Nevix
The Bologna Bombing Line
Hello! I'm Nevix, or Nev, or whatever else you feel like calling me. I'm getting back into RP after a three-ish year hiatus and am looking for new 1x1 partners. I have about eight or nine years of experience, off-and-on. At the time of me writing this, I'm probably only looking for one or two partners. This means I might be a little selective with who I write with.
Info/Rules
-I am 22 and use he/him and they/them pronouns (either are fine!). I am not willing to write with anyone under the age of 18!
-I have a full time job and a poor attention span. You should not expect prompt responses from me. However, I can commit to writing at least once a week. I can be active OOC usually at least once a day. I don't have any expectations of activity from my partners. Take a month to write a post, if you want!
-I am comfortable with romance, but it is not my primary RP motivation.
-I consider myself to be pretty literate. I am by no means a great writer, but I first started RP as practice for writing fiction and I continue to treat it like that.
-I usually prefer to write on-site, either in a thread or PM's. In certain instances, like dialogue-heavy scenes or action sequences where regular posting might be inconvenient, I am willing to work off-site. I do have discord and am willing to use that for OOC chatter if you prefer it to the PM's on-site.
-I am a huge fan of plotting and worldbuilding, and need my partner to be able to do that with me.
-I have included plots and pairings that I'm interested in here, but I'm not stuck on those. If you'd like to write with me but don't find anything that catches your eye, feel free to reach out with your own ideas!
-I am only interested in fandom RP if we both use original characters. I have no interest in RP with canon characters.
-I have no triggers, but am sensitive to yours. Let me know if there's anything you'd like us to steer clear of.
-I am ghost-friendly. If you're bored or overwhelmed or whatever else, feel free to hit the bricks. You can even return months later, if you'd like. I won't be offended.
-LGBTQ+ friendly. Trans women are women, trans men are men, etc.
-If you're interested in writing with me, please PM me! Tell me a little bit about yourself and the pairings or plots you're interested in. PLEASE include a writing sample in your message! Anything will work, I'd just like something to get an idea of your writing style.
Plots
Pairings
(If romance occurs naturally in a plot, I am comfortable with any gender pairing. If we're starting out with a romantic pairing in mind, however, I am most comfortable with M/F, with my character as a man. Willing to double. Italics indicate a preferred role.)
-Soldier x Soldier (any setting)
-Bodyguard x Client
-Ex-lovers reuniting
-Criminal x Civilian
-Criminal x Criminal
-Criminal x Law Enforcement
-Knight x Royalty
Fandoms
-Red Dead Redemption
-FromSoftware (Dark Souls, Elden Ring, Armored Core)
-RWBY (Haven't watched since season 4)
-Halo
-Game of Thrones/ASOIAF
Writing Samples
Info/Rules
-I am 22 and use he/him and they/them pronouns (either are fine!). I am not willing to write with anyone under the age of 18!
-I have a full time job and a poor attention span. You should not expect prompt responses from me. However, I can commit to writing at least once a week. I can be active OOC usually at least once a day. I don't have any expectations of activity from my partners. Take a month to write a post, if you want!
-I am comfortable with romance, but it is not my primary RP motivation.
-I consider myself to be pretty literate. I am by no means a great writer, but I first started RP as practice for writing fiction and I continue to treat it like that.
-I usually prefer to write on-site, either in a thread or PM's. In certain instances, like dialogue-heavy scenes or action sequences where regular posting might be inconvenient, I am willing to work off-site. I do have discord and am willing to use that for OOC chatter if you prefer it to the PM's on-site.
-I am a huge fan of plotting and worldbuilding, and need my partner to be able to do that with me.
-I have included plots and pairings that I'm interested in here, but I'm not stuck on those. If you'd like to write with me but don't find anything that catches your eye, feel free to reach out with your own ideas!
-I am only interested in fandom RP if we both use original characters. I have no interest in RP with canon characters.
