teefies
Swamp Witch
Inner Sanctum Nobility
♔ Champion ♔
---
Do you hear it now,
the distant roar of not-quite-thunder?
Somewhere in the watchful night
echoes the bellow of the untold.
---
Hello, all. Another fresh batch of nonsense to staple to the bulletin board. My name is Teef, and I am a menace. Your name is Stranger, and you are the unknown. Nice to meetcha.
What I Am
What I Write
Short answer: Whatever I, or now we, want.
Long answer: I have a strong soft spot for dark fantasy, gritty dystopian worlds, magic (usually sick as hell), romance (usually sordid) and intrigue. I ultimately want to craft an RP where there's more happening behind the scenes than may appear at first glance; RP is a very fun format for this, because now there are two heads keeping secrets. This can happen in just about any setting, whether it's fully fantastical or based on our world, but I very much enjoy worldbuilding and the idea of characters as "moving pieces." We have as wide a universe for them to run around in as we can create.
I like a story with some bite to it. This does not inherently need to involve a world steeped in angst; in fact, I generally prefer to try explore a broader spectrum of human emotion than "sad, angry, and horny." (Those three are pretty up there on the list. Don't worry.) Happiness is a wonderful thing to let our characters have sometimes, but there will always be a point where the pendulum swings, and consequences must be faced. I live for the moment when, to use popular cadence, shit gets real.
A note on slice of life: I can do it, if you give me a plot I like enough. This is kinda rare.
A note on smut: I do it. I enjoy it. It's fun as hell. It also really gets to be too much once it takes up more than, like, a third of the story. As a rule of thumb, I would like us to be able to describe the RP in a sentence without having to mention the sexual dynamic at play (even if we have to leave out a few details).
A note on genders: I typically play women, and I typically play against men. I can also do FxF and MxM, but again, it's dependent on the story.
How I Write It
The Good
The Good
- Flexible. I can typically churn out anywhere from 500-1500 words in a post. (500 is the absolute bottom, 1500 has room to grow.) I have also been known to occasionally post upwards of 3k words, at random, as a side story or background piece. That last bit typically requires about 48 volts of electricity to the dome and an act of God to achieve, so please do not expect it from me. Whatever your preferred length of post is, I will do my best to match.
- Patient. I will never harass you for a post. Badgering a stranger for a quick bit of fiction does not sit well with me. You, I assume, are a human being, and human beings tend to do many other things than this. I might reach out after a week or so of silence just to check interest, but also, I'm not your dad, y'know? I'm just some strange reptile woman living in your computer screen, and you owe me nothing. Probably. Have we met at a seaside casino?
- Literate. At least, I think. I enjoy creating richly detailed worlds and characters, and I like to think I relay them well over text. I was a spelling bee kid, and I use English grammar like a weapon, and I can be exceptionally wordy, but as I write these out, they really sound more like red flags than selling points. (That was a joke. Please write with me.)
The Bad
- I write like a 2001 Honda with 300k miles on it that is being driven by an absolute maniac. Obviously, you need no further clarification on this statement, but I'll provide some anyway: I get tired, dude. One day I'm slamming my fingers onto my dumb little keyboard, just clickity clackiting with no regard for public safety, and the next day, I'm slumped over like a deflated parade balloon, brain melting out of my ears. As a result of this, posting speeds can be... inconsistent. I aim to reply to posts within a few days, but sometimes it can be up to a week. Any longer than that, and I will communicate somehow. I do expect some level of patience from my partners. If you're someone who gets easily frustrated with a story that isn't progressed daily, I respect that, but I probably won't be the perfect person to RP with.
- I'm picky. I'm very open to where our RP ends up, but it can't be nowhere, and it can't be No Capitalization Island. I need a partner that is willing to advance the story and can write with decent grammar and spelling. The lack of these two things makes me run out of steam very quickly for a story.
- I am a little shit. This can be a positive, if you're a little shit, too.
With All That Said
I will not write anything that violates site rules. This should be an obvious one, but I'm stating it here clearly anyway.
I will not write pure non-con, sexual assault, or domestic abuse as a kink. If these elements enter our story in any way, they will be treated with gravity and severity. I am not barring these themes from appearing in the RP, but I am barring them from being presented in a positive or desirable light.
I will not write intense gore, or honestly what I call "pointless human suffering." If it's the kind of thing you would see in a Saw movie, it's not for me. I need my stories to have a balance of both light and dark, but I'm not interested in everyone being miserable just for the sake of it.
