Other sophocles’ writing samples

[sophocles]

just a short thread to provide samples to potential partners.​

 

[sophocles]

roleplay - beneath the waves
genre - historical fiction
concept - pirates
character - sébastien renaud, first mate
type - starter
word count - 895


‧₊˚♪‧࿐₊˚⊹

▽ sᴄʀᴏʟʟ ​

If only the winds would fight against them, he’d have more of a reason to discourage their venture.

Sébastien stood at the helm of the Howling Eel, one hand positioned on one of the prongs of the giant wheel, the other grasping a compass in his palm. He raised his eyes to catch the direction of the wind upon the main sails, attempting not to set his sights too high up the mast, lest he make himself dizzy. He could only assume the lookout had made her little home in the crow’s nest for the day, but he wouldn’t dare to raise his gaze high enough to confirm that. He’d rather much like to keep his head on his shoulders.

Shaking his head to regain his focus, he raised the compass up, squinting his eyes as he compared their navigation position to the heading he had been given by Santino. With his gaze switching between the compass and the sails, he nimbly guided the ship to correct towards their charted course. The sails caught the full brunt of the wind once more.

Though successful in his endeavors as helmsman, Bastien heaved an exasperated sigh. Sure, the weather was quite fair for sailing, and while he was not ungrateful for that (any sailor would be out of his mind to desire less), there wasn’t much thought to be put into navigation. Unfortunately, the wind seemed to be taking them right where they needed to go.

Not only that, but he couldn’t quite leave his post. With only two people on board allowed to man the helm, he was stuck here until he was relieved of duty. He just had a feeling that wouldn’t be any time soon.

He and the captain had gotten in a bit of a spat this morning, as he had brought up his concerns about their venture. It wasn’t the first time the two had disagreed about a course of action — in fact, he seemed to never really be on board with anything Dori proposed. Her plans were always too harebrained and risky for his liking. Yet, there hadn’t been one adventure of hers that he never went along with. Despite his worries, he always folded. Over their years together, he had learned to trust their instincts, perhaps even more than his own — and she hadn’t gotten him killed yet. There was a reason fae was the captain, after all.

But this? This was no laughable scheme or questionable opportunity that took him a few hours to warm up to. This was the Blind Jewel — the ship that doomed her entire crew to a fate unknown, the ship that was said to carry a thousand curses. Who knew what now awaited any ship foolish enough to sail for her?

Dori didn’t know, and she didn’t care. She had always been so — stubborn. Pig-headed, he had thought. Bastien had never gotten as frustrated at faer as he did this morning. Fae wouldn’t listen. How could she not see the risk that she put over them all? For what? The chance at the lost treasures that no other pirate crew had dared to pursue? He had gotten so exasperated that this time, he hadn’t been able to stop himself before he went too far.

“Oh, after all we’ve been through and all we’ve seen, curses are what you’ve chosen to be blind to?”

Oh, that one had gotten him in trouble. Fae didn’t want to hear anything else he had to say after that. Banished to the helm, he had been — and there he still was.

From his position, he could see her across the deck, glaring daggers at him — and he knew better than to return her gaze. He also knew they wouldn’t take what he had said to heart; they didn’t believe in the curses, after all. He always did enough worrying for the both of them. And, despite his efforts, he had folded. Fae won, again — and he could do nothing about it. The captain and the first mate were to be a united front towards the crew; to go against her in front of them would be to sow seeds of mutiny.

Well, maybe it really wasn't that he couldn't.
Maybe it was just that he wouldn't.

No, no; he would sail the Howling Eel into the arms of whatever darkness befell the Blind Jewel, for no more reason than because she had ordered him to.

He heaved another sigh. Damn him. He’d always be a fool for Dorienne Alda.

Defeated, he cast his gaze upward, his eyes squinting as they caught the bright light of the sun. They still had about half a day of sail ahead of them, and he was already tired. At least the deck was quiet, save for the wind in the sails and the waves against the sides of the ship — and the creaking of deck boards as the presence of their cartographer loomed over his shoulder.

Drawn out of his reverie, Bastien furrowed his eyebrows, straightening up a little and snapped his compass shut in indignation. “Santino — do you mind?” Bastien’s voice was low and unamused. He turned his head toward the young man slightly, peering at him out of the corner of his eye. He was in absolutely no mood for any mischief.

