exodias
it's alright, it's just a fleshwound
── .✦
hi ! i'm valentin (val or v) and i'm looking to get back into rp after quotev shut down a couple months ago. this site is pretty new to me, so please bear with me on that.
outside of rp i have a heavy interest in soulsborne games, d&d, high fantasy, ttrpgs, and gothic literature which influence what i am looking to write a lot. i’m mainly interested in worldbuilding an original setting, but i have a few plots in here as well. feel free to pm me if anything here seems like we'd be a good fit to write together ! (i fear this is pretty long winded, but thanks for reading!)
outside of rp i have a heavy interest in soulsborne games, d&d, high fantasy, ttrpgs, and gothic literature which influence what i am looking to write a lot. i’m mainly interested in worldbuilding an original setting, but i have a few plots in here as well. feel free to pm me if anything here seems like we'd be a good fit to write together ! (i fear this is pretty long winded, but thanks for reading!)
── .✦
✦ valentin, 22, he/him, queer, central time
✦ ~10 years of rp experience on various other platforms
✦ i work & go to school full time, so my replies may be sparse (guaranteed at least once a week) but i'll do my best
✦ i lovee ooc chatting, about rp / characters & not. i'd like to become friends with people i'm writing with, especially if it's long term. i use discord for ooc communications.
✦ i will only write with people over 18, preferably people who are at least 20
✦ literary (400-1k words, generally but can be less or more; always at least a couple hundred words)
✦ not interested in doubling
✦ i tend to only use animated (usually from video games) face claims
✦ i have no preference writing as/against characters of a certain gender, but i do generally prefer writing queer stories; most, if not all, of my characters are lgbt+
✦ i Will send headcanons and pin boards and playlists and maybe art ?! lots of bonus content from me
✦ open to romance but i prefer action/adventure as the main plot hook. also, i love an ensemble cast
✦ currently, i am not interested in contemporary stuff at all
── .✦
WORDBANK – fantasy, dark fantasy, WARLOCKS, western, enemies to lovers, VAMPIRES, medieval, victorian, MONSTER HUNTERS, pirates, pulp fiction, noir, detectives, lovecraftian, science-fantasy, technology and magic, mythology, ttrpg inspired, cosmic horror, FAE, changelings, WITCHES, morally grey characters, anti-heroes, FOUND FAMILY
── .✦
✦ as in the intro, i have a few basic plots in mind but i’m kind of crazy about worldbuilding and would really enjoy doing a lot of that with a long term partner. the worldbuilding stuff is pretty vague right now, just very generalized jumping off points.
high / dungeons & dragons-esque fantasy | ✦✦✦✦✦
very, very open to a lot of things with this ! i lean more towards very high, dark fantasy but either of those can be lessened. i’m also very interested in the combination of technology & magic in fantasy settings, so that's another option, too. very open to a lot of different things, so long as they fall into some fantasy genre
call of cthulhu inspired / lovecraftian / cosmic horror | ✦✦✦✦✦
this is heavily inspired by the fact i love ttrpgs and call of cthulhu is my preferred system. i'm a pulp cthulhu gm and i just love the idea of a really pulpy setting to write in. this is open to a lottt of different directions but i also would like to maybe pull in some ideas and tropes from the western genre (COSMIC HORROR COWBOYS, BABY).
space opera / western science fantasy | ✦✦✦
i don't have much for this but in my head it’s partially inspired by borderlands; i’d be open to a lot of ideas if the genre is interesting to you
vampires will never hurt you | ✦✦✦✦
monster hunter duo – tension, not exactly friends, rivals (?!) that are forced to work together because they're both great at their job – but one gets bitten and turned by a vampire. either/or/both have been very adamant before the turning that they'd want to be killed if they ever got bitten, but the other can't bring them to do it. rivals to lovers plot while navigating the changes of being a vampire.
✦✦ | warlock / patron
✦✦✦ | knight / prince
✦ | artist / muse
✦✦ | fae / mortal
✦✦✦✦ | anything with faeries
✦✦✦ | anything with vampires
── .✦
✦ these are from past rps set in an original verse; some of the context will be missing but to give you an idea of my style i've included a couple.
tucked away in the north of the derocles estate grounds is a small cathedral. disconnected from the main castle, save for an open walled, seemingly endless stone pathway, it sees little use. there's rumors whispered in the halls that blood still pools hot between the pews like it's freshly spilt, that if you close your eyes to pray there, when you open them something will have seeped in and you'll look out with a gaze that's less than human. tamer, more frequently, that animals are still sacrificed there when both moons are black in the sky.
