- Local time
- Today 6:56 AM
- Messages
- 61
I'm in my late 20's, she/her, in CET time zone, and a big beer enjoyer
I absolutely adore character driven, dramatic stories with ambivalence and angst! Digging into their heads and plaguing them is my guilty pleasure lol. I'm super active and usually reply every day—would love a partner that can semi match frequency, but I absolutely won't shy away from a gem
Preferences
- Someone around my own age (28)
- 3rd person, past tense
- Not fussy with count - I tend to write between 200-700 words depending on what's needed. Combat/dialogue heavy naturally fall shorter. Samples below—and I'd love to see one of yours too.
- MxF — I play F normally, but can try M. However, I am new to it! So if you want to RP with my main as M, please keep that in mind^^
- Don't need character sheets. This creation process is probably my favorite, and I always create a new character for the story.
- If we want character pictures(no need), I do prefer more painted style/AI style if that makes sense? Pencil drawn/IRL/anime don't immerse me at all xD Just description is what I usually do though.
- I love OOC chatter and planning as we go — would love someone similar!
- If you lose inspiration, want to change anything, or simply want out, please let me know! No hard feelings, it's supposed to be fun <3
Looking for:
—Gritty fantasy (I love more medieval), magic (as high as we want) and playing as elves. (I will admit I'm not very proficient at worldbuilding but I always make an honest effort lol.)
—Stakes, combat, gloomy, mentally heavy themes. I love high intensity moments and shit that makes your heart pound. Gimmie a war-torn kingdom, corrupt leadership, or if you don't do X or Y, you are punished with a fate worse than death type of deals. Things where happiness seems just out of reach, if not unreachable. Obviously it won't always be sad and depressing, it's just something I really enjoy writing.
—Slow burn romance (if our chars mesh, which I hope they do lol). The buildup is way more exciting than the final product to me
Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, I shouldn't be drawn to you vibes.—Royalty, court intrigue, war, military, mission gone wrong, survival, hate-love, vengeance, fractured identities, regrets, morewordstocome.
Triggers:
—Bad things involving kids (unless it needs mention for lore or char's backstory).
—Excessive details of gore (I'm good with it generally, but several paragraphs make me too squeamish).
Please let me know yours.
—Excessive details of gore (I'm good with it generally, but several paragraphs make me too squeamish).
Please let me know yours.
Concepts / Ideas / Plots
All adjustable! | My search is NOT limited to these, please bring your own ideas too! | All pairings MxF, I will specify if I prefer a role.
X has a violent past. Y is just starting an violent rampage.
They clash in an unexpected (or expected) event, and Y is about to do unleash hell upon them, but X offers to be their... companion? Either way, we have problems. X struggles through their trauma? Convinces Y to lay down their weapon? Maybe the revelation is that X actually caused Y's intense drive for vengeance due to what they did in the past? Who knows.
They clash in an unexpected (or expected) event, and Y is about to do unleash hell upon them, but X offers to be their... companion? Either way, we have problems. X struggles through their trauma? Convinces Y to lay down their weapon? Maybe the revelation is that X actually caused Y's intense drive for vengeance due to what they did in the past? Who knows.
A is the reason B is there. A did it for a reason, one that they cannot outwardly admit. B escapes and hunts A down to reap their revenge. An agreement is made to keep both their lives intact.
Knight helps royal out of a dangerous situation and is "promoted" to be their personal knight. Truth is, the knight set it all up to get closer to the royal estate.
Betrayal vibes!
Already doing this one, but could do a similar plot!
Betrayal vibes!
Already doing this one, but could do a similar plot!
X was once knight for the royal family. A sudden and brutal war breaks out, and in its ashes, X rises as the rebel leader. Now, in the throne room, he doesn't kneel—he points the sword at those he once served.
Could do a similar plot!
Could do a similar plot!
As a result of an old cataclysmic event, all healthy creatures now live in sky islands. The planet "down below" is uninhabitable--racked by unstable magic and polluted air... or so people believe. When sentenced to death, criminals are pushed of the edge and sent to plummet to their death. X, a criminal, somehow manages to survive this fall (probably by some magic means). Y comes across them there.