 

[sophocles]

roleplay - aphelion
genre - science fiction horror
concept - dead space
character - tanaris rosha, security detail
type - starter response
word count - 1186


‧₊˚♪‧࿐₊˚⊹

▽ sᴄʀᴏʟʟ ​

With her night watch having ended a few hours ago, Tanaris Rosha had migrated into the security department, taking a seat in the center of the sitting commons. She sat tall, shoulders straight, her lower back aligned with her pelvis. Her legs were crossed underneath her, and her hands were resting on top of her knees. Her eyes were closed, a hint of a smile upon her lips as she breathed calmly, deeply; in and out, in and out.

Meditation. A daily routine, at this point. It was not that she was a very spiritual person. She didn't give a shit about chakras or soul-cleansing or self-illumination. It just... helped her to remember to forget, to calm her nerves; it wasn't as revitalizing as sleep, but it was enough to get her through. Insomnia was a bitter bitch, and she was really holding a grudge this time, punishing Rosha with night terrors every time she closed her damn eyes. At this point, she would take a single hour of sleep over any of those— horrors her mind would trap her in. However, she had to make do with what she could; meditation was the temporary solution.

Though, it seemed she could not have picked a worse spot. By this time of the morning, the department was overflowing with pumped-up energy. The security team of the Aphelion was prepping for the day ahead; eating breakfast, doing reps in the gym space, or assembling their gear for the early morning inspection. The late ones, skulking in from their quarters as the entrance door to the security department continuously opened and closed. The voices carried across the room, merging into a cacophony of sound that could probably wake the dead.

Indeed, the "S" in security did not stand for silence. But, then again, that's what her smile was for.

The hustle of the morning crowd did nothing to break rosha's inner concentration. If anything, it only helped to ease her mind. Rosha was a people person, plain and simple; the more chaos that surrounded her, the more relaxed she was. The silence of the night watch irked her to no end, so she always eagerly awaited the company of others in the morning. The security team had learned this very early on, and no longer wasted time tiptoeing around their superior's morning routine. Some were even lounging around her, chatting with each other. Catch her on her good side, and she'd even have a full-blown conversation without moving a muscle. Just like she was at the moment.

"Now, I'm telling you, any sign of that from you this morning is going to get you thr— " her soft reprimand of a few surrounding subordinates was cut short as the intercom system of the Aphelion screeched to life. Pursing her lips, Rosha turned her attention to the early morning broadcast as the surrounding voices faded into terse whispers.

“ — to return to their departments immediately. I repeat. Crew members aboard are required to return to their departments immediately. Further information regarding today's tasks will follow. And Kanon, I mean, Dr. Norimizu, the captain demands you to know that he's going to strap you — “

At that point, she had stopped listening. Shaking her head slightly, she let out an amused scoff. Nothing new. Well, the order for the crew to return to their departments posed some questions, but she figured she could wait for the chief to arrive to raise them. No, no— it was the captain's... Pointed remarks about Dr. Norimizu that caused her to chuckle.

If she knew Kanon, he was probably still with Maxim, pounding back darkside cola as they wasted the early morning glued to that old-age game station. She could hear them as she had made her rounds through the research living quarters earlier, being as non-discrete as they always were.

Now, Maxim, he had a soft spot for that kid; one she didn't quite understand, but couldn't fault him for. He just had more patience than she did, somehow. But, if she knew Maxim, he probably show up with Kanon trailing behind him, any minute now.

As the company resumed their conversations, she counted the seconds, listening for the security department door—

Whoosh.

Rosha smirked at the sound of Kanon’s tell-tale footfalls as they entered the department

One hundred and twenty-four. She knew Maxim too well.

"Hmm, did someone say something to me? Because I know someone knows better than to ask me that." Rosha didn’t even open her eyes at the sound of Kanon’s voice. She knew better than that. She bit her tongue, fighting the urge to berate him for his use of "T"; the nickname she only allowed Bean to use seemed to be moving too fast around the ship. Kanon definitely did not get to use it. However, his proclamation of intention caught her off-guard, shifting her thoughts from annoyance to amusement, her vivacious laugh melting in with the crowd.

She rose into a stretch, rolling her wrists as she reached her hands towards the ceiling. Her eyes fluttered open, squinting at the harsh, yellow light of the room. She quickly scanned the room before settling on Maxim and Kanon, who were both standing in the middle of the commons. She was quick to lock eyes with Max, giving him a wink before making her way over to them.

