Nefoedd
A wild Neffi has appeared
★ Hi there, I'm Neffi! ★
These are my current games, if you're curious to see how I write. I am blessed with the most wonderful partners.
★ I Found An Angel At My Church Last Night ★ The Ballad Before the Opera ★ ☦ Deliver us From Evil ★ ✢ Blindly Betrothed ✢ ★ The Trouble Magnate ★
These are my current games, if you're curious to see how I write. I am blessed with the most wonderful partners.
★ I Found An Angel At My Church Last Night ★ The Ballad Before the Opera ★ ☦ Deliver us From Evil ★ ✢ Blindly Betrothed ✢ ★ The Trouble Magnate ★
First off, I am an easy-going, patient partner. I'm not going to throw a bunch of 'I need this', or 'you must write in this way' or 'this is how often I require a response' stipulations out there. Every partnership has different dynamics and flows, I've no doubt we'll find ours. If you're enthused and don't mind that I exhale words; hop on into my DM's.
I am ghost-friendly - you don't owe me anything, writing together isn't an obligation, it's fun. If it stops being fun, for any reason, you don't have to tell me or explain...just don't do it anymore, that's fine, I get it. Life is hard enough without extra stress from a stranger on the internet. I never want to be the reason anybody is stressed!
As for me, I am generally upfront and outspoken; I'll tell you if I am not going to continue, I'll tell you if I'm burnt out, uninspired or stuck.
I'm looking for collaborative writing partners. I write a lot. I love to write, I really do, getting lost in worlds and characters is where I live. I can write anywhere from 5k work replies, to 100-word replies depending on what's needed to move on from the last post. All posts are not created equal, sometimes there's a lot to say, and sometimes there isn't. But you're a writer, else you wouldn't be here, so I don't need to tell you that.
I'm looking for people to tell a story with, not compete with, we want the same things so let's go on a journey. I don't believe in God-Modding, in that unless we're playing with dice and strict rules, one person's God Mod is another person's narration. If we're writing together I trust you, I trust we're moving in the same direction, with the same goals, towards a beautiful climax that leaves us both breathless and standing back in awe. If you need to pick up my character and lull them along on the rapid rivers of momentum and story, do it! I wouldn't be writing with you if I didn't want to see inside your mind and into where inspiration flows. Beauty lies in the unexpected.
As for pacing, I can do once-a-month replies, or sometimes hourly, depending on my partner, day and mood. Inspirations and moods ebb and flow. I won't chase, or nudge, or judge. I'll just be here because the goal is fun and nothing more, nothing less.
I won't say I am a good writer, I have never tested it. I am better than I was five years ago, I hope to be worse than I will be five years from now. It's a constant sliding scale of chasing perfection and perfection blowing raspberries at me from a distance.
Historical Settings • Forbidden Romance • Love/Hate • Subtle Supernatural • Royalty • Toxic Obsession • Sado/Maso • Pregnancy • Strong Characters • Suspense • Gore/Horror • Serial Killers • Magic • Student/Teacher
I'm not massively into slice-of-life roleplays. I like to emotionally destroy my characters. However, I think I could be persuaded with the right premise. In the spirit of that, I am open to the idea of most stories. I think we're all only one good idea away from diving into the unknown, right? I have no preference for tense or perspective, I can adapt to any. I've never written a story in second person...what a challenge that would be!
I like stories and characters that make me think, make me imagine, which means my characters are usually the opposite of myself. They don't like what I like, wouldn't do what I do. Because of that, I am limitless...
Give me magic, give me dragons, give me an obsession so strong death feels like a relief.
Smut vs Story, I'll be honest, I'm not an inherently smutty writer. I like sex scenes, in the right story with the right characters. If a story is purely to fulfil a sexual scenario or a fantasy, I'm not your girl. I need a beginning, middle and end to the story, I want twists, turns, surprises, and edge of my seat waiting for your reply which throws everything I was planning out of the window and keeps me on my toes.
I write both male and female characters happily, but almost exclusively in a m/f pairing. I have a slight preference towards sexually dominant males.
Limits, what are they? I'll write sex, gore, and graphic detail – I've not yet found a kink or fetish I won't write about. I don't like to say I have no limits, but in the extensive time, I've been roleplaying…I haven't found them yet. Test me if you want, if you're the one to find my nope button, I'll give you a sticker. I might be the only person on the sanctum who'll write 'bathroom stuff'. I'll write non-con, but realistically, there won't be any happy endings there.
I have some plot ideas below, they should give you an idea of my style and how I write. If any of them tickle your fancy, please do let me know!
They say you shouldn't date anybody if you can't explain your relationship in one, short sentence. If it takes longer, you're better off walking away.
Anyways, let's try.
"He is my mother's ex-husband, the stepfather to my brother but he's never been my daddy, except for sometimes I call him Daddy."
