spectators stirred to life and, with angry cries of their own, they joined the chase for his blood.
The lad felt desperation clawing at his heart and helplessness beginning to well up after it. His lungs were burning; his stamina was leaving him. His legs hurt. He could not keep this up forever. But hope sparked in him soon after. Over the modest houses, towering trees came into view. He was nearing the forest. He grimaced and let out a whimper. If only he could make it there, he would be safe. There, amongst the trees and foliage, he could hide. He could find shelter and hidden places where no one would find him. All he had to do was make it there.
He pumped his legs even harder, feeling as if they were collapse beneath him. He just had to get to the woods. then he would be safe. The trees were speeding closer, and he could see the beginning of the forest mere yards away. He was getting close. Then closer. And even closer still. He could make it. He was going to make it. Only a few more yards to freedom.
It felt like he was hit by a warhorse.
The boy was knocked to the ground and the wind from his lungs. He was dazed and for a moment, his vision did not seem right. Confusion overtook his brain, his mind feeling as if gnats were swarming it in a dry summer’s heat. What had just happened?
Slowly, his brain cleared. Someone had tackled him, he realized. Dread flourished in the pit of his stomach. The force that had tackled him was lifted, but rough hands grabbed at him, pulling him to his feet for a moment, but shoving him to his knees the next. Someone grabbed his hair and wrenched it back. His head followed and he let out a sharp cry. Something cold was shoved against his throat. He recognized the sharp edge of the dagger almost immediately. Dread filled him.
This was it, wasn’t it?
“Boy!” The gruff voice resonated off the closely constructed building around him.Startled, the boy whipped his head in the direction of the speaker. His wide eyes searched the crowd with ever increasing anxiety. To the left of the crowd stood a soldier, his hand already reaching for his sword. There would be no salvation there either.
“Sir,” the boy nodded. He managed not to stammer over his words, but the fear in them could not be concealed. His knees shook beneath him. He tried not to turn too much toward the man; the young fellow was not sure that the soldier had seen the mark on his chest. The longer he could conceal the fact, the better his chances were at escaping. He needed all the chances he could get.
“Put down the weapon! What is the meaning of this?” the soldier demanded.
The boy looked at the soldier and then at the crowd. No, he would not be putting the sword down any time soon. But before he could even answer, the crowd did it for him. All at once, their stunned silence from the initial moment he had grabbed the sword dissolved. They began to shout, only bits of phrases distinguishable between their own cacophony of voices. However, one phrase stood out above the rest:
“The boy is Scarlet! Just look at his chest!”
Well, there went his chance. The boy winced and sighed, cursing the circumstances around him. The soldier’s eyes went wide, and then hard like stones.
No sympathy there, either.
Fortunately, the boy was not expecting any, so at the very least, he was not disappointed. He also did not expect the soldier to move to quickly. Within an instant, the grown man had parted the crowd and was making his way toward the younger of the two. The crowd did not do this for the boy. In fact, he was forced forward, lest the suddenly ravenously outstretched hands were to capture him. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for an escape; there wasn’t one.
He did not want to fight, but at the moment, there seemed to be no other alternative. His eyes dared to linger on the soldier once more. The distance was almost closed now. Within a few steps, there would be no avoiding confrontation. The boy’s gaze lingered again. There was no way out now.
Or was there?
His eyes took in the warrior’s position. His legs were readying; soon they would be wide open. Seconds ticked by like minutes. The soldier swung, his arm and blade slicing through the air as if cutting the wind itself. The boy was in striking distance and the blade neared his neck like a peregrine falcon nears its prey.
The boy ducked.
It was a desperate move. The sword just barely missed him, taking with it a parting clump of now-sheared hair. The boy was glad it was just his hair. Continuing with one swift motion, he dove in between the soldier’s legs, his skinny, fragile form passing through easily. Before the soldier had time to bring the sword completely down again, the boy was up and running. However, he did not fail to notice the blade cutting into his shirt and ripping the article down the middle in the back.
Now, this time, the boy swung. It was a wild, inexperienced, and absolutely reckless motion - but it got the crowd out of the way. A stupid move was a stupid move, but if close enough it could be a fatal one, and few were willing to face that. Those that were left and had yet to move aside, the boy rammed into as hard as his undersized little body could manage. He had the element of surprise on his side, and so it worked.
The boy ran, now free from the crowd. He flung the sword to the ground, not caring where it landed. His legs burned him and his feet pounded so forcefully against the street that it was painful. Every inhalation was like a gasp for air, and his lungs felt much like his legs did. He focused on running. Faster, faster, always faster. He needed to get away. People faded from his peripheral vision in the time it took him to blink. They avoided him at first, confounded as to who this strange boy was, and why he was running like a loon. This soon changed, however, as cries of “Scarlet! Scarlet!” rang out behind him. Then the spectators stirred to life and, with angry cries of their own, they joined the chase for his blood.
The lad felt desperation clawing at his heart and helplessness beginning to well up after it. His lungs were burning; his stamina was leaving him. His legs hurt. He could not keep this up forever. But hope sparked in him soon after. Over the modest houses, towering trees came into view. He was nearing the forest. He grimaced and let out a whimper. If only he could make it there, he would be safe. There, amongst the trees and foliage, he could hide. He could find shelter and hidden places where no one would find him. All he had to do was make it there.
He pumped his legs even harder, feeling as if they were collapse beneath him. He just had to get to the woods. then he would be safe. The trees were speeding closer, and he could see the beginning of the forest mere yards away. He was getting close. Then closer. And even closer still. He could make it. He was going to make it. Only a few more yards to freedom.
It felt like he was hit by a warhorse.
The boy was knocked to the ground and the wind from his lungs. He was dazed and for a moment, his vision did not seem right. Confusion overtook his brain, his mind feeling as if gnats were swarming it in a dry summer’s heat. What had just happened?
Slowly, his brain cleared. Someone had tackled him, he realized. Dread flourished in the pit of his stomach. The force that had tackled him was lifted, but rough hands grabbed at him, pulling him to his feet for a moment, but shoving him to his knees the next. Someone grabbed his hair and wrenched it back. His head followed and he let out a sharp cry. Something cold was shoved against his throat. He recognized the sharp edge of the dagger almost immediately. Dread filled him.
This was it, wasn’t it?
That's all, I think. PM me if you are interested!
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