Barring a huge time skip occurring in-story and us needing to populate the next generation, I am not interested whatsoever in writing a pregnant character. Please do not ask me to do this.
I will not write pure non-con, sexual assault, or domestic abuse as a kink. If these elements enter our story in any way, they will be treated with gravity and severity. I am not barring these themes from appearing in the RP, but I am barring them from being presented in a positive or desirable light.
I will not write intense gore, or honestly what I call "pointless human suffering." If it's the kind of thing you would see in a Saw movie, it's not for me. I need my stories to have a balance of both light and dark, but I'm not interested in everyone being miserable just for the sake of it.
Barring a huge time skip occurring in-story and us needing to populate the next generation, I am not interested whatsoever in writing a pregnant character. Please do not ask me to do this.
Hi! I play subs, and I confessedly really cannot do the opposite. I've tried to write doms. It reads as unhinged and unnatural, and not in the hot way.
I like BDSM a substantial amount, the gritty details of which can be discussed in PMs. Here, I will be vague: bondage/restraints, moderate pain play, manhandling/rough treatment, training, and Master/slave style relationships (even if we call it something else.) I thoroughly enjoy it when the D/s role expands beyond the bedroom and into the characters' daily lives, but it needs to be incorporated into the story in a way that feels natural.
As an assorted collection, brainwashing, medical play, and orcs in general are also easy ways to pique my interest.
I like BDSM a substantial amount, the gritty details of which can be discussed in PMs. Here, I will be vague: bondage/restraints, moderate pain play, manhandling/rough treatment, training, and Master/slave style relationships (even if we call it something else.) I thoroughly enjoy it when the D/s role expands beyond the bedroom and into the characters' daily lives, but it needs to be incorporated into the story in a way that feels natural.
As an assorted collection, brainwashing, medical play, and orcs in general are also easy ways to pique my interest.
And now, finally, at your fingertips:
The Seeds of Chaos
And The Clergymen Said
The clicking of boots on polished white marble. The rustling of tapestries shifted by the wind, or not. Blind trust and blind greed tangle into knotted webs. To stand in the light, you must plummet into darkness. To uncover the truth, you must shroud yourself in lies. To touch the divine, you must delve deep, and deeper still, into the infernal.
(spoiler alert: it's cult shenanigans.)
A Matter of Intent
Neon graffiti stamped across crumbling stone walls and the din of fear and unrest. A criminal underground rising slowly to the surface. A beacon of hope, in the form of a hero. Eyes glimmer with obsession, hands clench with hate. A clash of ideals, a clash of needs, a clash of interests, and a city caught helplessly in the crossfire.
(spoiler alert: it's superhero shenanigans.)
Haunted House
Clockwork left abandoned gathers loneliness and dust. Like a broken music box, the puppet dances its midnight dance. Prying eyes and fearful whispers, rumors of ghouls that roam the halls and devour the living, and a soul trapped behind glass eyes. Fear and loathing and regret spread like rot, blinding them all to what unimagined horrors lie waiting below the surface.
(mildly steampunk, mildly eldritch, supremely gothic.)
Until The Wheels Fall Off
The world of law, the world of order, long dead and forgotten. Human monuments overgrown with vegetation and the passage of time. Stretches of desert wasteland that separate territory from territory. The cool dark of midnight scavenging, the bite of distrust at every corner. The roar of an engine shooting out across a flat horizon. Bloody knuckles grasping at air and the frantic, panting sprint of desperation. We made it this far alive. Our only option: keep living.
(shamelessly fallout: new vegas and fury road inspired, with more environmental variety.)
In Valor And In Blood
A bonfire crackling in the night casts twisted shadows upon the faces of its watchers. A people marked by both rage and glory. A shattered history, the steady pounding of a heart fueled by adrenaline. Fear and misunderstanding ravish a war torn land, strangers roam where they should not, and in the distance, the echo of approaching drums.
(spoiler alert: it's orc shenanigans.)
Come Hell Or High Water
The sea is an angry mistress, and the sky plays along with her games. Innocence and hope and a heart leaping to escape into the deep blue wilds bash against the ever-reaching rocks of grim reality. The deep gulp of rum and salt air collides with whatever spark in the human soul continues to reach out for the goodness it cannot attain. There are no heroes here; here, there are simply pirates.
