Lady Lauren the Flayer
Mister Asylum, I'm dying to get in
πΏπΆπΉπΎππ, πππππππππ πΆππΉ ππππππππ πΎπ π·ππππππ, π²πΈπΏππͺππΈ !
Welcome to my roleplay search !
Today I am looking for a very inc-
omplete roleplay search.
In this first part, I will be presenti-
ng my usual style when it comes-
to roleplaying and what I look for.
Then a second part will be fo-
cused on what I would like in te-
rms of fandoms. Obviously there
will be a lot of updates in the ne-
xt days or even weeks as my sch-
edule will be greatly updated.
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. NO MINORS. AT ALL.
π²π»ππ― πΌ ππ πΏπͺπͺπ¦πΌπ©π’ πΉπͺπ
- My writing style is literate if not advanced literate. I do not know what most of you would consider advanced
literate to be however I probably do fit those requirements if I am interested in the roleplay.
Most of my replies will take a certain time to be delivered - I write between one to four A4 pages
for a single reply. I always write them in a notebook before them typing them on the computer.
- If I do not reply, I am more than likely studying. However, I will warn you before leaving for rather
extended periods of time (it will not happen often.)
- I am not ghost friendly, to be honest, I would rather you tell me if the roleplay is not satisfying in any
kind of way to you. I am also open to receiving criticism!
- I love to talk OOC, but we can also not do it if this makes you a little bit uncomfortable, I
completely understand.
- Please be 18+ if we are going to roleplay, the roleplays may include mature themes however I
will not include themes that would be triggering to you.
- I always write in the 3rd person and would appreciate it if you could do the same.
- You can directly send me a pm if you are interested !
- The plots IN THIS POST contain very dark themes that are absolutely not suitable for all audiences.
- Be LGBT+ friendly, the couples - if any- will be mxm.
BE AWARE OF THIS BEFORE READING ANY FURTHER
Plot 1: UNIT 303
You get to choose two of the members of the 303 for one plot. They will all be introduced separately.
From tamest to worst:
Welcome to my roleplay search !
Today I am looking for a very inc-
omplete roleplay search.
In this first part, I will be presenti-
ng my usual style when it comes-
to roleplaying and what I look for.
Then a second part will be fo-
cused on what I would like in te-
rms of fandoms. Obviously there
will be a lot of updates in the ne-
xt days or even weeks as my sch-
edule will be greatly updated.
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. NO MINORS. AT ALL.
π²π»ππ― πΌ ππ πΏπͺπͺπ¦πΌπ©π’ πΉπͺπ
- My writing style is literate if not advanced literate. I do not know what most of you would consider advanced
literate to be however I probably do fit those requirements if I am interested in the roleplay.
Most of my replies will take a certain time to be delivered - I write between one to four A4 pages
for a single reply. I always write them in a notebook before them typing them on the computer.
- If I do not reply, I am more than likely studying. However, I will warn you before leaving for rather
extended periods of time (it will not happen often.)
- I am not ghost friendly, to be honest, I would rather you tell me if the roleplay is not satisfying in any
kind of way to you. I am also open to receiving criticism!
- I love to talk OOC, but we can also not do it if this makes you a little bit uncomfortable, I
completely understand.
- Please be 18+ if we are going to roleplay, the roleplays may include mature themes however I
will not include themes that would be triggering to you.
- I always write in the 3rd person and would appreciate it if you could do the same.
- You can directly send me a pm if you are interested !
- The plots IN THIS POST contain very dark themes that are absolutely not suitable for all audiences.
- Be LGBT+ friendly, the couples - if any- will be mxm.
BE AWARE OF THIS BEFORE READING ANY FURTHER
- Mental illness,
- mentions of SA,
- Murder,
- Gore,
- Torture,
- human experimentation,
- mental and physical abuse
- mentions of SA,
- Murder,
- Gore,
- Torture,
- human experimentation,
- mental and physical abuse
Plot 1: UNIT 303
You get to choose two of the members of the 303 for one plot. They will all be introduced separately.
From tamest to worst:
The Unit 303 used to be the greatest secret ever kept by the American Government. No one knew if they were real, no one knew their names, their faces, the number of men. They were nonexistent, next to no traces were left of them.
And then everyone knew.
He had no other choice. Years of horror, an entire life spent burying bodies under classified missions, experimentations and the wild race to create a weapon that would kill on command and never jam, never fail. He had to go back, for the sakes of all those faces he saw in the dark, all those cries of anguish that still rang in his ears, he had to hunt down every last operative, tie every loose end.
He thought at last, the Unit would be gone, it would die with him and he would take this secret to the grave. Their faces had never been revealed, they'd been thought dead.
As for him ? Well, he started to rebuild. The cattle, the soil, the horses, the endless work were all simple things that kept him grounded, sane. At night, the creaking of the secluded, small ranch felt like home and reassured him, away from the eerie silence that hung everywhere. The Texas heat usually kept people away from his home.
