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I Came with Jaguar Eyes and a Temple Heart
Mesoamerican Dark Fantasy • Long-Form Roleplay • Obsidian Courtesy Over a Carnivorous Design
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Greetings.
I arrive as one arrives at the lip of a cenote. Quietly. With gold at the throat, incense in the lungs, and something patient watching from the green.
My tastes lean toward Mesoamerican dark fantasy. I write the kind of stories that smell of rain on carved stone. Of braziers coughing sweet smoke into temple dark. Of obsidian altars polished by kneeling hands and less tender offerings. I am drawn to jungle kingdoms, to sacred violence, to old gods whose beauty is inseparable from their hunger. I like the hiss of leaves against stepped pyramids. I like the gleam of jade in low firelight. I like stories that understand blood is not always desecration. Sometimes it is memory. Sometimes it is covenant.
A great deal of my writing is shaped by my love for Nahuatl culture and the symbolic marrow it lends the page. Not as ornament. Not as a costume to be hung over generic fantasy. I like it in the bones. In the architecture. In the theology. In the teeth of the world itself. I want jungle heat in the prose. I want feather and fang. I want serpent, sun, cenote, marrow, sacrifice, bloom, and ruin all kneeling in the same chamber. I like beauty with claws. I like reverence that knows how to bite.
I seek long-term, long-form, literate to novella-style roleplay. I do not hunger for something brief and flavorless. I want stories with a slow pulse and a dangerous memory. I want tension that prowls before it springs. Character arcs that ripen under pressure. Intimacy with consequence. Conflict with a spiritual weight to it. I enjoy partners who understand that the richest moments are not always the loudest ones. Sometimes the sharpest scene is the hand hovering over the knife, the prayer spoken too softly, the jaguar in the reeds that has not yet decided whether to reveal itself.
I know my style is niche. I have accepted that with perfect peace. The jungle is not made to comfort every traveler. Some people want broad roads and bright inns. I prefer vine-choked paths, shrine smoke, lacquered masks, and the sound of drums somewhere deeper in the dark. I do not write to be for everyone. I write for those who hear something in that and feel their pulse answer back.
So if you are looking for writing steeped in sacred dread, dark beauty, predatory grace, and the slow unfurling of something ancient beneath the canopy, then perhaps our paths were meant to cross.
If not, there is no insult in it. Not every heart is called to the same altar.
Still, I am pleased to be here.
I look forward to seeing who steps nearest the stones.
May your ink stay warm.
May your gods keep their eyes upon you.
May your stories leave tracks in the wet earth.
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Jungle prayer. Obsidian tongue. A patient hunger in silk and gold.
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