In the future, hopefully soon, I'll come back and make this last part... better. Please do not hesitate to approach me with whatever ideas you have, even if they are only tangentially related to the themes I've touched on here. I'll attach a writing sample of a recent starter I've produced, but other than that, I can only hope that this RT speaks for itself (and for me).
Until we meet again,
t e e f ♡
The market streets of Sola Rane were lined with grit, grime, and stale magic. The sun beat down with all of its might, baking the stall canopies and paved stone below. The rumbling dissonance of deals being cut and names being called, of alleyway beggars and daylight brawlers, resonated from the stone white walls of the city chapel to the banks of Salt River. The smell of steaming kipfish pies mixed with the smell of sour, watered down elixirs mixed with the smell of herbs smoldering all along the dusty streets. On one end of the cooks' alley, an argument was being had over the price of wilted greens. A couple stalls down, a child was screaming wildly as his mother dragged him away from a glimmering display of candied berries. Further south stood the door to the apothecary, where the cool and dark of the windowless shop bred pungent odors of ginkgo and insect remains. Mages and artisans had shops on the adjoining roads, only partially removing themselves from the bustle of the market square, but every corner in between there and the food vendors had been overtaken by buskers playing for loose change and ornately dressed men offering to divine the future of anyone willing to part with a few drops of magica. The market was, as always, a writhing mass of chaos and whirlwind enterprise where the air reeked of greed and desperation and deceit.
One road down from the tannery, in a place that could barely be called a tavern, Kallan Ironbright was dead drunk.
The room was largely empty, save the barkeep, an apparent couple bent towards one another across a low oaken table sharing secrets, and Kallan herself, tucked away in the darkest corner of the room, right hand gripping a wooden flagon and left hand lazily pretending to hold a pen to paper. The dim light that filtered in through half-boarded windows and flickered from poorly powered spark bulbs washed over the desolate room and left Kallan's bleary eyes scanning the walls restlessly. She blinked hard once. Twice. Thrice. Although her body was here in this room, draped in a thinly woven tunic and foraging trousers and mud caked boots, her mind was on its own adventure somewhere far away, a place where gears turned in unison and components melded together in a most formulaic manner. Slowly her thoughts swam back to her present surroundings, to the muffled din outside and the taste of fermentation on her teeth. She looked down at the pages in front of her. A few haphazard streaks of ink forming strange angles and shapes, scattered equations left unanswered, and down there, on the left hand corner:
"...combustion under high pressure with mana tempered steel -- monitor ignition delay..."
Kallan squinted at her own inebriated scrawl. As her eyes moved about the room and across the page, and as she started to stir her feet and raise her hands to rake her dirty gold hair down over her forehead, she began to realize that she was not as drunk as she had thought. For one, the room was standing squarely still and not spinning in the slightest. Secondly, her ideas were shit. Scoffing quietly at her own work and relative sobriety, she shoved the papers across the table (not a long journey, as the table was barely two feet square) just as the barkeep began to roll an empty barrel that once contained something strong down the hallway leading to the back door. He was an unnervingly rough cut man, and even moreso an unnervingly tall man. His mane of black brown hair was pulled back from his face only to reveal an overgrown beard, a brow shining with sweat, and creased and narrowed eyes. He turned these eyes towards Kallan now.
"You're overthinking it." The rumbling bass that rolled out of his chest could be mistaken as combative, but Kallan knew better.
"You don't even know what I'm doing," came her reply with a voice like scratchy wool and whiskey. It was low and even, perhaps even boyish, quiet with misgiving. She looked up at the man with tired eyes, but all he saw was the white glint of her round spectacles and the honey blonde hair that stuck straight out around them. "Dirge, do you know how to decrease the smoke production of powdered rotmilk when you ignite it with snakeflame and sixty units of Ilonian sulphur?" There was a beat in the air, a pause between them in which they both knew the answer to Kallan's question. And then, "Because I don't either."
Silence hung in the air for a few more seconds. The couple by the table had ended their conversation, and were casting strange looks at the barkeep and his patron as they stepped out into the heat and bite of the market. Dirge examined Kallan with his inscrutable gaze before stooping back down to brace his hands against his cargo. "Think about the honeycat trap. You said it came to you in your sleep."
"It came to me while I was blacked out in Lumera City." Kallan's voice was dry and humorless.