Sometimes he would go into town, the locals knew him by sight. He'd been a quiet rancher, who didn't cause any problems so they didn't ask questions, and he didn't offer answers either. It felt like he'd found... peace.
And one day, someone showed up at the door, a stranger who didn't belong. He knew it from the clothes, a little too straight, and a little too baggy to not suspect a concealed weapon in the heat. They had the look of someone searching for something or someone. They'd claimed to be a traveler, only passing through. It didn't make sense that they would stop to this very ranch, a quiet property, miles away from the city with nothing to offer from the outside but a couple of peaceful horses dwelling in their fields and an old beat up pickup truck.
And then he'd seen it. That hint, something dark and familiar - he felt it in his gut, a cold, sinking dread. They knew. What ? He couldn't tell, but they knew something. Something that was enough to tear down the fragil life he'd built, enough to bring back to the light what had been done in the dark.
The conversation had been brief, polite even, but the tension had crackled like a live wire. They'd left, and the rancher had watched their car disappear.
The monster he'd once been roused from its sleep as the man he'd become slowly recoiled. His time, enjoying the summers and the winters, caring for beasts he'd always dreamt of, carving himself a little corner away from the chaos, blood and death of his life, had gone.
Someone knew.
And then everyone knew.
He had no other choice. Years of horror, an entire life spent burying bodies under classified missions, experimentations and the wild race to create a weapon that would kill on command and never jam, never fail. He had to go back, for the sakes of all those faces he saw in the dark, all those cries of anguish that still rang in his ears, he had to hunt down every last operative, tie every loose end.
He thought at last, the Unit would be gone, it would die with him and he would take this secret to the grave. Their faces had never been revealed, they'd been thought dead.
As for him ? Well, he started to rebuild. The cattle, the soil, the horses, the endless work were all simple things that kept him grounded, sane. At night, the creaking of the secluded, small ranch felt like home and reassured him, away from the eerie silence that hung everywhere. The Texas heat usually kept people away from his home.
Sometimes he would go into town, the locals knew him by sight. He'd been a quiet rancher, who didn't cause any problems so they didn't ask questions, and he didn't offer answers either. It felt like he'd found... peace.
And one day, someone showed up at the door, a stranger who didn't belong. He knew it from the clothes, a little too straight, and a little too baggy to not suspect a concealed weapon in the heat. They had the look of someone searching for something or someone. They'd claimed to be a traveler, only passing through. It didn't make sense that they would stop to this very ranch, a quiet property, miles away from the city with nothing to offer from the outside but a couple of peaceful horses dwelling in their fields and an old beat up pickup truck.
And then he'd seen it. That hint, something dark and familiar - he felt it in his gut, a cold, sinking dread. They knew. What ? He couldn't tell, but they knew something. Something that was enough to tear down the fragil life he'd built, enough to bring back to the light what had been done in the dark.
The conversation had been brief, polite even, but the tension had crackled like a live wire. They'd left, and the rancher had watched their car disappear.
The monster he'd once been roused from its sleep as the man he'd become slowly recoiled. His time, enjoying the summers and the winters, caring for beasts he'd always dreamt of, carving himself a little corner away from the chaos, blood and death of his life, had gone.
Someone knew.
Unit 303 is once again sent into a mission. No one knows they are real, tehy are one of the best kept secrets in America. Some people suspect their existence but no proof has ever come out about it.
The mission has gone wrong. Again. Whether it be the whispers in his mind having grown into screams, the snow, the cold, or his luck running out, something has gone terribly wrong wtih him. From one of the deadliest men in the world, a butcher without a face, a monster with a hundred names, he'd fallen from grace and had become a failure. This could be his last mission.
The unwelcome frozen plains seem infinite before him as the sounds of his pursuers barely pierce through the raging blizzard. Trudging through the snow, he attempts in vain to find a refuge, anywhere, anything that could shelter him before his luck runs out. He is getting... warm. The urge to take his clothes off, to lay in the welcoming snow, to give into the growing tiredness starts to take over. He is not a good man, he's never been a good man. Years and years stretch before him, all of evil, and wicked, and sin. He's never believed in any god. He's never had to. His only god was his trigger, a good bullet, faith in himself, maybe.
Oh he was probably a narcissist.
But the dogs are losing him, the enemy is retreating, and he is slowly dying in the cold.
And then he sees it: An old church, decrepit and somehow still standing. It's dark, almost black in comparison to the winds and the snow slapping his face, scratching his skin, viciously attacking his eyes. He'd heard of dying men dreaming of an oasis in the heart of the desert, dreaming of water, of a place to shake off the dead heat. Not once had he thought... that he could be one of those men. But this was an oasis, an oasis of heat, a shelter against the blizzard.
Frozen to the bone, soaked in the melted snow and unable to go any further, the man makes his way into the old church. The door slams behind him and it seems as though the blizzard rages twice as hard outside. There is fire inside the church. In fact, despite the cobwebs draped over the altar, the broken prayer benches and the... anxiously gloomy confessional, he's found the perfect place to warm himself.