(Or perhaps Y saves X, which would make it interesting. What crime punishable by death could possibly be justified in Y's eyes?)
(Or perhaps Y saves X, which would make it interesting. What crime punishable by death could possibly be justified in Y's eyes?)
Ideas:
She makes a dangerous bet, too sweet to refuse: Gain legs, pretend to be a simple maiden lost from a terrible shipwreck. Get what they want and be back under before the spell runs out. Oh, and if found out: leave no survivors.
In this plot specifically, I will play the mermaid! it's abit underdeveloped (intentionally), but I have ideas if you wanna hear em.
I'm down for other ideas with the same type of pairing (seafolk x landfolk). They'll all be elven though. Heh heh.
She makes a dangerous bet, too sweet to refuse: Gain legs, pretend to be a simple maiden lost from a terrible shipwreck. Get what they want and be back under before the spell runs out. Oh, and if found out: leave no survivors.
In this plot specifically, I will play the mermaid! it's abit underdeveloped (intentionally), but I have ideas if you wanna hear em.
I'm down for other ideas with the same type of pairing (seafolk x landfolk). They'll all be elven though. Heh heh.
A search & rescue mission on a less known planet goes wrong when all communications suddenly vanquish. Between scouring for supplies and dodging enemy patrols, our characters work on establishing a signal, meanwhile discovering clues on what actually happened to the previous team.
I imagined a planet of Automatons. I just love playing against them and how eerie their presence is.
(I play F)
I imagined a planet of Automatons. I just love playing against them and how eerie their presence is.
(I play F)
Chat GPT generated plots based off my ideas!
#1 A warlord (X) carves a bloody empire from the ashes of fallen kingdoms, ruling through fear and steel. A captured rebel leader (Y) is dragged before them in chains, expected to be executed as an example. But X, curious about Y's defiance, offers a different choice: swear loyalty and serve—or die.
Y, burning with vengeance, accepts, biding their time to strike. But the warlord is not the mindless brute Y expected; they are tired, haunted by the ghosts of their conquest, and they respect Y's fire. Forced to fight alongside each other, the lines between captor and captive blur. But as betrayals mount and the empire teeters on the brink of collapse, Y must decide: destroy X and risk plunging the world into further chaos, or stand beside them and become something monstrous together.
Could do something alternative where X has just won a battle over Y's lands, but instead of slaying, X offers them to serve. Similar concept but a different opener and slightly different circumstances: X walks the final line. Y is waiting, aware of their impending doom. Y could be a royal, maybe.
Y, burning with vengeance, accepts, biding their time to strike. But the warlord is not the mindless brute Y expected; they are tired, haunted by the ghosts of their conquest, and they respect Y's fire. Forced to fight alongside each other, the lines between captor and captive blur. But as betrayals mount and the empire teeters on the brink of collapse, Y must decide: destroy X and risk plunging the world into further chaos, or stand beside them and become something monstrous together.
Could do something alternative where X has just won a battle over Y's lands, but instead of slaying, X offers them to serve. Similar concept but a different opener and slightly different circumstances: X walks the final line. Y is waiting, aware of their impending doom. Y could be a royal, maybe.
The underworld of a crumbling city runs on blood and whispers. X is an enforcer for a dying syndicate, trying to keep their head above water as rival gangs tear the streets apart. Y is an assassin sent to kill X (or X's boss) but ends up botching the job—now hunted by both sides.
X and Y form an uneasy partnership to survive, dodging bounty hunters, corrupt guards, and the very people they once worked for. The city is a maze of dead ends and broken dreams, and every ally is a potential backstabber. As they fight to carve out a future—or at least live to see another sunrise—the question remains: when the blood stops flowing, will they still trust each other enough to stay?
X and Y form an uneasy partnership to survive, dodging bounty hunters, corrupt guards, and the very people they once worked for. The city is a maze of dead ends and broken dreams, and every ally is a potential backstabber. As they fight to carve out a future—or at least live to see another sunrise—the question remains: when the blood stops flowing, will they still trust each other enough to stay?