Tabitha was born when her mother was thirteen, it was a big scandal at the time, and rocked the neighbourhood. That was twenty-six years ago, times were different. She and her mother were always very close. They grew up together, as her mother liked to say. Tabitha graduated and moved away from their small home town when she was eighteen, to make her fortune in the Big City. She didn't make a fortune, she made a lot of debt, a lot of friends and a lot of memories. It turned out, that was enough.
Tabitha's mother was Annalise, and she was flaky, in the extreme. Though she'd gotten her life more together after she'd had her second child, another accidental pregnancy the result of a one-night-stand.
Then Annalise had met him. He was gorgeous, successful and down to Earth. He really seemed to straighten out the flighty, bad-boy chasing party girl Annalise. They got married and seemed to be happy. Tabby came down to visit for holidays and such, she adored Jack and she got along with her mother's new husband.
He was never a father figure, she was raised long before he'd even met her mother, living her own life. They met as adults and though they were never close, they got along well enough. They both loved her mother.
Tabitha wasn't surprised when they split up, her mother had cheated on him, she was only surprised that it had taken so long. She was disappointed though, she'd really liked Him.
Tabby is the literal opposite of her mother in every way, growing up everybody assumed Annalise was her sister, it was a strange way to exist given that she felt like she was born as the responsible one. Tabby is grounded, ambitious, and quite shy. It was partly why she left, because she knew if she'd have stayed, she'd have ended up raising her little brother and she didn't want to. She loves her brother, but she wanted a life and a break from constantly cleaning up her mother's mess.
Annalise and her husband split up six months ago. That is important.
Tabitha arrived home to visit, though her motivations were unclear. This is where everything begins. Because her mother, although happy to see her, is going out on a date and He is here, babysitting Jack whom he's still raising as his own. Tabby tells him she'll watch Jack, but they have a movie night planned and with nothing else to do, Tabby joins in. Jack goes to bed and the movie night continues, though switches to more adult movies, a horror as it happens.
Tabby and He share some wine.
And from there, it's a spiral of shame, secrets, self-hatred and forbidden passion, perhaps even love.
Family dramas, am I right?
Anyways, let's try.
"He is my mother's ex-husband, the stepfather to my brother but he's never been my daddy, except for sometimes I call him Daddy."
Tabitha's mother was Annalise, and she was flaky, in the extreme. Though she'd gotten her life more together after she'd had her second child, another accidental pregnancy the result of a one-night-stand.
Then Annalise had met him. He was gorgeous, successful and down to Earth. He really seemed to straighten out the flighty, bad-boy chasing party girl Annalise. They got married and seemed to be happy. Tabby came down to visit for holidays and such, she adored Jack and she got along with her mother's new husband.
He was never a father figure, she was raised long before he'd even met her mother, living her own life. They met as adults and though they were never close, they got along well enough. They both loved her mother.
Tabitha wasn't surprised when they split up, her mother had cheated on him, she was only surprised that it had taken so long. She was disappointed though, she'd really liked Him.
Tabby is the literal opposite of her mother in every way, growing up everybody assumed Annalise was her sister, it was a strange way to exist given that she felt like she was born as the responsible one. Tabby is grounded, ambitious, and quite shy. It was partly why she left, because she knew if she'd have stayed, she'd have ended up raising her little brother and she didn't want to. She loves her brother, but she wanted a life and a break from constantly cleaning up her mother's mess.
Annalise and her husband split up six months ago. That is important.
Tabitha arrived home to visit, though her motivations were unclear. This is where everything begins. Because her mother, although happy to see her, is going out on a date and He is here, babysitting Jack whom he's still raising as his own. Tabby tells him she'll watch Jack, but they have a movie night planned and with nothing else to do, Tabby joins in. Jack goes to bed and the movie night continues, though switches to more adult movies, a horror as it happens.
Tabby and He share some wine.
And from there, it's a spiral of shame, secrets, self-hatred and forbidden passion, perhaps even love.
Family dramas, am I right?
The Alienist
Early 1899
It has been three years since January arrived at Heartwood Asylum and we are no closer to settling the chaos of her mind. She is the epitome of a lifetime of lessons dealing with madness. There are moments where she seems almost sane, and that is the danger with a patient like her. I tried my best, I have tried to reason with her, tried to help her. I can't allow her around the doctors anymore, or the nurses. Freedom after freedom I have had to take from her, so now she is little more than an animal in a cage. Beautiful and fierce.
She arrived, nearly white hair matted with blood and grime. She screamed when we had to cut it off, I observed as the nurses peeled off her clothes and cleansed her, she lashed out, screamed for him, for her monstrous husband as if it pained her to be away from him. We calmed her with laudanum, though she had to be forced to take it as she was violently reluctant. Two of my nurses quit after that, scared by glass and nails. I have never made the mistake of letting her nails grow again.
Hers was a sad story, as they so often are. But one as high-profile as hers has generated many fame-seeking journalists and doctors to try their hand at her cure.
Lady January Fitzwilliam, wife of the late Jack Fitzwilliam. The Jack Fitzwilliam. Prolific monster come butcher, who carved up more than two-dozen human beings on his makeshift surgery table under the guise of medicine. Forced to act as his nurse, his most wounded victim for he didn't rob her of her life as he had the others, but her very sanity. They had found her in a cage, locked away in her own filth, trapped in that dark and dank basement. Nobody knows how long she had been kept in there, she won't speak of it, or him at all.