As the hours of day stretch into night, however... the place grows more ominous and questions start to arise. He calls for someone, anyone who might've lit the fires burning around the church, and he notices shadows reaching towards him, strange shadows that do not fit the fires or dying light.
As the moon rises, high up in the sky, he finally wonders if the hunter's become the prey.
The mission has gone wrong. Again. Whether it be the whispers in his mind having grown into screams, the snow, the cold, or his luck running out, something has gone terribly wrong wtih him. From one of the deadliest men in the world, a butcher without a face, a monster with a hundred names, he'd fallen from grace and had become a failure. This could be his last mission.
The unwelcome frozen plains seem infinite before him as the sounds of his pursuers barely pierce through the raging blizzard. Trudging through the snow, he attempts in vain to find a refuge, anywhere, anything that could shelter him before his luck runs out. He is getting... warm. The urge to take his clothes off, to lay in the welcoming snow, to give into the growing tiredness starts to take over. He is not a good man, he's never been a good man. Years and years stretch before him, all of evil, and wicked, and sin. He's never believed in any god. He's never had to. His only god was his trigger, a good bullet, faith in himself, maybe.
Oh he was probably a narcissist.
But the dogs are losing him, the enemy is retreating, and he is slowly dying in the cold.
And then he sees it: An old church, decrepit and somehow still standing. It's dark, almost black in comparison to the winds and the snow slapping his face, scratching his skin, viciously attacking his eyes. He'd heard of dying men dreaming of an oasis in the heart of the desert, dreaming of water, of a place to shake off the dead heat. Not once had he thought... that he could be one of those men. But this was an oasis, an oasis of heat, a shelter against the blizzard.
Frozen to the bone, soaked in the melted snow and unable to go any further, the man makes his way into the old church. The door slams behind him and it seems as though the blizzard rages twice as hard outside. There is fire inside the church. In fact, despite the cobwebs draped over the altar, the broken prayer benches and the... anxiously gloomy confessional, he's found the perfect place to warm himself.
As the hours of day stretch into night, however... the place grows more ominous and questions start to arise. He calls for someone, anyone who might've lit the fires burning around the church, and he notices shadows reaching towards him, strange shadows that do not fit the fires or dying light.
As the moon rises, high up in the sky, he finally wonders if the hunter's become the prey.
In this roleplay, a unit of four soldiers is brought into a mission. No one knows they are real, they are one of the best kept secret in America. Some people suspect their existence but no one has been able to prove it for now.
"Infiltrate, exterminate and disappear without leaving a trace."
Those were the orders given to the best element of Unit 303. He'd gone through dozens of similar missions before, nothing out of the ordinary - even the level of security hadn't seemed impossible to get through. He'd spent months, analysis and studying, over and over and over, dozens of plans, breaking into countless security systems to obtain always MORE information, to know for certain what he had to do, who he had to kill, and to be what he was made to be.
He had prepared everything, everything EXCEPT the ambush. He should've known, of course he should have. It was too late now to regret it, it was too late now to think of what could've been. He ran across the war-torn landscape, stepping over and on corpses, some still squirming and clinging on to life, ignoring the cries for mercy of men that meant nothing to him. Allies, enemies ? None of that mattered, not getting caught was. But the wound on his side was bleeding, and his sight was darkening. In the background, dogs are barking, flashlights are sweeping the no man's land, that has now come at a stand still in the dead of night.
And then he wakes up, bound in poorly lit room. All concrete, all... empty. He knows this environment, he's seen dozens of variations of it even only in training. he's trained not to break, he won't. No intel will come out of him. They do not know what they've caught. They will find out. And then, the heavy steel door opens, and the assassin recognises the person who enters, your character.
"Infiltrate, exterminate and disappear without leaving a trace."
Those were the orders given to the best element of Unit 303. He'd gone through dozens of similar missions before, nothing out of the ordinary - even the level of security hadn't seemed impossible to get through. He'd spent months, analysis and studying, over and over and over, dozens of plans, breaking into countless security systems to obtain always MORE information, to know for certain what he had to do, who he had to kill, and to be what he was made to be.
He had prepared everything, everything EXCEPT the ambush. He should've known, of course he should have. It was too late now to regret it, it was too late now to think of what could've been. He ran across the war-torn landscape, stepping over and on corpses, some still squirming and clinging on to life, ignoring the cries for mercy of men that meant nothing to him. Allies, enemies ? None of that mattered, not getting caught was. But the wound on his side was bleeding, and his sight was darkening. In the background, dogs are barking, flashlights are sweeping the no man's land, that has now come at a stand still in the dead of night.
And then he wakes up, bound in poorly lit room. All concrete, all... empty. He knows this environment, he's seen dozens of variations of it even only in training. he's trained not to break, he won't. No intel will come out of him. They do not know what they've caught. They will find out. And then, the heavy steel door opens, and the assassin recognises the person who enters, your character.