The world is lawless, ruled by warlords and corporations that feast on the desperate. X is a smuggler running guns and stolen goods, never staying in one place long enough to care. Y is an escaped test subject from a secret lab, hunted for the unnatural abilities they never asked for.
X doesn't do charity work. But when Y offers them something valuable—knowledge of a hidden stash of pre-war tech—X agrees to help them escape. As they move across wastelands and shattered cities, dodging bounty hunters and corporate assassins, X realizes that Y is more than just a job. And Y, struggling to control their powers, wonders if maybe this cynical, world-weary smuggler is the only person who's ever seen them as more than a weapon.
I'm down to play either role and either gender. I think.
X doesn't do charity work. But when Y offers them something valuable—knowledge of a hidden stash of pre-war tech—X agrees to help them escape. As they move across wastelands and shattered cities, dodging bounty hunters and corporate assassins, X realizes that Y is more than just a job. And Y, struggling to control their powers, wonders if maybe this cynical, world-weary smuggler is the only person who's ever seen them as more than a weapon.
I'm down to play either role and either gender. I think.
Words, quote fiesta, and stuff
Elves. Magic. Opposites. Artifacts. Knight. Royalty. Tension. Forced proximity. Mental illness. Enemies to X. Back to enemies. Brutal choices. Battle. Dark magic. Wicked intentions. Regret. Longing. I want it but I can't let myself. Hate-love. Haunted by the past. Unable to let go. Substance/alcohol abuse. Self harm. Troubling coping mechanisms. Beloved character death. Military. Mission gone wrong. Survival. I never asked for this. Mermaids. Sirens. I'd do anything to see it burn. Fragile masks. Fractured identity. "You wanna go fast but I wanna hold back." In too deep. "Lifestyle go vroom, barely hanging on." "I need a saint to pull me out of here."
Writing samples
In Calvenholt, ritual lingered like old scars.
Even when the streets fell into darkness like the fold of a raven wing, the azure moon vibrated in her chest. Every time light caught an engraving in a weathered stone wall, the clutch on her heart tightened.
Yet, she kept walking.
These streets weren't meant to hold legacy. They were meant to be burned.
Silky fabrics shifted in the shadows, muted brown and charcoal dyes folding over tanned skin like carefully woven dreams. She wore darker colors for lesser visibility. But the delicate design that snatched her waist? And the white pearls that curved around her neck? That was for the crowd. For the eyes that perceived—and believed.
At least, that was her view.
Gloved fingers curled around a cold corner, a chocolate gaze trailing discarded drink spill over broken pebbles. The stench lingered like the a festering wound.
Lyra clenched her teeth against the roil in her stomach. It wasn't pretty, but the outcome of her endeavor wouldn't be much closer.
She waited. Voices still carried around the corners, and footsteps echoed across the streets like clattering jugs. Slowly, she reached below the airy folds of her skirt, grazing against the handle to one of her glass daggers, as if checking they were really there. She wouldn't engage now—not until all she could hear was the silent chimes of impending doom.
The guise at the tail end of the alley staggered. All of them did, especially when they'd reached the peak of their pride--when their voices boomed too loud, demanding worship as a prize. When their true nature slipped through the cracks.
Still, something stirred within, something she couldn't quite place.
When the bottle cracked, Lyra moved. Her steps fell featherlight against the dull cracks of stone beneath her. His voice mixed with the tacky squelch of spilled wine under his shoes muted her advance. Her pulse quickened, but her gaze didn't waver. Ten steps–no witnesses. One strike below the ear, and then she could fold back into the shadows she'd come from. No hesitation, and no looking back. Never looking back.
But the closer she got, the louder the voices became. The familiar description—the haunting background.
A flame flickered behind her chest bone.
Five steps.
Midnight chills nipped her bare legs, and a silent breath was taken. She pulled the translucent weapon from its placement. It didn't gleam like it did under the moonlight. But she could pretend.
She needed to see him. If not for the pleasure, then at least to confirm what was still lurking within.
Two, one.
She unsheathed the other blade.