Yet she maintains some notion of medicinal knowledge. She has fanciful notions of medicine and practices, bordering upon the impossible, some might even whisper witchcraft. I could write books on her feminine notions. Miraculous drugs to prevent infection, grown from decay itself. Ideas of how the body works, transplanting organs, cutting away carcinomas and cancers and cheating death itself. She can describe the human brain as if she has held one in her hands, and she speaks of madness as if it's understandable, curable and as if we doctors are the true mad ones for practices, she deems barbaric. She even insists that she herself is a Doctor.
We call her The Doctor, affectionately. Because even though she's a monster, it's hard not to feel sorry for her. She didn't choose her husband or her fate.
It has been twelve months since I ended her visitation rights. Twelve months since the last ambitious young upstart came to question her and finally solve the outstanding cases of Jack Fitzwilliam and link him to many killings the country over. Everyone with a missing relative wants to know if they could be a victim of Jack, but Jack cannot answer, not since he was hung. And so, January is their only hope. If she was cognisant, of course, I would comply. But it is too dangerous for them to be near her. As the years go on, her frustration grows, and her violence grows. Six months ago I had to stop the other doctors attending her, it was getting hard to explain. Three months since the final nurse attended her.
I keep her now in her small cell. She is fed and clean and completely isolated.
It's safer for everybody that way.
That was six months ago and things have changed. Heartwood Asylum burned down, the surviving patients moved to various other asylums all over the country. January has been in three other asylums, all of which concluded they could not cope with a patient of her notoriety. They aren't allowed to hang her until she is determined well, but no doctor in their right mind would declare her well. She knows things she shouldn't, and speaks of the future as if it were the past. She is a lunatic, with some of the highest and most influential people in the land pushing for her to give answers to questions about her late husband's murders. Some say she's a witch. Some say she's evil. All say she's stark-raving mad. As if to add another dangerous layer to her evil, she's beautiful, cunning and deadly.
What to do with a lunatic like January?
Well, she's your problem now.
Early 1899
It has been three years since January arrived at Heartwood Asylum and we are no closer to settling the chaos of her mind. She is the epitome of a lifetime of lessons dealing with madness. There are moments where she seems almost sane, and that is the danger with a patient like her. I tried my best, I have tried to reason with her, tried to help her. I can't allow her around the doctors anymore, or the nurses. Freedom after freedom I have had to take from her, so now she is little more than an animal in a cage. Beautiful and fierce.
She arrived, nearly white hair matted with blood and grime. She screamed when we had to cut it off, I observed as the nurses peeled off her clothes and cleansed her, she lashed out, screamed for him, for her monstrous husband as if it pained her to be away from him. We calmed her with laudanum, though she had to be forced to take it as she was violently reluctant. Two of my nurses quit after that, scared by glass and nails. I have never made the mistake of letting her nails grow again.
Hers was a sad story, as they so often are. But one as high-profile as hers has generated many fame-seeking journalists and doctors to try their hand at her cure.
Lady January Fitzwilliam, wife of the late Jack Fitzwilliam. The Jack Fitzwilliam. Prolific monster come butcher, who carved up more than two-dozen human beings on his makeshift surgery table under the guise of medicine. Forced to act as his nurse, his most wounded victim for he didn't rob her of her life as he had the others, but her very sanity. They had found her in a cage, locked away in her own filth, trapped in that dark and dank basement. Nobody knows how long she had been kept in there, she won't speak of it, or him at all.
Yet she maintains some notion of medicinal knowledge. She has fanciful notions of medicine and practices, bordering upon the impossible, some might even whisper witchcraft. I could write books on her feminine notions. Miraculous drugs to prevent infection, grown from decay itself. Ideas of how the body works, transplanting organs, cutting away carcinomas and cancers and cheating death itself. She can describe the human brain as if she has held one in her hands, and she speaks of madness as if it's understandable, curable and as if we doctors are the true mad ones for practices, she deems barbaric. She even insists that she herself is a Doctor.
We call her The Doctor, affectionately. Because even though she's a monster, it's hard not to feel sorry for her. She didn't choose her husband or her fate.
It has been twelve months since I ended her visitation rights. Twelve months since the last ambitious young upstart came to question her and finally solve the outstanding cases of Jack Fitzwilliam and link him to many killings the country over. Everyone with a missing relative wants to know if they could be a victim of Jack, but Jack cannot answer, not since he was hung. And so, January is their only hope. If she was cognisant, of course, I would comply. But it is too dangerous for them to be near her. As the years go on, her frustration grows, and her violence grows. Six months ago I had to stop the other doctors attending her, it was getting hard to explain. Three months since the final nurse attended her.
I keep her now in her small cell. She is fed and clean and completely isolated.
It's safer for everybody that way.