⠀⠀none of this is true; it's all leftover superstition from avalon and her transcendence. none of the staff worked under her, none of them knew that the ritual was done far from the chapel, closer to their daily lives in the castle proper.
⠀⠀all that's left of her legacy in the chapel, now, is priest. today, for the first time since he was named head of the house, he’s brought company. or, rather, in a bid for privacy and not having to explain who or what vespertine is, has invoked company in the church.
⠀⠀priest stands at the altar, hands clasped in front of him. he stands with his back to the main chamber, face downturned at the collection of things he’s accumulated from across the castle in preparation. priest’s experiments were known to his advisors, those closest in proximity to the seat of power, and there had been no questions about him packing a specific book along with the rest of the items he’d been instructed to bring along. to him, now, in the low light of the chapel, it looks like a fool’s pile of trash on the floor.
⠀⠀above, a rose window inlaid with swirling, intricate stained glass softens the lighting. it could be the last moments of twilight rather than the middle of afternoon. below, atop an altar cloth interwoven with purple and silver, amongst past offerings for gods that have never answered him, sits the moonflower.
⠀⠀and, between, avalon stares down at him, cold and displeased. framed in silver, draped in the deep blue of the almost-night sky she sits beautiful and unblinking on the dark metal throne. the painting is over a century old, catching her hair in the same twilight shades. posed at her right, with the same dark hair, sits her wife; both cold, ethereal in the same way as the space between stars in the night sky, yet her eyes are lighter, her mouth ever so faintly litled upwards – they do not look happy, but, at the very least, they appear human, regal but real and almost tangible. the painting and a dark, hazy memory of a night priest has tried and tried to forget are the only times he's seen her likeness; and, still, she hangs over him like a ghost haunting the halls.
⠀⠀he can only imagine what she would say if she was here in more than oil. he imagines it clearly – that voice reverberating in his ears and haunting him down to the marrow. the words he envisions are cruel, interlaced with all his failings, in magic an otherwise. he fights to curl his shoulders in against insults that are not there beyond his own anxieties.
⠀⠀he turns, half cloak fluttering. it's a little, erratic movement, head snapping up sharply to find vespertine. he keeps his hands at his sides in fists to hide their shaking. for embarrassment and self-conjured fear.
⠀⠀he has not done more than take vespertine down the winding cobbled path to the castle’s chapel, sent up a silent, indirect prayer, and yet he's ready to give up on the entire endeavor.
⠀⠀“ it’s not going to work. “ he moves to curl a fist in the front of his robes to keep from wringing them out of nervous habit. “ why don't we hold off until the morning ? “
⠀⠀it's a ploy, a plea. if they put it off until the next day – and then, when the time comes to try again, he will find a way to move it to the next, and then the next, and on and on – he will not have to try. if he does not try, he will not fail. and if he does not fail he will not be punished. by vespertine, or his council, or whatever cosmic power has it out for him. he's convinced himself fully that it's safer to lay and let things fizzle out and die around him than act of his own ambitions.
⠀⠀none of this is true; it's all leftover superstition from avalon and her transcendence. none of the staff worked under her, none of them knew that the ritual was done far from the chapel, closer to their daily lives in the castle proper.
⠀⠀all that's left of her legacy in the chapel, now, is priest. today, for the first time since he was named head of the house, he’s brought company. or, rather, in a bid for privacy and not having to explain who or what vespertine is, has invoked company in the church.
⠀⠀priest stands at the altar, hands clasped in front of him. he stands with his back to the main chamber, face downturned at the collection of things he’s accumulated from across the castle in preparation. priest’s experiments were known to his advisors, those closest in proximity to the seat of power, and there had been no questions about him packing a specific book along with the rest of the items he’d been instructed to bring along. to him, now, in the low light of the chapel, it looks like a fool’s pile of trash on the floor.