-I have no triggers, but am sensitive to yours. Let me know if there's anything you'd like us to steer clear of.
-I am ghost-friendly. If you're bored or overwhelmed or whatever else, feel free to hit the bricks. You can even return months later, if you'd like. I won't be offended.
-LGBTQ+ friendly. Trans women are women, trans men are men, etc.
-If you're interested in writing with me, please PM me! Tell me a little bit about yourself and the pairings or plots you're interested in. PLEASE include a writing sample in your message! Anything will work, I'd just like something to get an idea of your writing style.
Plots
These are a few plots all using the same setting, the continent of Okarlai in a dark, low-fantasy world. I've been worldbuilding this setting off-and-on for the better part of ten years. At one point I was planning on writing books in this world, but never got around to it. I am equally interested in all of these plots, and am also willing to work with you to come up with something different in this setting.
On the continent of Okarlai, a good third of the population believes the world is ending. It is hard to blame them. Magic, once powerful and plentiful, is leaving the world. There are few living mages, and even fewer capable of anything more than parlor tricks. Famine and recession have devastated local economies. Bandits and thieves stalk the roadways. In the darkest corners of the world, malevolent supernatural entities begin to take form. The most powerful political force in Okarlai, The Empire of Ostegarde, has just successfully put down a long and violent attempted revolution. Desperate for resources, it has turned its eyes abroad and prepares for war against the Free Kingdom of Farram to its north and the Seven Cities to its west. In the Seven Cities, the wealthy wage trade wars that destroy the lives of normal people and distract the cities from the threat of the Empire. Hope seems lost, but heroes are made in dark times.
Losing Battles
Our characters are revolutionaries, veterans and survivors of The Grand Insurgency against the Empire. The Insurgency failed, smashed beneath the military might of the Empire. Most of their surviving comrades have gone into hiding, attempting to lead normal lives. Our characters just can't let it go. They will attempt to rebuild, rearm, and reorganize. They will take another try at toppling the most powerful state on the continent. The Grand Insurgency had the support of multiple different rebel factions, one of the Great Houses, foreign interests, and organized crime. It still failed. Our characters have none of that support. Still, they will attempt to fight a doomed war, aware of the fact that they will almost certainly die in the attempt.
Death and Dying in The Seven Cities
Residents of the independent Seven Cities don't deal with the same brutal political oppression of the Empire, but they live their lives at the mercy of wealth and capital. In these dire times, more people than ever are forced to make a living with the sword. There is no more profitable place in the world to be a mercenary or a hired blade than the Seven Cities. Our characters are members of a new, small mercenary band. They will fight, kill, and die for coin at the behest of organized crime, wealthy merchants, and major political factions. Eventually, they will find themselves caught up in a situation much greater than themselves and be forced to fight for survival instead of wealth.
Broken Things
Magic is a rare thing in these times. Many don't even believe in it. Few are capable of it, and fewer are capable of doing anything worthwhile with it. In most of the world, it is seen as a curiosity. In the Empire of Ostegarde, it is both a political threat and damnable heresy. Your character is a mage, and a powerful one. They do not yet fully understand their abilities, but they know that they possess great power. The Empire knows this, too. Your character was imprisoned by The Inquisition, and suffered greatly at their hands. They have managed to escape, but find themselves lost and alone. My character is a hired blade, haunted by their deeds and failures and desperate for a chance at redemption. They find that chance when they cross paths with your character, and the two will search for safety while being hunted by The Inquisition.
On the continent of Okarlai, a good third of the population believes the world is ending. It is hard to blame them. Magic, once powerful and plentiful, is leaving the world. There are few living mages, and even fewer capable of anything more than parlor tricks. Famine and recession have devastated local economies. Bandits and thieves stalk the roadways. In the darkest corners of the world, malevolent supernatural entities begin to take form. The most powerful political force in Okarlai, The Empire of Ostegarde, has just successfully put down a long and violent attempted revolution. Desperate for resources, it has turned its eyes abroad and prepares for war against the Free Kingdom of Farram to its north and the Seven Cities to its west. In the Seven Cities, the wealthy wage trade wars that destroy the lives of normal people and distract the cities from the threat of the Empire. Hope seems lost, but heroes are made in dark times.