That was six months ago and things have changed. Heartwood Asylum burned down, the surviving patients moved to various other asylums all over the country. January has been in three other asylums, all of which concluded they could not cope with a patient of her notoriety. They aren't allowed to hang her until she is determined well, but no doctor in their right mind would declare her well. She knows things she shouldn't, and speaks of the future as if it were the past. She is a lunatic, with some of the highest and most influential people in the land pushing for her to give answers to questions about her late husband's murders. Some say she's a witch. Some say she's evil. All say she's stark-raving mad. As if to add another dangerous layer to her evil, she's beautiful, cunning and deadly.
What to do with a lunatic like January?
Well, she's your problem now.
So, this idea is a little bit different from anything I've done before. It is, in fact, a blind date roleplay. In that neither of us will have any idea who the other character is until the start of the roleplay. The setting will be either historical or fantasy, possibly Georgian stretching into Victorian. And it begins on the wedding day of two people, at the wedding, the moment the doors open and the bride's feet hit the carpet. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, all eyes and expectations on them, two complete strangers.
I have no idea if this will be a romance, a happy partnership, or something hellish with both characters ultimately scheming to be rid of the other. They are of some wealth, though I am open to degrees of affluence and aristocracy.
These characters know nothing about each other, their families have conspired, and their marriage was arranged without their say, as society expected.
The awkwardness of having two characters and no plan, them suddenly being thrust together and having to adapt to each other is everything I want to explore. Will they hate each other? Are they in love with other people? What's their history? Their kinks? Their motivation? We don't know, and we won't know until we play. We'll find out everything as our characters do. Secrets, plot twists, and spanners in the work. I want to thrive in the awkwardness of not knowing, of playing entirely by post and having no clue what comes next.
Now I know this won't be for everybody, but the idea of leaving everything up to the words on the page with no forward planning and no idea where the roleplay will end. Every motivation will be demonstrated through the characters, every plot development, idea, and so much will hinge upon the interaction of the characters and how they manage in this unfamiliar situation. Us learning about the other's family, wants, history, flaws...based entirely upon what we've posted? I don't know if it can be done, but gosh do I want to try. Especially the idea of the wedding night, once the celebration has finished, two complete strangers knowing what is supposed to happen and getting through that?
A few societal stipulations I'd like to keep in the world;
It's a man's world and though the female character may not like it, ultimately, she belongs to her new husband the moment they're married.
Divorce isn't a viable option for them (should they both go through with the wedding), whoever they are, they're too affluent for their families to allow them such a choice, the marriage is too beneficial to both parties.
The ultimate goal of marriage is to create an heir to continue their family's legacy, if that shouldn't happen they'll both be shamed and neither's place in the world will be particularly safe.
Whether those things particularly matter to them, we shall have to see.
Fantasy and supernatural elements, I am open to. In fact I'm open to everything because save for whichever character I write, I have no knowledge or understanding of the world beyond! Hard no's can be discussed first, because we want it to be fun, but honestly, I am so in for not knowing how this ends.
This plot relies heavily on Christian beliefs, folklore and superstition. It could however also just be an innocent (hah) forbidden love story between a young woman and her vicar.
Take heed, I fear I am not far from damnation,
She is nothing special, or so I thought when her parents first asked for my help. A poor girl, marred by the sins of others, damaged and abused. She had been abused by her teacher you see, he was imprisoned not long after he was discovered and hung himself shortly thereafter. It was a great scandal. Her parents, good people, brought her to me to try and help her. She was lost and repentant, everything you'd expect of girl who had been kidnapped and almost killed by an adult she trusted.
She was nothing special.
Not then, not now.
I reiterate that because I remember thinking it before I met her again as an adult, before the dreams, before the madness. Back when I could think about anything else besides my flesh in hers, before I could close my eyes without seeing her there, tormenting me, luring me. I will not succumb. I am an old man and have been alive long enough to know when the devil is tempting me. I have held back, but the more I do, the more I lose. I sleep now, sometimes for days at a time and when I am awake, I swear I see her everywhere. When I dream, she can be mine, but only there, only in the privacy of my imagination.
It's my punishment for what I did, I know that. She is my reckoning; she is all of our reckoning and when she thinks I'm not watching I see her look at me like she knows it. My sins are laid bare.
Her psychologist resigned last week, so she comes to see me more than ever. She has no school, no job, no friends and then she lost her mother too. How can I send her away? How can I tell her that being near her is agony?
I remind myself that she is as she has always been. A good Christian child, I baptised her myself, in this church and there was no hiss of holy water upon flesh, no rain of fire. She is just a girl, a ferociously lonely eighteen-year-old, she is not the devil, she can't be.
Yet still there is something dark in her gaze, something hungry, something which ignites every dark desire I ever possessed. Desires I barely knew were there. So I cling desperately to what I know to be true. She is not the devil. She is not evil. She is just a woman. But sometimes…sometimes when she looks at me it's impossible to believe it. She looks at me with the knowledge of ages, as if she has walked the Earth for the years I have and seen everything I have ever done.