“I'm sorry, do you think you can handle this job? A stiff breeze could catch that lab coat of yours and you'd go flying." Another round of laughter ran around the room as Rosha planted herself in front of the two, crossing her arms across her chest. She may have been shorter than both of them, but she made up for her stature in attitude. And faux intimidation.

She furrowed her eyebrows at the audacity Kanon was vomiting out this morning. She gave Maxim a pointed look; without a doubt, she was sure he was at least partially responsible for this.

“Easy, Fitrei. Back up; you know the drill." She held her hand up to wave away the annoyed agent, catching him stepping forward out of the corner of her eye as the kid ducked behind Max. Kanon really knew how to annoy the wrong people; Dennis Fitrei could crush the kid with one hand. One day, she supposed she'd let him. Well, no, no, she wouldn't, but she could dream, couldn't she?

Rosha chuckled as Kanon asked about the chief's whereabouts. "Oh, I'm sure she'd love to entertain your... enthusiasm today." She gave Kanon an over-eager smile, motioning him with a dramatic flourish to one of the couches in the sitting area. "Take a seat, kid; she'll be here any minute."

"By the way, love the look you've got going on today. Very... niche." She bumped Maxim with her shoulder with a smirk, using her index and pinky fingers in a swooping motion to emphasize his growing dark circles. Not even twenty minutes into the day and she was already teasing him— nothing short of normal.

 

[sophocles]

roleplay - the legend of zorro
genre - fantasy
concept - monster hunters
character - osran gyves, resident drunk
type - intermediate response
word count - 887


‧₊˚♪‧࿐₊˚⊹

▽ sᴄʀᴏʟʟ ​

"If you can't finish them, just take them with us."

An unfinished bottle of alcohol was unlikely for Osran. As the Wolf Slayer called for more wine to be brought to the table, he paused, mid-sip. His amber eye drifted down in front of him, where two bottles stood completely dry, and a third bottle had just been opened. A fourth bottle was produced moments after the request.

Well, perhaps, three bottles were enough. His limit was far from that in terms of wine (the weakest of alcohol, in his opinion), but that remaining fourth bottle may serve a greater purpose for his future. Given the distressing display seen in the carriage, it was obvious the man was going to need all the alcohol he could lay his hands on to survive just speaking to his comrades.

Of course, he had already spent the majority of his money on alcohol rations; much more than he spent on food and water combined. It was the waters of sin that he depended on for survival, after all. Yet, there would never be enough to calm his anxious mind, and an extra bottle could only set him at ease for the time ahead.

As another plate of roasted salamander was set in front of him, he drained his goblet and gingerly placed it to the side. It was an almost awkward motion, as if the goblet did not want to leave his hand; as if he did not want the goblet to leave his hand. He would have to make the remainder of the open bottle last (though that seemed almost impossible with the way the night was going). Besides, given that he could not remember the last time he had a full meal, another serving of food would be nothing but good for him to focus on.

However, before Osran could fully focus on his meal, their gracious host thought to inquire about their backgrounds. He froze, a slight panic setting into his features. He cast his gaze towards Loudfish in hopes that the man would take the bait.

"I haven't had much of an interesting life, really..."

Osran heaved a soft sigh and returned his attention to his meal. He chewed in silence, staring down at his food while lending an ear to listen to the tale of Loudfish.

He could feel a small knot form in his stomach as the man mentioned a sister who never made it into this world. His thoughts drifted to his own sisters, and—

No.

Gods, he could really use another drink right now.

Simple, boring, and traumatic, Loudfish said his story was. He had lived a darker life than Osran could have guessed. His demeanor did not suggest such, but perhaps that was a method of coping with the pain. He could understand that— though his own coping mechanisms greatly differed. To his immediate annoyance, he realized that he may have more in common with his comrade than he originally thought. The annoyance faded as the alcohol clouded his mind, however— perhaps, in Loudfish, he could find a companion. The man seemed to be able to hold his own in drink, as Osran already noticed. Maybe drinking in sorrow together was better than drinking alone.

Osran scoffed to himself, throwing the thought to the back of his mind. That seemed very highly unlikely.

There was a rather long moment of silence between the three. Feeling that all eyes were now upon him, Osran swallowed, his throat already dry. He could never be as forthcoming as they would want him to; he couldn't. He didn't raise his eye as he began to speak, taking short pauses in between to chew his food.

