Obsidianserpent
Senior Member
Hello, everyone. I’ve decided that my request thread could use an update, so hear we go. I consider myself an advanced RPer. I’ve been writing for a long time and I put a lot of time and effort into my RPs. I and am looking for another similarly skilled and committed writer to design many different settings with. Here's what I'm looking for in a partner:
Below is a sample of my writing. If any of the plots above interest you (or if you'd like to discuss something original) please PM me a sample of your writing as well.
I'm also a concept artist, and there's a good chance I'll illustrate our adventures if I can find a skilled, committed partner. I'll attach some examples of my work to this post.
If you're interested, please PM a sample of your writing. I hope to hear from some of you
.
- 21+ please.
- Writes 2-3 paragraphs minimum.
- Posts at least once a week (I prefer quality over quantity).
- Pays attention to spelling/grammar and avoids run-on sentences.
- Writes in the past tense, third person limited perspective.
- Is willing to world build with me in advance over PM.
- I'm not opposed to romance (MXM) but it's not my top priority; my goal is to create intriguing adventures with many different characters and plots. I tend to prefer relatively fast paced, action-oriented RPs over scintillating romances. Romance is also, by no means, a requirement. I know this can be a turn-off for some people.
- I'm don't care whether my partner plays a male or female character.
- Reclusive Sorcerer X Hired Mercenary (Western/Eastern European, Chinese, Arabian/North African, West African/Colonialist): I’ve been wanting to explore this plot-line for a long time. I have a lot of things in store, should we decide to pursue it, and I think it could be a lot of fun. A sorcerer (my character) hires a band of mercenaries to assist him in escorting an insidious, sentient stone to a shrine where it is to be destroyed. Along our journey, the stone begins to play tricks on the minds of the hired mercenaries. The caravan is attacked by a mysterious group of cultists before the stone intervenes, transporting our characters to a castle/fortress in a dimension seemingly all its own. Our characters will have to use their unique abilities and work together in order to discover the stone’s intentions and escape the fortress.
- Tribesman X Fellow Tribesman (Celtic, Norse, North African, Mayan, West African): A proud and ancient tribe (to which our characters belong) has endured nearly a century of conflict with a swelling empire. The tribe now hides within the furthest reaches of the wilderness. A demon monstrosity attacks the village unexpectedly. Though we manage to slay the creature, we learn that the creature's head must be taken to an altar in order to commune with its spirit and learn what afflicts it. However, this altar lies beyond the empire's walls, and our characters must risk being killed or captured as slaves in order to reach it.
- Assassin X Assassin (Japanese, Chinese): Civil war engulfs the land. Warring factions have warred with one another for nearly a century. Over the past decade, however, a potential victor appears to be emerging. He/she is ruthless and sadistic, and delights in murder for its own sake. Meanwhile, a terrible blight afflicts the rice paddies of this lord’s enemies. Starvation abounds, and many suspect the blight to be the product of black magic on the part of his priests. A highly organized group of assassins has emerged with the sole purpose of eliminating this cruel lord.
- Sorcerer X Pirate/Captain (Western Europe/Western Africa): A sorcerer (my character) books passage south to a remote, tropical island to study under a legendary witch-doctor and escape a widespread witch hunt in the western heartlands. While out at sea, a disagreeable sell-sword organizes a coup, overthrowing the captain (partner's character). The sorcerer and captain are locked up with the intention of selling the captain as a slave and the sorcerer as hacked up body parts to be used in various potions. Our characters must work together to escape the brig and retake control of the ship.
- OC X Canon Character or OC (Princess Mononoke): While the humans of Irontown have formed a tentative peace with the forest gods, tensions between the warring states of Japan have only intensified. Lady Eboshi is being compelled to choose sides, and military conflict is becoming difficult to avoid. As human settlements beyond Irontown continue to scar the land, San has beseeched Ashitaka’s aid in negotiating peace between the Gods of the Forest and the humans once more.
- OC X Canon Character or OC (D&D/Forgotten Realms): WIP; I love this universe, and would be open to an adventure through the underdark, the Spine of the World, Amn or the Nine Hells.
Below is a sample of my writing. If any of the plots above interest you (or if you'd like to discuss something original) please PM me a sample of your writing as well.
Morcant knelt beside the corpse and gathered a minute piece of talc from his rucksack. Ancient spells ushered from his lips as he carefully drew a circle around the body. It was strange to him that this rotting slab at his knees was once a member of the most feared thieves guild in Vogos. Decades of scheming, murdering, and hiding from the civilized world, and this is what the rogue had to show for it. He recalled Judoc's words. Death, time; these were the only true lords of heaven and earth, and it was through their power that the vanity of man's petty pursuits was laid bare for all to see.
“Anala...Sabtain...Mithrakas…”Each syllable echoed on the cold wind. A distinctively earthy aroma filled the air, like that of a fertile forest just before a storm. It was the Anem Cira, or “soul spark” as it was known in the common tongue; the veil between the Ghost Land and the corporeal world was growing thinner with each word the skinwalker uttered. He pulled a sharpened ceremonial blade, thin and needle-like from a leather sheath upon his ankle and pitched it high above the sternum of the rotting corpse. With all the force he could muster, he drove the blade into the center of its chest, twisting it back and forth until an audible crack relieved the pressure beneath him. A puff of noxious odor spewed from the freshly formed cavity. Morcant’s eyes welled up with tears. He’d only invoked Albiach Cineadhia on three prior occasions, and never on a corpse so late into decomposition. Under the tutelage of Judoc, he had performed many spells and rituals which required dabbling in the macabre. He’d grown accustomed to writing in the blood of goats, horses, and men, and creating salves and elixirs from the organs of all manner of vermin. But no invocation had thus far required him to work with a specimen so repugnant.