⠀⠀above, a rose window inlaid with swirling, intricate stained glass softens the lighting. it could be the last moments of twilight rather than the middle of afternoon. below, atop an altar cloth interwoven with purple and silver, amongst past offerings for gods that have never answered him, sits the moonflower.
⠀⠀and, between, avalon stares down at him, cold and displeased. framed in silver, draped in the deep blue of the almost-night sky she sits beautiful and unblinking on the dark metal throne. the painting is over a century old, catching her hair in the same twilight shades. posed at her right, with the same dark hair, sits her wife; both cold, ethereal in the same way as the space between stars in the night sky, yet her eyes are lighter, her mouth ever so faintly litled upwards – they do not look happy, but, at the very least, they appear human, regal but real and almost tangible. the painting and a dark, hazy memory of a night priest has tried and tried to forget are the only times he's seen her likeness; and, still, she hangs over him like a ghost haunting the halls.
⠀⠀he can only imagine what she would say if she was here in more than oil. he imagines it clearly – that voice reverberating in his ears and haunting him down to the marrow. the words he envisions are cruel, interlaced with all his failings, in magic an otherwise. he fights to curl his shoulders in against insults that are not there beyond his own anxieties.
⠀⠀he turns, half cloak fluttering. it's a little, erratic movement, head snapping up sharply to find vespertine. he keeps his hands at his sides in fists to hide their shaking. for embarrassment and self-conjured fear.
⠀⠀he has not done more than take vespertine down the winding cobbled path to the castle’s chapel, sent up a silent, indirect prayer, and yet he's ready to give up on the entire endeavor.
⠀⠀“ it’s not going to work. “ he moves to curl a fist in the front of his robes to keep from wringing them out of nervous habit. “ why don't we hold off until the morning ? “
⠀⠀it's a ploy, a plea. if they put it off until the next day – and then, when the time comes to try again, he will find a way to move it to the next, and then the next, and on and on – he will not have to try. if he does not try, he will not fail. and if he does not fail he will not be punished. by vespertine, or his council, or whatever cosmic power has it out for him. he's convinced himself fully that it's safer to lay and let things fizzle out and die around him than act of his own ambitions.
⠀⠀of course his reconnaissance was an utter failure, doomed from the start. just his fucking luck. lysander’s going to kill him, if one of these guards doesn't do the job for him.
⠀⠀the door opens and his hand is finding his hip, where a blade should be. it comes away empty.
⠀⠀“ fuck. “
⠀⠀barreled into, winded, he knows he's out armed, immediately. the sword that should have been in the scabbard at his hip is not there – hasn't been the whole time. it was tossed out before he left the other man slumped on the floor, with no thought to retrieve it. solitaire has no thoughts about that man, but he has every thought for himself. he's cursing everything, himself, his inability to use a sword, his inability to think things through.
⠀⠀he's grappled, instantaneously. his brain is a scramble – he would be so fucking embarrassed if he died here, after getting so close to completing the mission, with the prospect of lysander turning around right as he's ran through with a sword. he can not let that happen. his knee is coming up, going for a low blow but the arms around him just tighten, even when he throws his weight forward.
⠀⠀there's no plan, just his head ducked and arms around his throat. he can't even see, just throws a punch up and across and hopes it's aimed well enough to get this motherfucker off him. it's fist, metal clad, meeting jaw with a sharp crunch. the ridges of the gauntlet catch and embed, tearing through to the teeth.
⠀⠀and again, “ fuck. “ when the guard over him stumbles back enough to let go of him.
⠀⠀he has to shake his wrist out from the impact, drops his hands and turns his chin with a jerk. it's stupid, so stupid, when he knows there's a blade being pulled on him but he's wide eyed and searching for lysander. hair falling in his eyes, he can barely see through the red before his ears ring. maybe the blade found his throat faster than he thought, as he fades out.
⠀⠀there's nothing, for an indiscernible amount of time. infinite black. all of the cosmos at once, minus the stars. one constant resonating note, like a piano key struck that won't stop its reverberation. he thinks, maybe, this is hell. purgatory ? would he be able to think if he was dead ? oh gods, is he dead ? none of this is real, it's just empty time, some space between awake and asleep and dreaming. it's probably hell.