Sometimes I think she will pounce on me and I will be undone, but then her attention fades and I am cold again.
I am an old man and she is not interested in me, I suppose I should be thankful, I am not sure what would happen if she was.
- Reverend Pry
This']https://i.pinimg.com/564x/05/99/9f/05999f67bc731a68c9882ae4f705651a.jpg[/IMG] This[/URL] is the letter you find on your nightstand, the first night of your new position as Vicar of a small parish in a small coastal town. It is barely legible, but Reverend Pry was your predecessor and quite notably lost his mind. He was suffering from dementia, at the grand old age of ninety he was probably too old to be still working. He passed away peacefully in his sleep a couple of months ago and it had taken you this long to secure this very cushy posting. The vicarage is large, with four impressive bedrooms, and stunning ocean views with a path leading from the graveyard to a very secluded beach that only the most die-hard of locals visit. The town is small, and the church is well-funded by wealthy families who have lived in the town for many generations. It has a ghoulish history which brings in tourists, and even a couple of relatively famous graves. All in all, in a time when the church is often underfunded and struggling, this one remains the heart of the community. If you can get in somewhere like this, then you're in for life with few worries.
You might be unsure how you got here, or maybe you know exactly how you secured it; really, only you can know. I don't have a crystal ball. Are you even a real vicar or are you here under some sort of pretence? I can't tell you your preferences, your dark secrets, or even anything so simple as weather your name. I am not a psychic. I can't even see your face.
All I know is that if you come here, you're in trouble.
I can, however, tell you about Florry. Straight from the mouths of those around her.
"Florence Anne Edwards is an eighteen-year-old girl who had a bright future, once upon a time. The only child of Sam and Delilah Edwards, she's what some people might call a rebel. Others broken. Some even evil. She's not a stereotypical 'bad girl', for instance, she doesn't have any piercings, tattoos, tough-as-nails boyfriends – she doesn't even swear. But there's something about her, and everybody is happy to whisper about what it might be.
Poor girl, almost murdered by that horrible Mr Glover, never saw it coming you know? He was always such a nice man. But you never know, do you? Not really. Nobody could have seen it coming. They arrested him, half-deranged, with her in the boot, about to drive them both off the cliff into the icy depths of the winter ocean. Screaming at the police that he'd die without her and that he'd kill anybody who touched her. He killed himself before trial. She went to the funeral and cried like she might die herself of a broken heart, her parents watched on stone-faced, but it's that Stockholm what-have-you, you know, poor girl.
She was always such a nice girl. Friends? Well, no, she never really played with any of the children from the village, bit haughty, her family. They sent her away off to that private school they all go to, until her last year, nobody is quite sure why she came back early, and then all that business with Mr Glover, better to just avoid her. Nobody wants their own mixed up in all of that.
But Father Pry was a saint, always took her in, let her volunteer at the church even with everybody whisperin' and such, especially after her mother passed away unexpectedly last year. He really couldn't have done more for her.
Could we have been more welcoming? Well…it's hard though, isn't it? Because with a reputation like hers, a beautiful young girl, who would want her near their husbands? Or their sons. You know deep down that it can't be her fault, but just in case, better to stay away. Besides she's always seemed a bit of a know-it-all, a bit stuck up, Princess Muck up there in her big house.
It's not our fault she's alone."
I know Florry isn't like that though. I know her deepest secrets. I know what she wants. I know about that dark night she was first left on the doorstep of the church and Father Pry delivered her covertly into the arms of the desperate and grateful Mr and Mrs Edwards. I know why they practically funded every need and whim of the church, and why the Reverend tried so hard to heal her after the Mr. Glover incident. I know about the scars John Glover left on her, and where each of them is.
I know everything.
And if you want to know who, what and why Florence Ann Edwards is…I can tell you.
But you're going to have to play. . .
Take heed, I fear I am not far from damnation,
She is nothing special, or so I thought when her parents first asked for my help. A poor girl, marred by the sins of others, damaged and abused. She had been abused by her teacher you see, he was imprisoned not long after he was discovered and hung himself shortly thereafter. It was a great scandal. Her parents, good people, brought her to me to try and help her. She was lost and repentant, everything you'd expect of girl who had been kidnapped and almost killed by an adult she trusted.
She was nothing special.
Not then, not now.
I reiterate that because I remember thinking it before I met her again as an adult, before the dreams, before the madness. Back when I could think about anything else besides my flesh in hers, before I could close my eyes without seeing her there, tormenting me, luring me. I will not succumb. I am an old man and have been alive long enough to know when the devil is tempting me. I have held back, but the more I do, the more I lose. I sleep now, sometimes for days at a time and when I am awake, I swear I see her everywhere. When I dream, she can be mine, but only there, only in the privacy of my imagination.
It's my punishment for what I did, I know that. She is my reckoning; she is all of our reckoning and when she thinks I'm not watching I see her look at me like she knows it. My sins are laid bare.
Her psychologist resigned last week, so she comes to see me more than ever. She has no school, no job, no friends and then she lost her mother too. How can I send her away? How can I tell her that being near her is agony?