“Vamarus...Danir…” The surrounding greenery was sapped of its vitality and form, leaving behind a ring of withered husks. From the Ghost Land energy continued to flood into the corporeal world unabated, creating a subtle humming on the air. Morcant extended his hands deep into the corpse’s hollow chest, and tore what little remained of the heart from the side of its ribcage. Maggots which had burrowed beneath the fleshy surface wriggled to and fro. He felt a lukewarm mixture of stale water and bodily fluids trickle down his arm and soak his plain linen shirt. Resisting the impulse to vomit, he gripped the heart firmly in his hand and elevated it into the air.
“Sabnatha…”
His eyes turned black as smoke. Blurred images, one after the other flashed before him in his mind’s eye, each accompanied by a prickling pain which began at the base of his spine and spread throughout the length of his torso like a surge of electricity. Clad in scanty, sienna gowns, three beautiful women with locks of auburn danced around the wooden post to which he was bound. Their lithe bodies moved in unison as though they were of a single mind. He did not recognize the curious tongue in which they spoke. The coarse, raspy tones of their voices resembled not those of fair maidens but demons; a tri-tonal, guttural retching which Morcant wouldn't soon forget. The tallest of the three slowly approached him like a dancer in a city brothel, her hips swaying from side to side and a coy, yet devious smile upon her lips. She arched her spine, pressed herself against him and purred like a placated cat. Her teeth were sharp as arrowheads and the smell of rancid meat was heavy upon her breath.
“Do you hunger child?” the woman whispered gently into his ear. Her words devolved into a maniacal cackle as she forced her fingers between his clenched lips. The taste of tar and vinegar was overpowering. His mouth sweltered, as though the rear of his tongue were cradling a smoldering coal. The sensation spread to the lining of his throat: a dry, torrid tingle which crept along his trachea and constricted his airways. As he struggled in vain for faded breath, he heard Dyana’s voice in the peripheries of his mind, calling to him with an air of desperation he’d yet to perceive in the ranger’s self-assured voice.
“Morcant...wake up!”
“Anala...Sabtain...Mithrakas…”Each syllable echoed on the cold wind. A distinctively earthy aroma filled the air, like that of a fertile forest just before a storm. It was the Anem Cira, or “soul spark” as it was known in the common tongue; the veil between the Ghost Land and the corporeal world was growing thinner with each word the skinwalker uttered. He pulled a sharpened ceremonial blade, thin and needle-like from a leather sheath upon his ankle and pitched it high above the sternum of the rotting corpse. With all the force he could muster, he drove the blade into the center of its chest, twisting it back and forth until an audible crack relieved the pressure beneath him. A puff of noxious odor spewed from the freshly formed cavity. Morcant’s eyes welled up with tears. He’d only invoked Albiach Cineadhia on three prior occasions, and never on a corpse so late into decomposition. Under the tutelage of Judoc, he had performed many spells and rituals which required dabbling in the macabre. He’d grown accustomed to writing in the blood of goats, horses, and men, and creating salves and elixirs from the organs of all manner of vermin. But no invocation had thus far required him to work with a specimen so repugnant.
“Vamarus...Danir…” The surrounding greenery was sapped of its vitality and form, leaving behind a ring of withered husks. From the Ghost Land energy continued to flood into the corporeal world unabated, creating a subtle humming on the air. Morcant extended his hands deep into the corpse’s hollow chest, and tore what little remained of the heart from the side of its ribcage. Maggots which had burrowed beneath the fleshy surface wriggled to and fro. He felt a lukewarm mixture of stale water and bodily fluids trickle down his arm and soak his plain linen shirt. Resisting the impulse to vomit, he gripped the heart firmly in his hand and elevated it into the air.
“Sabnatha…”
His eyes turned black as smoke. Blurred images, one after the other flashed before him in his mind’s eye, each accompanied by a prickling pain which began at the base of his spine and spread throughout the length of his torso like a surge of electricity. Clad in scanty, sienna gowns, three beautiful women with locks of auburn danced around the wooden post to which he was bound. Their lithe bodies moved in unison as though they were of a single mind. He did not recognize the curious tongue in which they spoke. The coarse, raspy tones of their voices resembled not those of fair maidens but demons; a tri-tonal, guttural retching which Morcant wouldn't soon forget. The tallest of the three slowly approached him like a dancer in a city brothel, her hips swaying from side to side and a coy, yet devious smile upon her lips. She arched her spine, pressed herself against him and purred like a placated cat. Her teeth were sharp as arrowheads and the smell of rancid meat was heavy upon her breath.
“Do you hunger child?” the woman whispered gently into his ear. Her words devolved into a maniacal cackle as she forced her fingers between his clenched lips. The taste of tar and vinegar was overpowering. His mouth sweltered, as though the rear of his tongue were cradling a smoldering coal. The sensation spread to the lining of his throat: a dry, torrid tingle which crept along his trachea and constricted his airways. As he struggled in vain for faded breath, he heard Dyana’s voice in the peripheries of his mind, calling to him with an air of desperation he’d yet to perceive in the ranger’s self-assured voice.
“Morcant...wake up!”
I'm also a concept artist, and there's a good chance I'll illustrate our adventures if I can find a skilled, committed partner. I'll attach some examples of my work to this post.
If you're interested, please PM a sample of your writing. I hope to hear from some of you
.Attachments
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