"Farm brat." Not necessarily false, but that wasn't the truth. Growing up on a vineyard with plenty of workers to tend the fields on their own made Osran as much of a farm brat as a king was an equal to his people.

"When I was old enough, I made my choice to travel for Ada's Abode— my only purpose in life to slay the monsters of the worlds. To protect those who couldn't help themselves." Osran could help but chuckle, though there was no trace of cheer in his voice. It was as if he was making fun of the boy he was those long, eighteen years ago.

"Yet, in the end, those monsters took my arm, and my eye, and my fa—" He stopped himself from speaking any further. He couldn't; he wouldn't. The pain was still so fresh, even after all these years. A pain that he could never rid, lest he stoops so low as to forgive himself for what happened. It was a constant reminder of who he was and what he had become. Punishment for crimes he never committed.

"That was five years ago. Didn't get better. Doesn't get better. With no thanks." He scoffed, his lips curled into a cruel, mirthless smile. He dropped his fork on his empty plate with a clatter, grabbing his goblet in one hand and the half-opened third bottle of wine in the other. So much for making it last the night— Osran easily poured about three-quarters of what remained into the goblet. He needed to drink to forget again.

He spoke too much. He remembered too much.

"Didn't stop me, however. Still slaying monsters, though the pay was never worth it. Until now." He raised his goblet in the direction of the Wolf Slayer, nodding in his head in respect towards the woman. In one swift motion, he relieved the goblet of its only duty and set it back on the table.

"What of the Wolf Slayer? Do the stories we hear carry truth?" While Osran was more than curious about the powerful woman who sat in front of him, he was more concerned in steering the topic of conversation away from himself. He knew he couldn't speak on it again.

 

[sophocles]

roleplay - the dead, dead west
genre - fantasy western
concept - the one that got away
character - jasper calloway, tombstone lawman
type - intermediate response
word count - 452


‧₊˚♪‧࿐₊˚⊹

▽ sᴄʀᴏʟʟ ​

As the outlaw rolled onto his feet, Percy stepped out of the shadows and into the light. The badge upon his chest glinted as it caught the attention of the sun, not unlike the eyes that stared out from under the shadow of his hat.

”So says the man standing at the end of my rifle.” Percy scoffed, keeping steady aim on the figure standing before him. As the outlaw began to take a few steps back, the sheriff shook his head in annoyance. Outlaws were all the damn same— back them into a corner and they only become more smug— even the ones who never get caught.

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the outlaw’s sudden change of heart, but he didn’t lower his guard. He knew the wraith would jump at any chance to take advantage of the situation. Percy didn’t know what his game was, but he sure as hell wasn’t playing into it. Not anymore.

”No, I ain’t gonna kill ya. You don’t get off that easy.” He growled, taking another step towards the outlaw.

”Robbery, kidnapping, assault, murder.” With each crime, he took another step forward. ”With years of transgression that you have not yet paid for, justice needs to be rightly compensated.”

He was face to face with the phantom now. Or, rather, face to mask, as close as the rifle would allow them. The outlaw’s mug was hidden behind a sheet of black fabric— save for his eyes. He didn’t know what he had expected as he stared into those eyes, but it was not what stared back at him. Sunken eyes that betrayed decrepit age, one of which was painted as white as the pages in a preacher’s bible. Their expression made him feel all-overish. He wanted to draw his own away— and yet, he felt as if he was drawn into them. There was something else there he couldn’t quite make out.

”And you even thinking about jumping, I’ll make you wish I’d just shot you dead right here.” Orange-hued magicks swirled around his wrists as he silently prepared to cast a shielding spell. Should the outlaw be stupid enough to take a dive, he’d be right there to catch him. Ain’t no way in all the hells that he’d allow the wraith to escape. Not again.

Percy raised his head towards the outlaw, the sun revealing the stone-cold expression set upon his face. ”I’ve waited a decade for this day, and I ain’t about to let you get away. Not this time, Mortis.” The condemnation that dripped from his voice was enough to match the venom that had been spat out at him.

“You ain’t a ghost story anymore.”

