Sadamanth
Dreamscaper
- Local time
- Today 8:50 PM
- Messages
- 23
- Pronouns
- She/her
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Greetings, fellow adventurers of the written word! I am a seasoned wordsmith, a devotee of immersive storytelling, and a wanderer through the realms of imagination. I've been part of this diverse landscape of roleplaying for over a decade, honing my craft and weaving intricate tales that transcend the mundane. (As you can see, I have a wee bit of a penchant for theatrics.)
I would describe myself as patient, both in terms of character and how I approach plots and writing. When it comes to writing specifically, there's such joy in the art of world-building for me, where my partner and I get to create a believable world with fleshed-out characters that just feel and look real. When I feel connected to the story and its characters, I often write side-pieces to give my characters more depth and backstory.
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As for my writing style;
- I consider myself literate and can write quite a bit when inspired.
- My posts on average are 500-1000 words, but they can easily be 3000+ if there's a particularly important scene or a transition to a new story arc; however, I don't require a set number of words from my partner.
- I like to discuss the plot with my partners a lot to give us a sense of direction. The plots usually consist of arcs, and then we can discuss if there are any particular scenes/events we want to write, and a consensus on how those scenes/events should develop (I am not a fan of my partner introducing a plot twist in their posts without my consent/asking me beforehand). In my personal opinion, lack of creative direction leads to incoherent plots, inconsistent characters, and an overall worse roleplaying experience.
- My reply time varies, but I do my best to reply at least once a week. I prefer to reply every 2-4 days when I don't have real life interrupting my joy of writing.
- I love using Inkarnate to make maps for my worlds!
What am I looking for (in a partner)?
- Someone literate who loves worldbuilding and discussing plots and characters.
- A person willing to commit (if the roleplay is good, naturally).
- I don't track the word count, and I don't pressure my partners into trying to match my post length. Sometimes I'm just feeling inspired and words flow out. Write at your pace, don't feel like you have something to prove.
- Communication is key—we don't have to be best friends, but I would like some OOC communication, at least RP-wise. I genuinely like to connect with people and deepen the relationship we have with our characters, as well as to learn more about who my partner is, but I respect any boundaries you set with me.
- Please, don't just randomly ghost. I'm an adult, I understand that real life and our obligations get in the way, or that one sometimes simply loses interest in the roleplay. Happened to me, too. I don't harbor any negative feelings towards that. So just be upfront and say you are no longer interested or cannot continue the roleplay, that's all I ask for. Mutual respect, please.
My preferred genre:
- MxM Fantasy
My preferred pairings (but I am open to so many, I always love anything involving intrigue and power dynamics):
- Knight x Prince
- Rivals
- Noble x Peasant
- Arranged marriage
- I'm out of ideas honestly, so please DM me with anything you'd like to try
My kinks and no-no's:
- F-List (Favorite kinks and total nopes)
- Strong dislikes: rape/non-con/dub-con, mpreg, gore, vore, scat, belly inflation, any kind of play with fecal matter
IF INTERESTED, PLEASE SEND ME A DM.
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WRITING SAMPLE
It stood before him, groaning in the lengthy silence of the winter chill—Pasea, enshrouded in an opaque veil of frost cresting the mountains, its landscape unfolding before him, regally stoic. Encased in ice, still. Quiet. Celdin stood at the edge of the world, pellucid eyes now akin to chips of ice gazing upon the towering rock sentinels, their peaks lost in the embrace of the clouds as they parted almost ceremonially for him to gaze at the land that undulated, painted in hues of pure white as far as the eye could see—the snow-laden valley dominated, adorned with a mantle of freshly fallen snow. A valley so damnably bright under the sunlight. Celdin hurriedly cast his gaze aside, brows furrowing as he shielded himself from the fracturing reflection of sunlight.
Silence settled heavily against his lips as he turned around to face his entourage, frost biting his skin at the acknowledgment of the winter that had come to reign. The eerie quiet surrounding him was broken only by the occasional murmur of a breeze, not a single word uttered to ease the atmosphere. The air tousling Celdin's hair was crisp and pure, carrying with it the sharp scent of snow, the sensation of which sent a shiver rippling down his back, mirroring the uneasy quality of his heartbeat. What would have been a salty kiss of seafoam was now hardened into crystals of ice peppering the tips of his lashes, the vigorous sea currents replaced by persistent gusts of wind with teeth so sharp that they cut through sinew and bone. The wind from the coast carried with it the moisture that condensed into the clouds strewn thin above him, the looming forms birthing forth the first misshapen snowflakes that fleetingly kissed Celdin's skin, before they melted away into resentment.