Her boot struck his back first. As his body lurched forward, so did hers. She lunged at him, sending them both crashing against the stone. With daggers still firm in her palms, she climbed his writhing body, legs squeezing his form. She leaned in. One blade pressed to his throat, the other dug into his side.
"Schh."
Her dagger tore through the fabrics with ease, digging beneath the skin just below his ribs, teasing.
She could puncture kidneys in her sleep.
In this darkness, both their sets of eyes were pitch black. She sought light where there was none, pausing long enough for breath. She had too many questions.
So she smiled.
"Tell me—where do you keep the ones you don't kill?" Her voice hung just above a whisper, carrying an edge of command. "Or is mercy a luxury only the empire can afford?"
Even when the streets fell into darkness like the fold of a raven wing, the azure moon vibrated in her chest. Every time light caught an engraving in a weathered stone wall, the clutch on her heart tightened.
Yet, she kept walking.
These streets weren't meant to hold legacy. They were meant to be burned.
Silky fabrics shifted in the shadows, muted brown and charcoal dyes folding over tanned skin like carefully woven dreams. She wore darker colors for lesser visibility. But the delicate design that snatched her waist? And the white pearls that curved around her neck? That was for the crowd. For the eyes that perceived—and believed.
At least, that was her view.
Gloved fingers curled around a cold corner, a chocolate gaze trailing discarded drink spill over broken pebbles. The stench lingered like the a festering wound.
Lyra clenched her teeth against the roil in her stomach. It wasn't pretty, but the outcome of her endeavor wouldn't be much closer.
She waited. Voices still carried around the corners, and footsteps echoed across the streets like clattering jugs. Slowly, she reached below the airy folds of her skirt, grazing against the handle to one of her glass daggers, as if checking they were really there. She wouldn't engage now—not until all she could hear was the silent chimes of impending doom.
The guise at the tail end of the alley staggered. All of them did, especially when they'd reached the peak of their pride--when their voices boomed too loud, demanding worship as a prize. When their true nature slipped through the cracks.
Still, something stirred within, something she couldn't quite place.
When the bottle cracked, Lyra moved. Her steps fell featherlight against the dull cracks of stone beneath her. His voice mixed with the tacky squelch of spilled wine under his shoes muted her advance. Her pulse quickened, but her gaze didn't waver. Ten steps–no witnesses. One strike below the ear, and then she could fold back into the shadows she'd come from. No hesitation, and no looking back. Never looking back.
But the closer she got, the louder the voices became. The familiar description—the haunting background.
A flame flickered behind her chest bone.
Five steps.
Midnight chills nipped her bare legs, and a silent breath was taken. She pulled the translucent weapon from its placement. It didn't gleam like it did under the moonlight. But she could pretend.
She needed to see him. If not for the pleasure, then at least to confirm what was still lurking within.
Two, one.
She unsheathed the other blade.
Her boot struck his back first. As his body lurched forward, so did hers. She lunged at him, sending them both crashing against the stone. With daggers still firm in her palms, she climbed his writhing body, legs squeezing his form. She leaned in. One blade pressed to his throat, the other dug into his side.
"Schh."
Her dagger tore through the fabrics with ease, digging beneath the skin just below his ribs, teasing.
She could puncture kidneys in her sleep.
In this darkness, both their sets of eyes were pitch black. She sought light where there was none, pausing long enough for breath. She had too many questions.
So she smiled.
"Tell me—where do you keep the ones you don't kill?" Her voice hung just above a whisper, carrying an edge of command. "Or is mercy a luxury only the empire can afford?"
The colors that fell over the forest grayed, and the light that danced across the river died. No sound left Aryn's mouth, and nothing flashed in the glassy blues of her eyes. They latched onto the limp body in her arms, almost as if staring at her would somehow wake her up. Something pressed against Aryn's ribs, begging to be let out–but her feet were stuck in the void that enclosed her now.