I remind myself that she is as she has always been. A good Christian child, I baptised her myself, in this church and there was no hiss of holy water upon flesh, no rain of fire. She is just a girl, a ferociously lonely eighteen-year-old, she is not the devil, she can't be.
Yet still there is something dark in her gaze, something hungry, something which ignites every dark desire I ever possessed. Desires I barely knew were there. So I cling desperately to what I know to be true. She is not the devil. She is not evil. She is just a woman. But sometimes…sometimes when she looks at me it's impossible to believe it. She looks at me with the knowledge of ages, as if she has walked the Earth for the years I have and seen everything I have ever done.
Sometimes I think she will pounce on me and I will be undone, but then her attention fades and I am cold again.
I am an old man and she is not interested in me, I suppose I should be thankful, I am not sure what would happen if she was.
- Reverend Pry
You might be unsure how you got here, or maybe you know exactly how you secured it; really, only you can know. I don't have a crystal ball. Are you even a real vicar or are you here under some sort of pretence? I can't tell you your preferences, your dark secrets, or even anything so simple as weather your name. I am not a psychic. I can't even see your face.
All I know is that if you come here, you're in trouble.
I can, however, tell you about Florry. Straight from the mouths of those around her.
"Florence Anne Edwards is an eighteen-year-old girl who had a bright future, once upon a time. The only child of Sam and Delilah Edwards, she's what some people might call a rebel. Others broken. Some even evil. She's not a stereotypical 'bad girl', for instance, she doesn't have any piercings, tattoos, tough-as-nails boyfriends – she doesn't even swear. But there's something about her, and everybody is happy to whisper about what it might be.
Poor girl, almost murdered by that horrible Mr Glover, never saw it coming you know? He was always such a nice man. But you never know, do you? Not really. Nobody could have seen it coming. They arrested him, half-deranged, with her in the boot, about to drive them both off the cliff into the icy depths of the winter ocean. Screaming at the police that he'd die without her and that he'd kill anybody who touched her. He killed himself before trial. She went to the funeral and cried like she might die herself of a broken heart, her parents watched on stone-faced, but it's that Stockholm what-have-you, you know, poor girl.
She was always such a nice girl. Friends? Well, no, she never really played with any of the children from the village, bit haughty, her family. They sent her away off to that private school they all go to, until her last year, nobody is quite sure why she came back early, and then all that business with Mr Glover, better to just avoid her. Nobody wants their own mixed up in all of that.
But Father Pry was a saint, always took her in, let her volunteer at the church even with everybody whisperin' and such, especially after her mother passed away unexpectedly last year. He really couldn't have done more for her.
Could we have been more welcoming? Well…it's hard though, isn't it? Because with a reputation like hers, a beautiful young girl, who would want her near their husbands? Or their sons. You know deep down that it can't be her fault, but just in case, better to stay away. Besides she's always seemed a bit of a know-it-all, a bit stuck up, Princess Muck up there in her big house.
It's not our fault she's alone."
I know Florry isn't like that though. I know her deepest secrets. I know what she wants. I know about that dark night she was first left on the doorstep of the church and Father Pry delivered her covertly into the arms of the desperate and grateful Mr and Mrs Edwards. I know why they practically funded every need and whim of the church, and why the Reverend tried so hard to heal her after the Mr. Glover incident. I know about the scars John Glover left on her, and where each of them is.
I know everything.
And if you want to know who, what and why Florence Ann Edwards is…I can tell you.
But you're going to have to play. . .
And do you know what she found out?
They're boring.
She always imagined killers as intelligent, devious, a step ahead. She thought they would be interesting, shedding the shackles of humanity and seeing a world beyond. It turns out, perhaps, our little Psychologist is a high-functioning sociopath.
Unfortunately coming face to face with the man who ripped through a dozen women some twenty years ago, delving into his mind for the dark intricacies of why he would commit such a crime and finding the mental equivalent of a shrug can really send one into a spiral of wondering what they'd done with their life.
And so, begins the drudgery, the boring one-on-one sessions with overgrown infants who murder because the opportunity presented itself and they lacked the upper presence of mind to, well, obey the law. The arrogance, the pretence, the empty and uninspired threats. None of them met her eyes and reflected the evil she longed to study, not one of them held a mirror up to herself, reflecting her urges back at her to pick at and study from a safe distance.
And then he came along. Not neatly into the mental institute as she would have hoped, but into the world. Killing, maiming. Women around her whipped together in a fearful frenzy of terror. There's apparently no rhyme or reason to the killings, save for the women all look like her. If he's trying to get her attention, he has it, undivided and holding her breath.
What befalls is a twisted love-story between two sadists, both get off on him killing, but neither fully trust the other. After all, can you ever really trust a psychopath? It's the most alive either have ever felt, but it can't last forever…
Then he came, the oldest son of the Old King, clever, powerful and charismatic and he undertook a mission to the Wilds in order to broker peace. What he came away with was something so perfect he could scarcely believe it. The Barbarian's daughter and heir, and an agreement that the Prince and Princess would be wed and upon the death of their parents unite the Kingdoms.