 

[sophocles]

roleplay - wasteland survival guide
genre - post-apocalyptic
concept - fallout three
character - bodie calhoun, mercenary for hire
type - intermediate response
word count - 941


‧₊˚♪‧࿐₊˚⊹

▽ sᴄʀᴏʟʟ ​

Bodie breathed a silent sigh of relief when the young woman muttered in agreement— albeit ever so begrudgingly. With one last dig at his ego, the Lone Wanderer stood, slamming her bottle of nuka-cola onto the table. The urge to engage with her obvious attempt to provoke him tempted him, but he swallowed the retort before it could leave his throat. His eyes narrowed at her, but they didn’t follow as she walked away.

He found himself staring into the void her absence had created, another drag of the cigarette adding to the noxious haze surrounding him. Something was gnawing at him— his conscience. He knew exactly what would be waiting for her on the road to Rivet City. He’d let her walk right into that. She was just a kid, on her own, in a cruel and unforgiving world. Just like he had been. The knot in his stomach churned with unease. His mouth felt suddenly dry. He shook his head in discomfort, trying to rid himself of the thoughts— but they persisted, as thick as the murk that encompassed him.

No. No. He made the right choice. It wasn’t his business. He didn’t have time for a charity case. He had more pressing issues. Whatever he needed to tell himself.

A loud voice pulled him out of his rumination; a familiar voice. Bodie shifted around his seat, looking towards the direction of the commotion and inadvertently locking eyes with the Lone Wanderer. He frowned as she stared him down from across the room. Her smile seemed almost ghoulish in the eerie light of the metro station— as she proceeded to denounce him in front of everyone.

Bodie stared after her in shock, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape, as she marched out and towards the exit.

Oh, that little sh—

It took him a second to process the situation, though the commotion in the bar was quick to bring him back to his senses. He could feel his cheeks start to flush. He could feel his teeth grinding against each other. He could feel himself wanting to shrink under all of the stares.

Oh, she was brash and straightforward, alright— but she knew how to use those faults to her advantage. Smart. He’d underestimated her; a mistake he would not be making again.

He supposed he had two options: stay and take the hit to his reputation, or leave and take her all the way to Rivet City. Both were terrible. On one hand, he’d lose quite a bit of credibility. There was a reason the people of the wasteland had learned not to mess with him— and he refused to let her undermine him. On the other hand, Rivet City was at least two days' travel from here, and given what he'd seen of her, he wasn’t even certain he'd be able to make it that far without wanting to blow his brains out.

Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.

Either way, time to go.

The commotion began to fade as Bodie stood up, throwing his eyes around the room and casting a glare of contempt at everyone he could see. Throwing his cigarette butt on the ground, he squashed it under his boot, twisting his shoe to grind it into the crumbling concrete. “This is none of your business.” He barked, his voice low and gruff, tilting his head to the side. The patrons of the bar quickly turned back to their own business, desperate to avoid his withering gaze. He knew all too well what they were all thinking. Despite the laughter and the gossip— he was still the one they called the Coonhound. He could tear them all to shreds if he wanted.

He slung the satchel across his shoulder and the shotgun across his back. His hand hovered above the pistol strapped to his thigh as he stalked towards the bar, his fingers twitching. Those in his way were smart enough to get out of it.

He slammed a few caps down on the bar, offering nothing else but a glare for the ghoul. Whether the bartender had anything to say for his unappreciated intrusion into Bodie’s life, he wouldn’t know; he didn’t bother waiting for a response. He was more than eager to leave Station 8 behind.

With the din of the bar fading behind him, he jogged down the ramp that led towards the exterior gate. He could feel a faint breeze against his face, carrying the stench of the wasteland down to the station below. It had been a few days since he was up on the surface; he always forgot how much he enjoyed the warmth of the sun against his skin. It almost made him excited for the impending trek. Almost.

He caught a glimpse of her bright blue vault suit as he turned the corner. "Hold on—" He muttered, making quick work to reach her, lengthening his stride until he was a couple of feet away. He just stood there, staring at her. He said nothing for a long while, arms crossed against his chest, face furrowed in an irritated frown.

However, something inside him seemed to give way, and he heaved a defeated sigh, rubbing his hand across his face.

“Fine, kid. You win.” He grumbled, though it seemed more to himself than to her. “I’ll take you as far as Rivet City." He repositioned his shotgun on his back as he made up the distance between them. But—” He continued, quick to point a finger at her in emphasis. “We’re going to do this my way. My rules. I’m in charge. Got it?”