Disquiet tugged at his mouth, lips forming a tight line as Celdin suppressed his distaste for what awaited him. He grieved not leaving his life, nor his family. Instead, he grieved departing from the invigorating breath of the sea caressing his cheek, buzzing with briny notes. Even now, with the heavy shackles of ice around his neck, Celdin could still taste the unmistakable scent of the ocean on his tongue, the salt on his skin, the sun kissing his fingers.
The open sea always carried an essence of untamed wilderness—as if the very spirit of the waves had been distilled into the air, whispering of the endless horizons waiting to be explored, murmuring of the mysteries concealed beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered. The sea only ever appeared calm, its deceitful nature brought forth by the gentle rocking motions of its waves. So much hid beneath its surface—a vibrant life that unfolded only with the rise and fall of the tide, a life that was seen only by those brave enough to venture deep into the unknown. Yet now, Celdin saw none of that in the still ice creeping over the landscape before him. He only saw the cold, the snow swirling in wheezing gasps over the plains. He saw death, the absence of life.
Meager like Celdin's own existence, the prince faced the entourage that consisted of only a dozen personal bodyguards, all hardy men who wore their armor with the same ease as if it were livery, thin and flexible. Their eyes were soulless, any semblance of sympathy long gone, worn thin by the nature of their job. Of him. Of Celdin. Their number was precise—large enough to quell any malicious voices, small enough to humble Celdin and remind him of his status.
Silence stretched thin between him and his entourage—so thin in fact that Celdin wondered if it would snap. Snap with the thunderous cry of his anger, quickly dampened by the oppressive weight of the surrounding snow. With one final glance toward the impending Pasea, Celdin approached his horse, reins heavy like lead in his grasp as he mounted the animal whose wiry body moved restlessly, no more eager to be blasted by the cold than any of the men present.
"Let us return," his voice was a peal of sound that shredded the silence, swiftly accompanied by the cacophony of metal as the other soldiers turned to follow his lead back to the steaming furnaces of Illyanthar, back to where Celdin's past would be melted, only to be reforged into something entirely new.
Silence settled heavily against his lips as he turned around to face his entourage, frost biting his skin at the acknowledgment of the winter that had come to reign. The eerie quiet surrounding him was broken only by the occasional murmur of a breeze, not a single word uttered to ease the atmosphere. The air tousling Celdin's hair was crisp and pure, carrying with it the sharp scent of snow, the sensation of which sent a shiver rippling down his back, mirroring the uneasy quality of his heartbeat. What would have been a salty kiss of seafoam was now hardened into crystals of ice peppering the tips of his lashes, the vigorous sea currents replaced by persistent gusts of wind with teeth so sharp that they cut through sinew and bone. The wind from the coast carried with it the moisture that condensed into the clouds strewn thin above him, the looming forms birthing forth the first misshapen snowflakes that fleetingly kissed Celdin's skin, before they melted away into resentment.
Disquiet tugged at his mouth, lips forming a tight line as Celdin suppressed his distaste for what awaited him. He grieved not leaving his life, nor his family. Instead, he grieved departing from the invigorating breath of the sea caressing his cheek, buzzing with briny notes. Even now, with the heavy shackles of ice around his neck, Celdin could still taste the unmistakable scent of the ocean on his tongue, the salt on his skin, the sun kissing his fingers.
The open sea always carried an essence of untamed wilderness—as if the very spirit of the waves had been distilled into the air, whispering of the endless horizons waiting to be explored, murmuring of the mysteries concealed beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered. The sea only ever appeared calm, its deceitful nature brought forth by the gentle rocking motions of its waves. So much hid beneath its surface—a vibrant life that unfolded only with the rise and fall of the tide, a life that was seen only by those brave enough to venture deep into the unknown. Yet now, Celdin saw none of that in the still ice creeping over the landscape before him. He only saw the cold, the snow swirling in wheezing gasps over the plains. He saw death, the absence of life.
Meager like Celdin's own existence, the prince faced the entourage that consisted of only a dozen personal bodyguards, all hardy men who wore their armor with the same ease as if it were livery, thin and flexible. Their eyes were soulless, any semblance of sympathy long gone, worn thin by the nature of their job. Of him. Of Celdin. Their number was precise—large enough to quell any malicious voices, small enough to humble Celdin and remind him of his status.
Silence stretched thin between him and his entourage—so thin in fact that Celdin wondered if it would snap. Snap with the thunderous cry of his anger, quickly dampened by the oppressive weight of the surrounding snow. With one final glance toward the impending Pasea, Celdin approached his horse, reins heavy like lead in his grasp as he mounted the animal whose wiry body moved restlessly, no more eager to be blasted by the cold than any of the men present.
"Let us return," his voice was a peal of sound that shredded the silence, swiftly accompanied by the cacophony of metal as the other soldiers turned to follow his lead back to the steaming furnaces of Illyanthar, back to where Celdin's past would be melted, only to be reforged into something entirely new.
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