Losing Battles
Our characters are revolutionaries, veterans and survivors of The Grand Insurgency against the Empire. The Insurgency failed, smashed beneath the military might of the Empire. Most of their surviving comrades have gone into hiding, attempting to lead normal lives. Our characters just can't let it go. They will attempt to rebuild, rearm, and reorganize. They will take another try at toppling the most powerful state on the continent. The Grand Insurgency had the support of multiple different rebel factions, one of the Great Houses, foreign interests, and organized crime. It still failed. Our characters have none of that support. Still, they will attempt to fight a doomed war, aware of the fact that they will almost certainly die in the attempt.
Death and Dying in The Seven Cities
Residents of the independent Seven Cities don't deal with the same brutal political oppression of the Empire, but they live their lives at the mercy of wealth and capital. In these dire times, more people than ever are forced to make a living with the sword. There is no more profitable place in the world to be a mercenary or a hired blade than the Seven Cities. Our characters are members of a new, small mercenary band. They will fight, kill, and die for coin at the behest of organized crime, wealthy merchants, and major political factions. Eventually, they will find themselves caught up in a situation much greater than themselves and be forced to fight for survival instead of wealth.
Broken Things
Magic is a rare thing in these times. Many don't even believe in it. Few are capable of it, and fewer are capable of doing anything worthwhile with it. In most of the world, it is seen as a curiosity. In the Empire of Ostegarde, it is both a political threat and damnable heresy. Your character is a mage, and a powerful one. They do not yet fully understand their abilities, but they know that they possess great power. The Empire knows this, too. Your character was imprisoned by The Inquisition, and suffered greatly at their hands. They have managed to escape, but find themselves lost and alone. My character is a hired blade, haunted by their deeds and failures and desperate for a chance at redemption. They find that chance when they cross paths with your character, and the two will search for safety while being hunted by The Inquisition.
This is a plot with no specific setting. I'm imagining something in the modern day, but am also willing to write it as a western or a medieval period piece.
Our characters were outlaws, once. They were thieves and robbers, ostensibly motivated by a noble purpose. They were friends and comrades, and they felt as free as they'd ever felt. Then things went wrong. Some of them died, some were imprisoned, and the rest were left to try and find purpose in a law-abiding life. Now, something has brought them back into the fold. Maybe they need to come to the aid of one of their former partners. Maybe they just need money. Though they're frightened to leave behind the lives they've built, they know deep down that this is who they really are.
Our characters were outlaws, once. They were thieves and robbers, ostensibly motivated by a noble purpose. They were friends and comrades, and they felt as free as they'd ever felt. Then things went wrong. Some of them died, some were imprisoned, and the rest were left to try and find purpose in a law-abiding life. Now, something has brought them back into the fold. Maybe they need to come to the aid of one of their former partners. Maybe they just need money. Though they're frightened to leave behind the lives they've built, they know deep down that this is who they really are.
Pairings
(If romance occurs naturally in a plot, I am comfortable with any gender pairing. If we're starting out with a romantic pairing in mind, however, I am most comfortable with M/F, with my character as a man. Willing to double. Italics indicate a preferred role.)