⠀⠀and then he's back, sticky with blood with lysander above him.
⠀⠀“ that was, ” his breathing is coming in pants, eyes fluttering as he comes back, “ really hot. you’re like my, ah, knight in shining armor. “
⠀⠀for half a moment, he's turning his face to be pressed, somewhat against lysander’s chest, the curve of his shoulder, neck, wherever he can fit. he’s seeking respite, the safety of being tucked against someone alive in the aftermath. it's equally selfish and embarrassing, but it's instinctive. he's pulling a deep breath to steady himself and letting it out in a sigh.
⠀⠀standing on his own, he's looking down, blinking slowly at the guard at his feet. he's aiming a solid kick to the side of his head, for good measure. it does nothing – doesn’t make up for his complete panic when the man was still standing but it makes him **feel better. there's another expletive muttered, cursing the man or his mother, before he's looking up at lysander’s face with a nod.
⠀⠀“ yeah, let's get the fuck out of here. “ he's looping his arm through lysander’s, already moving. they can figure out support configuration on the way, if lysander still needs thin to bear any weight. compared to before he's jumpy, adrenaline-filled and ready to get the hell back home. “
⠀⠀the door opens and his hand is finding his hip, where a blade should be. it comes away empty.
⠀⠀“ fuck. “
⠀⠀barreled into, winded, he knows he's out armed, immediately. the sword that should have been in the scabbard at his hip is not there – hasn't been the whole time. it was tossed out before he left the other man slumped on the floor, with no thought to retrieve it. solitaire has no thoughts about that man, but he has every thought for himself. he's cursing everything, himself, his inability to use a sword, his inability to think things through.
⠀⠀he's grappled, instantaneously. his brain is a scramble – he would be so fucking embarrassed if he died here, after getting so close to completing the mission, with the prospect of lysander turning around right as he's ran through with a sword. he can not let that happen. his knee is coming up, going for a low blow but the arms around him just tighten, even when he throws his weight forward.
⠀⠀there's no plan, just his head ducked and arms around his throat. he can't even see, just throws a punch up and across and hopes it's aimed well enough to get this motherfucker off him. it's fist, metal clad, meeting jaw with a sharp crunch. the ridges of the gauntlet catch and embed, tearing through to the teeth.
⠀⠀and again, “ fuck. “ when the guard over him stumbles back enough to let go of him.
⠀⠀he has to shake his wrist out from the impact, drops his hands and turns his chin with a jerk. it's stupid, so stupid, when he knows there's a blade being pulled on him but he's wide eyed and searching for lysander. hair falling in his eyes, he can barely see through the red before his ears ring. maybe the blade found his throat faster than he thought, as he fades out.
⠀⠀there's nothing, for an indiscernible amount of time. infinite black. all of the cosmos at once, minus the stars. one constant resonating note, like a piano key struck that won't stop its reverberation. he thinks, maybe, this is hell. purgatory ? would he be able to think if he was dead ? oh gods, is he dead ? none of this is real, it's just empty time, some space between awake and asleep and dreaming. it's probably hell.
⠀⠀and then he's back, sticky with blood with lysander above him.
⠀⠀“ that was, ” his breathing is coming in pants, eyes fluttering as he comes back, “ really hot. you’re like my, ah, knight in shining armor. “
⠀⠀for half a moment, he's turning his face to be pressed, somewhat against lysander’s chest, the curve of his shoulder, neck, wherever he can fit. he’s seeking respite, the safety of being tucked against someone alive in the aftermath. it's equally selfish and embarrassing, but it's instinctive. he's pulling a deep breath to steady himself and letting it out in a sigh.
⠀⠀standing on his own, he's looking down, blinking slowly at the guard at his feet. he's aiming a solid kick to the side of his head, for good measure. it does nothing – doesn’t make up for his complete panic when the man was still standing but it makes him **feel better. there's another expletive muttered, cursing the man or his mother, before he's looking up at lysander’s face with a nod.
⠀⠀“ yeah, let's get the fuck out of here. “ he's looping his arm through lysander’s, already moving. they can figure out support configuration on the way, if lysander still needs thin to bear any weight. compared to before he's jumpy, adrenaline-filled and ready to get the hell back home. “