It's not perfect.
She's pretty enough but she's rude, has no manners and is rather irritated by the notion of being given away. But the Prince and her broker a deal, an idea of a combined land that will save their people and somehow make putting up with each other worth it. In fact, they become quite fond of the idea…in spite of their glaring cultural differences. He has an amazing head for politics and a way of working the world to his whim, a golden tongue, as it were. She is a powerful warrior, with immense battle training.
Forgetting all else this will put the Prince on the map. He will be the one to unite the Kingdom as it always was before the civil wars of old. He will be the one going down in history. His heirs will inherit, by blood, an immense land and legacy. He rides home triumphant, willing to overlook any teething problems introducing his new, uncouth, bloodthirsty bride…when he is crowned king he will have more than any of his forebearers.
He will be the Golden Dragon King.
Except for one slight problem. Upon returning home, his father has other ideas. He intends to take the Princess for himself and marry her, thus wiping his son's accomplishments from existence. There are problems, largely that if the marriage occurs the Prince may well lose his title as heir in favour of a half-sibling who would inherit both lands. His father is old, paranoid, stuck in his ways, and slightly tyrannical…not somebody to cross easily. Also, not somebody the Princess of the Wild is happy to wed. She was looking for Queenship of a rich and extravagant world, domination of a globe…not to be a nursemaid to an old, fat King.
Can they hatch a plot together so they both come out on top?
And what is the Prince going to do with the pesky problem of the beautiful and irresistible witch who was chosen and raised alongside him to be his perfect Queen? She's as close to a girlfriend as he could ever have and she might not take the slight of being usurped quite as well as he would hope.
A fantasy world of our making, with magic, worldbuilding, lore, legends and outcomes as far as our hearts desire. The 'Wilds' are loosely based on the Celts, The Dragon Kings something like the Roman Empire, in whatever time and setting we want.
Way back at the dawn of man, before God made Eve, he made Lilith. She, like Adam, was made in his image, an equal. They were happy for a time, but eventually, Adam got fed up with his tempestuous and tumultuous lover, and she became disillusioned with her lot. So Lilith fled the Garden, and Adam, and so to God, to the only other place there was, and fell into the arms of Lucifer who had no such complaints about her insatiable and fiery nature. God was not pleased and vowed vengeance for Adam, but Lilith paid little heed, for she was free. Ish. She bore Lucifer many demon children and reigned at his right hand for more than a thousand years. God, by way of consolation, made Eve, of Adam so she was more inclined to obey and serve.
As time stretched on, ageless and ambitious, Lilith grew bored of being a wife, a mother, and demon-laying once again. So, she hatched a plan. She made a new kind of demon, a special kind, she made them of her bone and flesh, but for this one, she stole a little bit of Adam too. This beautiful child she bore, was designed to be the perfect creature. Made for the sexual pleasure of others. Forged to satiate every desire, sustained by the ilk of passion. Immortal, powerful, irresistible.
In so doing she was finally avenged on the sons of Adam, for no man would be able to resist her. But also, no angel would be able to either, she would be the ruin of man, angel and devil alike. And with this new addition to the underworld, Lilith bought her freedom. She sent her baby to the surface, to be raised pure and human and waited. The child was not born of evil like her demonic siblings, she was not given to fire and brimstone. She would grow perfect, and human, engorged by their lurid fantasies and explore the darkest depths of human decency.
She was a gift, from Lilith, to the sons of Adam.
She was Succuba.
And then, once they defiled her gift, as she was sure they would, her daughter would consume them. Only then would she grow her wings and realise her demonic heritage. Only then would the true chaos reign, unlike anything mankind had ever seen. She would raise Hell on Earth, for a time, until Lucifer noticed and then unable to resist, he would beg Lilith to let him have her and drag her down to Hell where she belonged. Her daughter, this perfect creature, would consume his thoughts, she would ignite a passion within him like no other.
It had worked. Lilith had given Lucifer a new Queen, with the stipulation that after one thousand years, he would relinquish her to take the next. There would always be a new succubus, thousand years after thousand years. Never more than a thousand, because she could not risk losing her own position as Lucifer's favourite. The Succuba would come, she would do her duty, birth the new generation of demons, and then she would find a human and have another perfect Succuba
And whilst Satan himself was lost in the throes of obsession to the first, to Lillith's daughter; Lilith became the natural ruler of Hell.
Not the wife of Lucifer, not the Queen of Hell, not the right-hand woman.
Just Lilith.
And for the first thousand years, she was content.
But then, as does everything when humans became involved, things went wrong. Her first Succuba came and went as planned, but she never returned, nor did her replacement. For the first time in just over one thousand years, Satan had itchy feet and he was starting to wonder about all the changes that had transpired in his domain whilst he had been busy.
Lilith needed her granddaughter, and fast.
