Graverobber141
[Insert Clever Line Here]
Hello, folks!
I’m Graverobber, Grave, or whatever you wish to call me; I’ll respond to a surprisingly lot. I’m a college student who enjoys writing, gaming, and a lot of geeky things. Feel free to nerd out with me. Before I get into the interesting stuff, here’s a bit about me as a writer, and what I’m looking for in return:
- DETAIL: First and foremost, I love detail in a post. My average post probably sits anywhere around 300-500 words, but I’ve been known to go around 1000+, depending on the scene and how many characters are involved. I’m not going to say I want someone who matches my length, as I firmly believe quality is greater than quantity, but I would prefer to write with someone who loves taking their time with a post and pouring thought into it.
- I’ll provide a sample of my writing, so you can see if our styles match, and I would appreciate if you did the same.
- CHARACTERS AND WORLD-BUILDING: What’s that saying? Every story has already been told, but it’s the characters that make each one unique. I’m into character-driven roleplays. I love writing with complex, deep, individual characters, and development is a must for me in a roleplay. While I mainly play male main characters, I will play a small zoo of NPCs of both genders from a variety of backgrounds and give them just as much thought. I love a world that seems alive within a roleplay and will do all I can to make that the case for ours.
- I also enjoy world-building. If we want to make our own setting together, I will spend an extraordinary amount of time coming up with lore. It’s something I enjoy doing. However, I’m not against playing in pre-established worlds: either fandoms, mine, or yours.
- ROMANCE: I enjoy romance and relationships between characters, yet it’s something that must develop naturally, and I will never force it. As stated above, I usually roleplay as male characters, and what gender I’m willing to play against will be determined by the orientation of the character I’m writing.
- COMMUNICATION: I’m perfectly fine with, even enjoy, OOC chatter. Also, as with all human interactions, I believe communication is needed for smooth sailing. Not having fun? Did something make you uncomfortable? Did you not understand something in my post, or did I accidentally misunderstand yours? Got an interesting idea to add to the story? Let me know! I’ll always more than willing to work things out.
- ACTIVITY: To be honest, my activity can be sporadic. I can promise around two posts a week but will try for more. Anything less than a post a week, I tend to lose interest. I understand that real life comes first, and if you need to take a break, let me know. I’ll do the same for you.
Currently, I’m craving to write in the Naruto ‘verse. Why? Well, the show was honestly my childhood; I’d get cranky if my ‘rents didn’t have me home in time to catch the episodes on Toonami. Recently, I’ve started re-watching the original series, and it’s kindled another desire.
What am I specifically looking for? Here are my ideas and cravings:
[My Role x Your Role]
Roles:
Sasuke x Sakura
OC Next Generation x OC Next Generation/General OC
Male Canon of Your Choice x Female Canon of Your Choice
As much as I love to call Sasuke an edgelord—lawls—I do love the guy, and ship him the hell with Sakura. However, from what I know from Boruto, he gives Goku a run for his money when it comes to earning the Worst Dad and Significant Other of the Year award.
Why don’t we fix that? Along with my desire to write Sasuke, I also want someone to write a next generation squad with me, as I have an itch to play an OC Uchiha. Let’s screw Boruto and come up with our own next gens. Write ‘em getting their asses kicked by their Jonin sensei, then getting their asses kicked during the inevitable First Mission They’re Not Prepared For, then grow and learn, developing as shinobi as they take the Chunin exams. Yes, I expect them to suffer and fail as they grow; just ‘cause their parents are legends doesn’t mean they’re automatically great. As a side note, I’m also for aging up the genin a bit, around sixteen or seventeenish? Just to make possible romances not…weird.
Besides the request for someone to write Sakura, I’m open to a ton of other ships, and would be willing to write a lot of the other characters (such as if you wanted to play the daughter of Naruto and Hinata, I’d write Naruto for you). I would also love to write one of the rookie nine as the sensei of the group. Shikamaru and Kiba come to mind, as they’re characters I’ve always loved.
Basically, this is one I'd love to talk and work out, and am willing to accommodate my partner's cravings, if they're willing to work with mine.
I believe that’s all I have at the moment. If interested at all in indulging this craving, let me know! Send me a PM.
And here’s a writing sample so you can judge if our styles match:
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 beaded 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 beaded 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."
Thanks for your time!
~Your friendly Neighborhood Graverobber
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