-Soldier x Soldier (any setting)
-Bodyguard x Client
-Ex-lovers reuniting
-Criminal x Civilian
-Criminal x Criminal
-Criminal x Law Enforcement
-Knight x Royalty
Fandoms
-Red Dead Redemption
-FromSoftware (Dark Souls, Elden Ring, Armored Core)
-RWBY (Haven't watched since season 4)
-Halo
-Game of Thrones/ASOIAF
Writing Samples
Hours earlier, Colm was standing outside a crooked wooden building near the center of Red Dust. He was smoking a cigarette. It was an unfortunate and illogical habit, he knew. In his home, they'd had hundred of medical textbooks. Whole chapters of which were sometimes dedicated to smoking and its negative effects on the lungs. He couldn't remember exactly how he'd started, only that it had been shortly after James had died of a fever. Shireen had made relentless fun of him for it, but now she was dead, too. He finished the cigarette and flicked into the sandy earth, stamping it out with his boot. He would have to quit before he returned home, he decided. Just not now.
At his feet, a little to his left, was a dead man. His name had been Morgan Malloy, and in his day he had killed many. Colm had not known the man well, outside of the information provided by the sheriff in River's Reach, but what he did know painted the picture of a man who did not hold human life with any regard. Still, Colm hadn't wanted to kill him. He had intended to bring him to Red Dust alive. It hadn't worked out like that. He'd caught Malloy at a shack with his partner, a few miles east of Red Dust. On his own, Malloy may have surrendered. But his partner drew a sawed-off shotgun, and Colm had gunned them both down. His partner had no bounty, and so Colm had buried the man out there by the shack. He'd shot that man in the head, but he hit Malloy in the stomach and chest and it had taken him a moment to die. His last words had been that he was afraid, and that he wanted a cigarette. Colm had obliged, putting one in Malloy's mouth and lighting it, only to realize that he'd died before he'd even gotten the cigarette out.
The whole thing had left a poor taste in Colm's mouth, and he was glad to be rid of the dead man. Red Dust had no sheriff, but for half of the bounty money there was a woman who would take the body to River's Reach for him. All the better, because he'd heard word of a job coming out of Red Dust. The woman who would transport the body stepped out from the doorway of the rickety building, which had once been a house but was now something almost like a post office.
"I'll take your dead one." The woman said, and spat on the ground. "Bounty checks out, they got the notice from River's Reach a few weeks back." The woman looked Colm up and down and raised an eyebrow. "Say, I don't see a horse. How'd you get the old boy into town?"
"Walked." Colm said, flatly. "Dragged him. I used rope, and sticks." He didn't elaborate further. The woman cleared her throat, put off by his awkward, clipped manner of speaking.
"Right." She said after a moment. She reached into a satchel and withdrew a handful of small, smooth gold nuggets. "Malloy's bounty was five-hundred Marks. This ought to be worth your two-fifty." He opened his hand and she dropped the gold into it. "We can weigh it, if you want." Colm shook his head. It was a good deal for both of them. Colm got gold, gold he could use anywhere he might end up. She would ride into River's Reach and come out with five-hundred Marks, paper money, in a region where there was enough infrastructure to make paper money useful. He didn't mind if he was shorted a little bit. Fifty miles west, the gold would be worth a different amount of a different currency and it wouldn't matter anymore.
Colm helped her lift the dead man onto the back of her horse and nodded goodbye as she rode the opposite direction he was headed. He started off toward the Saloon, figuring that was as good a place as any to find work.
At his feet, a little to his left, was a dead man. His name had been Morgan Malloy, and in his day he had killed many. Colm had not known the man well, outside of the information provided by the sheriff in River's Reach, but what he did know painted the picture of a man who did not hold human life with any regard. Still, Colm hadn't wanted to kill him. He had intended to bring him to Red Dust alive. It hadn't worked out like that. He'd caught Malloy at a shack with his partner, a few miles east of Red Dust. On his own, Malloy may have surrendered. But his partner drew a sawed-off shotgun, and Colm had gunned them both down. His partner had no bounty, and so Colm had buried the man out there by the shack. He'd shot that man in the head, but he hit Malloy in the stomach and chest and it had taken him a moment to die. His last words had been that he was afraid, and that he wanted a cigarette. Colm had obliged, putting one in Malloy's mouth and lighting it, only to realize that he'd died before he'd even gotten the cigarette out.