Her head pounded with the ghosts of the past haunting this moment. Dead. Their screams thundered in her ears. She's dead. She's dead. She's–
An otherworldly light fell over her. It breached through her consciousness, lighting up every crevice of her existence. She fell back and hit her head against the wall. Blinking against the blinding light, she caught the familiar colors of four Arbiters, and the absence of the one they lost. Ethereal voices echoed all around her, too muted to be comprehensible–and yet, she understood every single thing.
The Five watched their fire crest–gleaming like a sky full of suns–drift off to a new host. And it burned a day East of Carval.
"Why Pli… Why…"
Aryn's fingers twitched. Her blood ran cold beneath her skin, and she lifted her gaze slowly. Callahan sat inches away, sharing the weight of the moment. But still, she felt alone. He cried at the weight of his fate, and a part of her refused to admit who it had chosen.
A crippling urge to scream pushed noise past her lips, catching herself off guard.
"Wake up."
It was a disgruntled plea at best, but Aryn had nothing to stop it from coming. A hand flew up to pat the dead woman's cheek, pushing strands of hair off her face. Terror washed over her like waves of spikes. She wasn't dead. Of course she wasn't dead.
"Get up!" Aryn demanded, closing in on Plisalia's face with her own. Shaky fingers searched for pulse over the drying, cold skin. She gazed past the lashes, into those half opened, amber eyes. And the words slipped out, pouring breath over her face, as if it would make her listen.
"No… Come on, dammit." She gave Plisalia's shoulder a nudge. Her breaths cracked, but her voice loudened. "This wasn't the plan."
She was an inch away from Plisalia's unresponsive face, flicking her wide eyes between the other's. A thunderstorm built in her chest, rumbling and groaning as it grew.
"You hear me? This was not. The plan!"
Her head pounded with the ghosts of the past haunting this moment. Dead. Their screams thundered in her ears. She's dead. She's dead. She's–
An otherworldly light fell over her. It breached through her consciousness, lighting up every crevice of her existence. She fell back and hit her head against the wall. Blinking against the blinding light, she caught the familiar colors of four Arbiters, and the absence of the one they lost. Ethereal voices echoed all around her, too muted to be comprehensible–and yet, she understood every single thing.
The Five watched their fire crest–gleaming like a sky full of suns–drift off to a new host. And it burned a day East of Carval.
"Why Pli… Why…"
Aryn's fingers twitched. Her blood ran cold beneath her skin, and she lifted her gaze slowly. Callahan sat inches away, sharing the weight of the moment. But still, she felt alone. He cried at the weight of his fate, and a part of her refused to admit who it had chosen.
A crippling urge to scream pushed noise past her lips, catching herself off guard.
"Wake up."
It was a disgruntled plea at best, but Aryn had nothing to stop it from coming. A hand flew up to pat the dead woman's cheek, pushing strands of hair off her face. Terror washed over her like waves of spikes. She wasn't dead. Of course she wasn't dead.
"Get up!" Aryn demanded, closing in on Plisalia's face with her own. Shaky fingers searched for pulse over the drying, cold skin. She gazed past the lashes, into those half opened, amber eyes. And the words slipped out, pouring breath over her face, as if it would make her listen.
"No… Come on, dammit." She gave Plisalia's shoulder a nudge. Her breaths cracked, but her voice loudened. "This wasn't the plan."
She was an inch away from Plisalia's unresponsive face, flicking her wide eyes between the other's. A thunderstorm built in her chest, rumbling and groaning as it grew.
"You hear me? This was not. The plan!"
"I think it might be best for you to lay down for the night."
It took a few moments for the mage to process what he'd said, but when his words sank in, her smile vanished. She glanced up at him, her eyes an ocean of creeping despair. Though she was half stumbling, half clinging to him–and still struggling to comprehend thresholds and barrels–his words resonated like a thousand bells. A clarity that struck her like a sharp, obsidian wind, carrying the weight of the world again.
While still outside, Aryn pulled them to a halt, searching his eyes for answers she knew he didn't have.
"Don't take this away from me."
Her voice quavered with barely suppressed emotion. Though she struggled to produce much else from her lips, her forlorn expression hinted at countless unspoken stories. Of things she didn't want to think about, and was desperate to flee from.