Lillie was just your average eighteen-year-old virgin. She wasn't ugly, and she'd had boyfriends before, she was simply ambitious. Boys had never seemed as important as school. Her mother had been ridiculously over-protective and being adopted later in her childhood, Lillie always felt like she had more to prove. Her mother had taken her in, chosen her, she had to be the perfect daughter in order to repay her.
There was the other secret Lillie kept. She liked bad boys. The very boys she knew she was supposed to stay away from. The thrill of danger, of losing control. Luckily for her, bad boys didn't show any interest in good girls and so she meandered along through life quite happily. She would have had a great life, an amazing career, excelled at college, she might have even changed the world. You see her passion was science. Lille wanted to know how the world began, not anything so mundane as dinosaurs, before that, back when the world was still a raging fiery Hell-ball. She wanted to smash away any vague ideas we had about the Paleozoic Era and put together the very building blocks of life. She wanted to hold millions of years within her hands, she needed to know. She might have done it too. If her mother hadn't died.
When Lillie's mother passed away, she not only lost her only family, but she also took on a crushing amount of debt. Even after she'd sold the house, she was crippled by the financial strain. She took out a loan to pay for the funeral and the first few bills, but they kept coming. Red letters and threats, repo men and court dates. She was working three jobs just to keep them at bay, with enough left over to be able to afford a disgusting one-room-apartment above a kebab-shop.
She couldn't help but feel this wasn't the life that was intended for her.
She didn't know that Lucifer himself was waiting for her, nor that her grandmother Lilith was about to join the hunt.
She couldn't know that one slip, one romantic foray would throw her into the arms of The Great Beast for a thousand years.
All she knew was that she couldn't bear the idea of eating cold beans for tea, again, but that she couldn't start her night-shift without eating anything.
I'm looking, of course, for somebody to defile Lillie. Do you want to write a rich, handsome stranger who pulls a pretty girl out of the depths of despair for a carnal price? Or a gorgeous, genius fanatic who has figured out what she is and wants to save humanity from her? Maybe Lucifer himself emerges from Hell, sick of waiting for his replacement bride. Or perhaps Lilith weaves her web and finds the perfect bad-boy, sending him on a path to his own destruction? Or maybe an angel, tasked with the job of saving her soul, accidentally brings about her ruin by falling in love with her?
It was all going so well until his car broke down. They were in the middle of nowhere, in the freezing weather, stuck waiting for the recovery van which, given the state of the roads and the storm, were very busy. Twelve hours in and they're cold, bored and going stir-crazy. It's too far to walk anywhere. Luckily, they're not in trouble as it's a van renovated for camping. But realistically how many times can two people play twenty questions without going mad?
Whether this is the start of a story, or the whole roleplay takes place within the car over the space of 24/48 hours I don't mind. Obviously, it's a romance. Obviously, they'll end up having sex. Obviously, it will be a filthy experiment over how long two relative strangers can stay polite and nice to each other when trapped in a tin can on wheels. There won't be any hunger issues, they've plenty of food, and the ability to stay warm, I don't want any horror aspects thrown in here.
Just one of those times when you're in a weird situation and make some good memories.
It wasn't all she did, after all, one could not forge an identity upon waiting. She was a keen gardener, she so liked to surround herself with the smell of flowers. She loved horses as cliché as it might be. She especially liked to gamble though it had become painfully apparent she had a bit of a problem so she was trying to stop that.
Overall she was lonely, she went through the motions of her days, endless as they seemed, trying to be the best she could be, trying to look on the bright side. Yet there was nobody to share the mundanity with, nobody to confide in, the only people she ever saw were her brothers and people at work.
Of course, one needed a career, but she wanted a calling. One might say that she had both, but she'd heartily disagree. She did her job because she had to, because nobody else could, because somebody had to clean up after her messy brothers.
So time after time, she'd pick up her tools and out she would go into the world. She'd do what needed to be done, tirelessly, often thanklessly. It sucked when nobody was ever happy to see you, when people recoiled, raged at you for something that wasn't even your fault. She was hated because of her brothers. They were never down there, on the front lines, looking into the eyes of the people they hurt. No, they were oblivious, too busy for consequences.
One day she would show them.
Until that day she would dream, dream of a time where she might take her own throne, of a person she might confide in, of an existence where she wasn't hated. She would dream of a different world, of power, of love that she had never known.
Of a vacation, because she'd never had one of those.
What did Death know of a vacation?
Nothing, but gosh, she'd like to.
The premise; Death strikes a bargain with a dying soul, they take over her position and she takes a holiday. In theory. In practice, Death is a bit of a control freak and struggles to let go. What she needs is somebody who can help her. She's clueless about anything human, so far removed from impulses, romance, hunger and sex. Luckily for her, she's a stone cold hottie, so I'm sure she'll eventually find a roguish soul willing to help out.
Visual Weakpoints: I am perfectly capable of playing alongside any characters, none of these are dealbreakers in any form. But if you're trying to seduce me....
Tall, Dark, Handsome. Curly hair. Serious brow. Dark hair with blue eyes. Broad, muscular Scars. Men with long hair. Tattoos. Jensen Ackles.
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