The whole thing had left a poor taste in Colm's mouth, and he was glad to be rid of the dead man. Red Dust had no sheriff, but for half of the bounty money there was a woman who would take the body to River's Reach for him. All the better, because he'd heard word of a job coming out of Red Dust. The woman who would transport the body stepped out from the doorway of the rickety building, which had once been a house but was now something almost like a post office.
"I'll take your dead one." The woman said, and spat on the ground. "Bounty checks out, they got the notice from River's Reach a few weeks back." The woman looked Colm up and down and raised an eyebrow. "Say, I don't see a horse. How'd you get the old boy into town?"
"Walked." Colm said, flatly. "Dragged him. I used rope, and sticks." He didn't elaborate further. The woman cleared her throat, put off by his awkward, clipped manner of speaking.
"Right." She said after a moment. She reached into a satchel and withdrew a handful of small, smooth gold nuggets. "Malloy's bounty was five-hundred Marks. This ought to be worth your two-fifty." He opened his hand and she dropped the gold into it. "We can weigh it, if you want." Colm shook his head. It was a good deal for both of them. Colm got gold, gold he could use anywhere he might end up. She would ride into River's Reach and come out with five-hundred Marks, paper money, in a region where there was enough infrastructure to make paper money useful. He didn't mind if he was shorted a little bit. Fifty miles west, the gold would be worth a different amount of a different currency and it wouldn't matter anymore.
Colm helped her lift the dead man onto the back of her horse and nodded goodbye as she rode the opposite direction he was headed. He started off toward the Saloon, figuring that was as good a place as any to find work.
"Well, getting out is easier than getting in." The man who spoke was old, perhaps sixty-five. He had shrunk, some, in his age. The old man padded around the bedroom-turned-office of his town home, rooting around through various stacks of papers spaced around every flat surface in the room. All the while, he hunched over a cup of coffee that he held with a worryingly shaky grip. As he did so, the younger man seated in a rocking chair in the corner of the room got the impression that he might well be twice the older man's height. "But, not by much." His voice was deep, and had acquired the texture of gravel in his old age. He looked over at to the man in the corner, and saw that he was withdrawing a cigarette from the crumpled-up pack in the breast pocket of his shirt. "Owen, could I get one of those?" Owen, the younger man, raised an eyebrow.
"Thought you quit." He spoke and his Ghanivian was heavily accented, with a lilt that wasn't present in the native dialects. The directed, fragmented nature of his speech was a force of habit, meant to mask his accent. He'd picked it up after the civil war. It wasn't strictly necessary, being Grellish wasn't a crime, but the accent invited questions. Questions were trouble.
"I did." The old man set down his coffee and smiled, walking over to him. He held out his hand and, after a moment, Owen obliged and handed him a cigarette. "But only because the things are so damn expensive." Owen fumbled around a bit, withdrawing a matchbox from the pocket of his pants and after a moment both of the cigarettes were lit. As he took a drag, Owen looked around the room. The townhouse was old, as most of the ones in this part of the city were. Ivy-riddled brownstone on the exterior. The house was expensive, but the office (and indeed, the rest of the home) was decorated sparsely. The old man was a civil servant, and had been since before the civil war. He was well-off, but frugal. It made it easier for Owen to like the man, to not hold his wealth against him. He'd even picked up some work on the side, under the table. It was that work that had led to Owen meeting him a few months prior. "There are more ports and stations you can leave from than ones you can enter into. They won't check your papers quite so particularly." The old man reached for his coffee. "But for the life of me, I don't understand why you're deciding to leave now. If I remember correctly, which is not quite as certain as it once was, you rejected the idea when I suggested it last month." It was true. Owen had originally hired him to dig around in the records, check for the names of some his old comrades. Revolutionaries that had vanished one-by-one, after the civil war. Collectivists, like him, labor advocates, even some of the more hardline traditional unionists. Owen had known most of them were in prison or dead, but he'd thought learning the places and the dates might bring him some closure. The old man had provided, but it had not.