Dirge sighed and continued on his path towards the back door, barrel thumping loudly with each step. "Well, I suppose you're in the right place, then," he grumbled over one massive shoulder. The door creaked open, closed, and then Kallan was well and truly alone, surrounded on all sides by dark tavern walls and the smell of drink. Just like always. She glanced towards the front door and imagined facing the chaos outside. The rabid merchants thrusting their amulets and talismans into her hands as they clambered for a sale, and the inescapable knowledge when she touched each one that any semblance of magica left in them had long decayed and grown stale and useless. The staggering price of everything from copper ingots to milled grain. The crowd.
Kallan swallowed, or tried to, but her mouth had dried up just like the magic that these streets had once been paved with. She clutched her flagon for dear life and began to raise it to her lips, hoping desperately that the oblivion of drink would spur something, anything, to happen.
One road down from the tannery, in a place that could barely be called a tavern, Kallan Ironbright was dead drunk.
The room was largely empty, save the barkeep, an apparent couple bent towards one another across a low oaken table sharing secrets, and Kallan herself, tucked away in the darkest corner of the room, right hand gripping a wooden flagon and left hand lazily pretending to hold a pen to paper. The dim light that filtered in through half-boarded windows and flickered from poorly powered spark bulbs washed over the desolate room and left Kallan's bleary eyes scanning the walls restlessly. She blinked hard once. Twice. Thrice. Although her body was here in this room, draped in a thinly woven tunic and foraging trousers and mud caked boots, her mind was on its own adventure somewhere far away, a place where gears turned in unison and components melded together in a most formulaic manner. Slowly her thoughts swam back to her present surroundings, to the muffled din outside and the taste of fermentation on her teeth. She looked down at the pages in front of her. A few haphazard streaks of ink forming strange angles and shapes, scattered equations left unanswered, and down there, on the left hand corner:
"...combustion under high pressure with mana tempered steel -- monitor ignition delay..."
Kallan squinted at her own inebriated scrawl. As her eyes moved about the room and across the page, and as she started to stir her feet and raise her hands to rake her dirty gold hair down over her forehead, she began to realize that she was not as drunk as she had thought. For one, the room was standing squarely still and not spinning in the slightest. Secondly, her ideas were shit. Scoffing quietly at her own work and relative sobriety, she shoved the papers across the table (not a long journey, as the table was barely two feet square) just as the barkeep began to roll an empty barrel that once contained something strong down the hallway leading to the back door. He was an unnervingly rough cut man, and even moreso an unnervingly tall man. His mane of black brown hair was pulled back from his face only to reveal an overgrown beard, a brow shining with sweat, and creased and narrowed eyes. He turned these eyes towards Kallan now.
"You're overthinking it." The rumbling bass that rolled out of his chest could be mistaken as combative, but Kallan knew better.
"You don't even know what I'm doing," came her reply with a voice like scratchy wool and whiskey. It was low and even, perhaps even boyish, quiet with misgiving. She looked up at the man with tired eyes, but all he saw was the white glint of her round spectacles and the honey blonde hair that stuck straight out around them. "Dirge, do you know how to decrease the smoke production of powdered rotmilk when you ignite it with snakeflame and sixty units of Ilonian sulphur?" There was a beat in the air, a pause between them in which they both knew the answer to Kallan's question. And then, "Because I don't either."
Silence hung in the air for a few more seconds. The couple by the table had ended their conversation, and were casting strange looks at the barkeep and his patron as they stepped out into the heat and bite of the market. Dirge examined Kallan with his inscrutable gaze before stooping back down to brace his hands against his cargo. "Think about the honeycat trap. You said it came to you in your sleep."
"It came to me while I was blacked out in Lumera City." Kallan's voice was dry and humorless.
Dirge sighed and continued on his path towards the back door, barrel thumping loudly with each step. "Well, I suppose you're in the right place, then," he grumbled over one massive shoulder. The door creaked open, closed, and then Kallan was well and truly alone, surrounded on all sides by dark tavern walls and the smell of drink. Just like always. She glanced towards the front door and imagined facing the chaos outside. The rabid merchants thrusting their amulets and talismans into her hands as they clambered for a sale, and the inescapable knowledge when she touched each one that any semblance of magica left in them had long decayed and grown stale and useless. The staggering price of everything from copper ingots to milled grain. The crowd.
Kallan swallowed, or tried to, but her mouth had dried up just like the magic that these streets had once been paved with. She clutched her flagon for dear life and began to raise it to her lips, hoping desperately that the oblivion of drink would spur something, anything, to happen.
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