She wasn't ready to let this night go. It offered her warmth that her sober mind would never begin to wrap her head around. A discontented sigh escaped the drunken woman as she swirled around Callahan and snaked her arms around his waist from behind. The other direction was better, she decided, as she began dragging and pushing him with her measly bodyweight, back towards what she thought was their old table.
On the way, the darling swell of a long, blond braid fell into her field of vision. Before Aryn knew it, a dark smirk tugged at her lips. She offered no look of recognition and no word, but simply turned her head to rest her other cheek against the Moon Prince's back.
She didn't know why she felt so possessive over him–and quite frankly, it didn't matter. Not here, and not now. Hiding in the shadows of his shoulders, she found quiet comfort in the misty scent of his hair and the cedar aroma of his robe. The fabrics of his sleeves folded over her arms slightly, creasing under the movements as she pressed herself against him until she–or he–decided they'd found a spot to sit.
When she plopped down on the bench–with a surprisingly loud thud–breathy laughter spilled from her lips. The crown ended up falling halfway down her face, prompting wispy raven strands to assemble over her cheeks and eyes.
"Now that I wear a crown…" she said, lifting her chin to peek at Callahan from underneath the crown's shadowy rim. "How come you aren't calling me princess?"
It took a few moments for the mage to process what he'd said, but when his words sank in, her smile vanished. She glanced up at him, her eyes an ocean of creeping despair. Though she was half stumbling, half clinging to him–and still struggling to comprehend thresholds and barrels–his words resonated like a thousand bells. A clarity that struck her like a sharp, obsidian wind, carrying the weight of the world again.
While still outside, Aryn pulled them to a halt, searching his eyes for answers she knew he didn't have.
"Don't take this away from me."
Her voice quavered with barely suppressed emotion. Though she struggled to produce much else from her lips, her forlorn expression hinted at countless unspoken stories. Of things she didn't want to think about, and was desperate to flee from.
She wasn't ready to let this night go. It offered her warmth that her sober mind would never begin to wrap her head around. A discontented sigh escaped the drunken woman as she swirled around Callahan and snaked her arms around his waist from behind. The other direction was better, she decided, as she began dragging and pushing him with her measly bodyweight, back towards what she thought was their old table.
On the way, the darling swell of a long, blond braid fell into her field of vision. Before Aryn knew it, a dark smirk tugged at her lips. She offered no look of recognition and no word, but simply turned her head to rest her other cheek against the Moon Prince's back.
She didn't know why she felt so possessive over him–and quite frankly, it didn't matter. Not here, and not now. Hiding in the shadows of his shoulders, she found quiet comfort in the misty scent of his hair and the cedar aroma of his robe. The fabrics of his sleeves folded over her arms slightly, creasing under the movements as she pressed herself against him until she–or he–decided they'd found a spot to sit.
When she plopped down on the bench–with a surprisingly loud thud–breathy laughter spilled from her lips. The crown ended up falling halfway down her face, prompting wispy raven strands to assemble over her cheeks and eyes.
"Now that I wear a crown…" she said, lifting her chin to peek at Callahan from underneath the crown's shadowy rim. "How come you aren't calling me princess?"
Dien reacted before the gates creaked.
Clad in a soft gown with subtle, elegant embroidery, the Princess approached the caravan with measured steps. Her expression was unreadable, but her chin was high, as a royal's usually was. The gold headband glowed in the sunlight, and Dien allowed one quick glance at the long swell of her hair before he tugged the handle of the carriage with a click. The door was wide open before she was close enough to hear it, and as custom required, the knight bowed his head at her arrival.
But beneath the knightly poise, was a man whose veins seethed. No matter what he'd seen in her before the war, the whispers of her unsavory involvement in the war were too loud to ignore. He heard it in the taverns while the music played too loud, or in the alleys when the night fell too silent--even in the shadowed corners of the castle corridors, though rarely. The Darakians whispered the most. But that was only because the Rhykans didn't have to speak. They already knew. And at this point, most of them had seen it first-hand.