"Nothing left for me, here." He said, after a pause. There wasn't much left for him back home, in Grelland, either, but at least there he wouldn't be looking over his shoulder all the time. "I fought my war, already. Lost."
"Well, you won, actually." The old man smiled sheepishly. Owen glared at him, and he held up his hands apologetically. "Yes, yes, I know. Don't get started." The two had already had similar conversations on other occasions. "Well if you really want to get out, I can have the papers ready in a week." The old man met his eyes. "But, you know, there are still collectivists around, I've heard." Owen let out a bitter, two-note laugh.
"In the universities, sure. Rich kids, guilty consciences." Owen said, crossing his arms. "They can talk revolution for an hour and use no verbs."
"There's always the loyalists." The old man offered.
"Funny." Owen shook his head, but paused for a moment, thinking about it. "They wouldn't have me, anyway. Came here to break the throne, not put it back."
"Yes, and instead of breaking it you simply seated someone new." The old man sighed. "Like I said. Give me a week."
"Thought you quit." He spoke and his Ghanivian was heavily accented, with a lilt that wasn't present in the native dialects. The directed, fragmented nature of his speech was a force of habit, meant to mask his accent. He'd picked it up after the civil war. It wasn't strictly necessary, being Grellish wasn't a crime, but the accent invited questions. Questions were trouble.
"I did." The old man set down his coffee and smiled, walking over to him. He held out his hand and, after a moment, Owen obliged and handed him a cigarette. "But only because the things are so damn expensive." Owen fumbled around a bit, withdrawing a matchbox from the pocket of his pants and after a moment both of the cigarettes were lit. As he took a drag, Owen looked around the room. The townhouse was old, as most of the ones in this part of the city were. Ivy-riddled brownstone on the exterior. The house was expensive, but the office (and indeed, the rest of the home) was decorated sparsely. The old man was a civil servant, and had been since before the civil war. He was well-off, but frugal. It made it easier for Owen to like the man, to not hold his wealth against him. He'd even picked up some work on the side, under the table. It was that work that had led to Owen meeting him a few months prior. "There are more ports and stations you can leave from than ones you can enter into. They won't check your papers quite so particularly." The old man reached for his coffee. "But for the life of me, I don't understand why you're deciding to leave now. If I remember correctly, which is not quite as certain as it once was, you rejected the idea when I suggested it last month." It was true. Owen had originally hired him to dig around in the records, check for the names of some his old comrades. Revolutionaries that had vanished one-by-one, after the civil war. Collectivists, like him, labor advocates, even some of the more hardline traditional unionists. Owen had known most of them were in prison or dead, but he'd thought learning the places and the dates might bring him some closure. The old man had provided, but it had not.
"Nothing left for me, here." He said, after a pause. There wasn't much left for him back home, in Grelland, either, but at least there he wouldn't be looking over his shoulder all the time. "I fought my war, already. Lost."
"Well, you won, actually." The old man smiled sheepishly. Owen glared at him, and he held up his hands apologetically. "Yes, yes, I know. Don't get started." The two had already had similar conversations on other occasions. "Well if you really want to get out, I can have the papers ready in a week." The old man met his eyes. "But, you know, there are still collectivists around, I've heard." Owen let out a bitter, two-note laugh.
"In the universities, sure. Rich kids, guilty consciences." Owen said, crossing his arms. "They can talk revolution for an hour and use no verbs."
"There's always the loyalists." The old man offered.
"Funny." Owen shook his head, but paused for a moment, thinking about it. "They wouldn't have me, anyway. Came here to break the throne, not put it back."
"Yes, and instead of breaking it you simply seated someone new." The old man sighed. "Like I said. Give me a week."