Dien, however, could only wait. He had to stay among the traitors that spilled blood over his homeland, and gather his forces here in silence. He'd been patient. Rock-solid. And while he collected intel from the echoes in castle halls, the Rhykan rebellion grew larger and thicker over the city streets.
The ride to the theater wasn't longer than a musical act. Near the theater, a crowd had formed in-before being let in. When the royal escort trotted down the road, the crowd scattered, opening a path for them to pass through.
Dien rode on the left flank, hands flexing slightly in his gloves. He scanned the crowd for signs of hostility, one hand on the reins, the other on the hilt of his sword. It would've been a real shame if something happened now, when the siege was a sunset away.
The cavalry soon came to a stop, and after a sweep of the area, Dien opened the carriage door once more. He gestured steadily with his arm toward the entrance. His voice was full, and only as loud as needed.
"This way, Your Highness."
He waited for her to begin walking before taking his mandatory spot at her side, half a pace behind. Two guards in front led the way toward the balconies, where nobles often sat. People of rich and revered houses; land owners, performers, high priests, people of the sort. The Princess had arrived at the same time as a couple of them. At the sight of her, they bowed their heads from their stands. Dien didn't pay them any mind. He looked at the shadows in the curtains. The bends in the corridors. Anything that could disturb the peace that needed to be maintained before tonight.
As soon as every important figure had taken their seats or stands, the theater began flooding with commoners. They spilled over the stairs like water, filling nearly every single row. It would be a long outing, but a quiet part of him preferred this over the dull walls of the castle. When it was his, however, things would be different. And until then, he would pretend like nothing needed changing.
Clad in a soft gown with subtle, elegant embroidery, the Princess approached the caravan with measured steps. Her expression was unreadable, but her chin was high, as a royal's usually was. The gold headband glowed in the sunlight, and Dien allowed one quick glance at the long swell of her hair before he tugged the handle of the carriage with a click. The door was wide open before she was close enough to hear it, and as custom required, the knight bowed his head at her arrival.
But beneath the knightly poise, was a man whose veins seethed. No matter what he'd seen in her before the war, the whispers of her unsavory involvement in the war were too loud to ignore. He heard it in the taverns while the music played too loud, or in the alleys when the night fell too silent--even in the shadowed corners of the castle corridors, though rarely. The Darakians whispered the most. But that was only because the Rhykans didn't have to speak. They already knew. And at this point, most of them had seen it first-hand.
Dien, however, could only wait. He had to stay among the traitors that spilled blood over his homeland, and gather his forces here in silence. He'd been patient. Rock-solid. And while he collected intel from the echoes in castle halls, the Rhykan rebellion grew larger and thicker over the city streets.
The ride to the theater wasn't longer than a musical act. Near the theater, a crowd had formed in-before being let in. When the royal escort trotted down the road, the crowd scattered, opening a path for them to pass through.
Dien rode on the left flank, hands flexing slightly in his gloves. He scanned the crowd for signs of hostility, one hand on the reins, the other on the hilt of his sword. It would've been a real shame if something happened now, when the siege was a sunset away.
The cavalry soon came to a stop, and after a sweep of the area, Dien opened the carriage door once more. He gestured steadily with his arm toward the entrance. His voice was full, and only as loud as needed.
"This way, Your Highness."
He waited for her to begin walking before taking his mandatory spot at her side, half a pace behind. Two guards in front led the way toward the balconies, where nobles often sat. People of rich and revered houses; land owners, performers, high priests, people of the sort. The Princess had arrived at the same time as a couple of them. At the sight of her, they bowed their heads from their stands. Dien didn't pay them any mind. He looked at the shadows in the curtains. The bends in the corridors. Anything that could disturb the peace that needed to be maintained before tonight.
As soon as every important figure had taken their seats or stands, the theater began flooding with commoners. They spilled over the stairs like water, filling nearly every single row. It would be a long outing, but a quiet part of him preferred this over the dull walls of the castle. When it was his, however, things would be different. And until then, he would pretend like nothing needed changing.
I would love a sample of yours too, see if our styles mesh!
Thank you for powering through this and feel free to message me!!
Last edited: