Hello and welcome to my (Updated) ad!
My name is Olli, and I am an experienced writer who has been in the business of written roleplay for decades now. I tend to favour writing medium- to long-term stories and prefer writing in the third-person past tense, multi-paragraph with my post length usually settling somewhere in the 300-1000 range. I am usually available for at least one solid post a day, possibly more depending on the length and and posting rhythm we settle on. I have many writing samples available, with some of them being included in the posts below this one.
I come to you in search of one (1) additional writing partner, be it to write one of the prompts I've included below, something in the many fandoms I am a part of or even something of our shared making! If any of the ideas described below call to you feel free to reach out!
Prompts
Some of my original characters are presented here. Will be updated with new one when time permits.
Fandoms
In addition to the specific prompts I am also interested in the below fandoms. The list includes the canons I have written in them previously or am interested in doing so, as well as the characters I'm most interested in writing against in []. That's not to say that I won't write against others, but picking one of them's a pretty surefire way of getting me to say 'yes.'
Misc
Below's a list of frequent discussion topics and my opinions on them.
Faceclaims
I don’t mind one way or another! I’m equally comfortable with pure prose, using artwork for reference, or ‘casting’ actors as faceclaims. The only exception is anime-style faceclaims, which are a turn-off for me.
NSFW
When it comes to adult material, I’m comfortable with anything from a fade-to-black to a moderate level of intimacy, depending on the story and partner preference. As for violence, gore, and darker themes, I match the tone of the narrative or genre we’re exploring. If you’re ever unsure — ask!
Posting Philosophy
I respond to my partner’s post as a whole, not line by line. In other words, I treat everything you’ve written as canon within the scene. I won’t retcon your actions. If you describe something that would kill my character, well… then he’s dead. This is why, especially in combat or tension-heavy scenes, I usually end my posts with my character attempting something rather than assuming the outcome. That way, we both decide how the action resolves in our respective turns.
Gamemastering
I’m a lifelong dungeon master in real life, but I’m not looking to GM a one-on-one story. Both of us should contribute meaningfully to the narrative. Perfect balance isn’t necessary, there will be arcs where one person carries more weight, but the story should always feel like a shared creation.
My name is Olli, and I am an experienced writer who has been in the business of written roleplay for decades now. I tend to favour writing medium- to long-term stories and prefer writing in the third-person past tense, multi-paragraph with my post length usually settling somewhere in the 300-1000 range. I am usually available for at least one solid post a day, possibly more depending on the length and and posting rhythm we settle on. I have many writing samples available, with some of them being included in the posts below this one.
I come to you in search of one (1) additional writing partner, be it to write one of the prompts I've included below, something in the many fandoms I am a part of or even something of our shared making! If any of the ideas described below call to you feel free to reach out!
Prompts
'Know, o prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars...'
Shadowed only by the foothills of the Kezankian Mountains, blade scorched by the heat of the Eastern Desert a sword scrapes against the arid wasteland beneath it; dragged on by a man-thing of no significance.
The sword, though neither magical nor beautiful in nature, can at least be attested to being real. Something of worth—a thing of beauty in its crudely hammered way. The man-thing dragging it across the sands of the desert can claim no such thing. His bare feet have been turned to naught but burnt leather; his once-pale hide made indistinguishable from the hide of some long-forgotten beast serving as his tunic. Bathed in sweat and gore the man-thing, though but the length of a forgotten god's shadow, he walks on, dragging the sword behind him.
The sword.
The man-thing dragging it.
And the gibbering of the now forgotten god that whispers in the darkest recesses of his mind.
"Ṯ̸̘̌̽͂h̴̢̛͖̞͐͒͌͜e̴̝͊͑͌̚ ̵̧̗̣́̈́̍F̵̬͎͒̎̂̀l̵̹̝͓̚͜a̷̙͊m̵̯̉̕ḙ̶͔̳͇̍.̷͙̦̺̯̔͝ ̸̦̥̉̂̕̚T̷͓͇͆̾͛͝ͅh̶̟̰̑͌̅͝e̴̟̹̬͙͊̈́̒͝ ̷̟́͐͋F̸̥͙͍͇̃̚l̵̮̭̦̼̅̅̚a̶̜͉͆͒m̵̠̓͒̋ë̴̞́̎͋ ̵̫̭̄͆̐B̷͇͖̤̓͜u̸̲͚̓̐r̵̡̔n̷̤̞̙̆͐s̶̬͇̳̈́̀̅͋ ̶̧̯̝͇̂o̷̘̍͆͒ń̷̜̫̞͂͑̍ͅ.̵̡̺̦́͗ ̷̛̼̦̖̍̋͝ͅI̶̭͇͉̠̽t̷̟̠̎̈́͘ͅ ̷̟͎̌͜ḿ̴̱̬̥̈́̾̉u̵͚̮̖͓̇s̸͔͉̊ť̵̳̩̻ ̷̗͕̔ḇ̴̇u̸̹͒͑͒͝ͅr̸̗͌̓̅̚n̸̝͖̈́̄͝ ̶̛͚̮̰͎͛ő̵̙̫͠n̷̗̳͉̑̽͜.̸̼͆̆̾̀ ̴͉̀̀ͅI̵̝̙͒͂ͅt̴̮̮͌̐ ̶̹̰͊̉̌̔m̶̬̊̋͌̓u̵̙̯͛s̷͕͚̻̳͋̕t̵̢̟̯̜̉̀͐.̷̧̬̺̗͐̋̽̕ ̸̢̆H̶͍̑͋̈̕a̶̢͖̩̪̓v̷͉̖͑̓ė̷̖̤̫̇̈́̊ ̵̩̻̑ỳ̶̡͕͕͆́̌ò̶̭̮̻ȕ̸̱͇ ̶̠̔f̸̧̤̱͔̉ọ̶̹̇̏͆r̶͍͂̃͝g̷̜͐͑́ṍ̶̬̞̻̑t̶͕̂̓̆͘t̸̩̿ḙ̷͉̙̎̈́͒̓͜n̷̝̳̥͔̈́̀̈́̀ ̵̪̘̘̈́̋t̸̠͕̂̌ẖ̸̙͆́̈́e̴̺̯̍̀ ̸̬̤͚́̑A̶̼̘̬͑ŝ̴̳̐h̴̥̩̮́́̽͝ē̸̝̠̈́̚n̶̟̒̿̽ ̶̮̔̐͜F̴̢̟̒̽ē̵̟̳̞͕͛ą̵̼́s̶̾̓̆͜t̷̮̣͇̩̄!̷̤̪̲͔̓̑̕͝?̴̗͋͘͜" The voice whispered in the man-thing's thoughts, its words as maddened as they were forlorn. It was the voice of the god the man-thing once served; the god unto whom he dedicated his life—razing cities and drinking the blood of Kings in its name.
The Man-Thing was real then. Something though crudely hammered, still useful in his way.
No more. Now he is but a thing—dragging behind him something real, something of value.
The sword. The man-thing dragging it. And the gibbering of the now forgotten god marched on, striking due south between the wasteland between Shadizar and Khauran. Though no longer in the Desert the land remains dead—scorched by the same heat that burned away every droplet of sweat threatening to erupt on the man-thing's hairless brow.
They arrived at a village, though to call it such would have made the citizens of greater polis bark in laughter; telling all and sundry that no half-dozen buildings built around the sole well in the region could be called thus.
But to the sword, the man-thing dragging it and the gibbering god it was a village. A place filled with people... and water.
"Who is that?" Someone asked as the sword, the man-thing dragging it and the gibbering god in his head passed them by. "Are they even alive?"
No... the man-thing almost told them. No they are not. They are but the man-thing dragging a sword across the wastes in search of another Ashen Feast.
The man-thing reached the well. It was surrounded by a half-dozen locals who parted in his wake like wheat before the scythe. The man-thing reached for the bucket. It creaked in his embrace, beckoning him closer.
He did just that, leaning down and lapping at its contents like the dog he was born to be. His split, serpentine tongue hissed in profane glee as the warm, silted water poured past his cracked lips into the well of his mouth and then down his throat. The sunburst tattoo consuming a good portion of his neck swelled with every godless gulp.
Then... a voice. Not that of the gibbering god, but of a mortal—someone with authority. Or the pretence of such.
"This is my well, stranger." The man announced from behind the man-thing's back. Leather creaked—steel... nay—bronze—was drawn. "And you will pay for its use."
The bucket creaked, spilling the last of its contents over the profane being it was held by. The man-thing turned... slowly—staring at the man who'd challenged him. He was wearing a loose robe the colour of wheat and a turban both. Beads decorated his dark, oiled beard.
"By Mithras!" He whispered, the sight of the man-thing sending quaking tremors down his length that were echoed in his very soul.
"His eyes! His eyes!" Another picked up, a child by the sounds of it. It was all the same to the man-thing... he knew what it was they saw—the unholy flame emanating from his skull. The red-and-yellow of inhuman irises long since consumed by the Flame.
"I..." The robe-wearing man stammered as the man-thing moved to approach. The sword scraped against the stones of the well as he dragged it. "...I."
He took a step back... and then another and another—but the Man-thing did not relent. Not until the man stumbled and fell, plopping down on the stones with the sword-dragging man-thing and the gibbering god in his head looming over him.
"I'm—" He began again, but was interrupted when the man-thing spoke... his voice was a raspy slither, like the leather of a serpent rubbing against the bark of the driest tree branch.
"You stink of godflesh." The Man-Thing uttered. "Where?"
"I...I...I..."
"Speak." The man-thing hissed.
"In the Devil's Rest!" Another wailed from the crowd. The Man-Thing's baleful gaze fell upon them. They flinched back as though burned by the heat of it.
"Due south!" Another interjected, the fear lacing their voice not unexpected.
The Man-Thing did not care. His thirst having been satisfied there remained but one need in him—a hunger that none but the flesh of a God could satisfy. So he turned south, dragging the sword behind him.
The sword.
The man-thing known as Sathir of the Ashen Feast—the Last God-Eater.
And the gibbering of the god he once devoured in his head.
Shadowed only by the foothills of the Kezankian Mountains, blade scorched by the heat of the Eastern Desert a sword scrapes against the arid wasteland beneath it; dragged on by a man-thing of no significance.
The sword, though neither magical nor beautiful in nature, can at least be attested to being real. Something of worth—a thing of beauty in its crudely hammered way. The man-thing dragging it across the sands of the desert can claim no such thing. His bare feet have been turned to naught but burnt leather; his once-pale hide made indistinguishable from the hide of some long-forgotten beast serving as his tunic. Bathed in sweat and gore the man-thing, though but the length of a forgotten god's shadow, he walks on, dragging the sword behind him.
The sword.
The man-thing dragging it.
And the gibbering of the now forgotten god that whispers in the darkest recesses of his mind.
"Ṯ̸̘̌̽͂h̴̢̛͖̞͐͒͌͜e̴̝͊͑͌̚ ̵̧̗̣́̈́̍F̵̬͎͒̎̂̀l̵̹̝͓̚͜a̷̙͊m̵̯̉̕ḙ̶͔̳͇̍.̷͙̦̺̯̔͝ ̸̦̥̉̂̕̚T̷͓͇͆̾͛͝ͅh̶̟̰̑͌̅͝e̴̟̹̬͙͊̈́̒͝ ̷̟́͐͋F̸̥͙͍͇̃̚l̵̮̭̦̼̅̅̚a̶̜͉͆͒m̵̠̓͒̋ë̴̞́̎͋ ̵̫̭̄͆̐B̷͇͖̤̓͜u̸̲͚̓̐r̵̡̔n̷̤̞̙̆͐s̶̬͇̳̈́̀̅͋ ̶̧̯̝͇̂o̷̘̍͆͒ń̷̜̫̞͂͑̍ͅ.̵̡̺̦́͗ ̷̛̼̦̖̍̋͝ͅI̶̭͇͉̠̽t̷̟̠̎̈́͘ͅ ̷̟͎̌͜ḿ̴̱̬̥̈́̾̉u̵͚̮̖͓̇s̸͔͉̊ť̵̳̩̻ ̷̗͕̔ḇ̴̇u̸̹͒͑͒͝ͅr̸̗͌̓̅̚n̸̝͖̈́̄͝ ̶̛͚̮̰͎͛ő̵̙̫͠n̷̗̳͉̑̽͜.̸̼͆̆̾̀ ̴͉̀̀ͅI̵̝̙͒͂ͅt̴̮̮͌̐ ̶̹̰͊̉̌̔m̶̬̊̋͌̓u̵̙̯͛s̷͕͚̻̳͋̕t̵̢̟̯̜̉̀͐.̷̧̬̺̗͐̋̽̕ ̸̢̆H̶͍̑͋̈̕a̶̢͖̩̪̓v̷͉̖͑̓ė̷̖̤̫̇̈́̊ ̵̩̻̑ỳ̶̡͕͕͆́̌ò̶̭̮̻ȕ̸̱͇ ̶̠̔f̸̧̤̱͔̉ọ̶̹̇̏͆r̶͍͂̃͝g̷̜͐͑́ṍ̶̬̞̻̑t̶͕̂̓̆͘t̸̩̿ḙ̷͉̙̎̈́͒̓͜n̷̝̳̥͔̈́̀̈́̀ ̵̪̘̘̈́̋t̸̠͕̂̌ẖ̸̙͆́̈́e̴̺̯̍̀ ̸̬̤͚́̑A̶̼̘̬͑ŝ̴̳̐h̴̥̩̮́́̽͝ē̸̝̠̈́̚n̶̟̒̿̽ ̶̮̔̐͜F̴̢̟̒̽ē̵̟̳̞͕͛ą̵̼́s̶̾̓̆͜t̷̮̣͇̩̄!̷̤̪̲͔̓̑̕͝?̴̗͋͘͜" The voice whispered in the man-thing's thoughts, its words as maddened as they were forlorn. It was the voice of the god the man-thing once served; the god unto whom he dedicated his life—razing cities and drinking the blood of Kings in its name.
The Man-Thing was real then. Something though crudely hammered, still useful in his way.
No more. Now he is but a thing—dragging behind him something real, something of value.
The sword. The man-thing dragging it. And the gibbering of the now forgotten god marched on, striking due south between the wasteland between Shadizar and Khauran. Though no longer in the Desert the land remains dead—scorched by the same heat that burned away every droplet of sweat threatening to erupt on the man-thing's hairless brow.
They arrived at a village, though to call it such would have made the citizens of greater polis bark in laughter; telling all and sundry that no half-dozen buildings built around the sole well in the region could be called thus.
But to the sword, the man-thing dragging it and the gibbering god it was a village. A place filled with people... and water.
"Who is that?" Someone asked as the sword, the man-thing dragging it and the gibbering god in his head passed them by. "Are they even alive?"
No... the man-thing almost told them. No they are not. They are but the man-thing dragging a sword across the wastes in search of another Ashen Feast.
The man-thing reached the well. It was surrounded by a half-dozen locals who parted in his wake like wheat before the scythe. The man-thing reached for the bucket. It creaked in his embrace, beckoning him closer.
He did just that, leaning down and lapping at its contents like the dog he was born to be. His split, serpentine tongue hissed in profane glee as the warm, silted water poured past his cracked lips into the well of his mouth and then down his throat. The sunburst tattoo consuming a good portion of his neck swelled with every godless gulp.
Then... a voice. Not that of the gibbering god, but of a mortal—someone with authority. Or the pretence of such.
"This is my well, stranger." The man announced from behind the man-thing's back. Leather creaked—steel... nay—bronze—was drawn. "And you will pay for its use."
The bucket creaked, spilling the last of its contents over the profane being it was held by. The man-thing turned... slowly—staring at the man who'd challenged him. He was wearing a loose robe the colour of wheat and a turban both. Beads decorated his dark, oiled beard.
"By Mithras!" He whispered, the sight of the man-thing sending quaking tremors down his length that were echoed in his very soul.
"His eyes! His eyes!" Another picked up, a child by the sounds of it. It was all the same to the man-thing... he knew what it was they saw—the unholy flame emanating from his skull. The red-and-yellow of inhuman irises long since consumed by the Flame.
"I..." The robe-wearing man stammered as the man-thing moved to approach. The sword scraped against the stones of the well as he dragged it. "...I."
He took a step back... and then another and another—but the Man-thing did not relent. Not until the man stumbled and fell, plopping down on the stones with the sword-dragging man-thing and the gibbering god in his head looming over him.
"I'm—" He began again, but was interrupted when the man-thing spoke... his voice was a raspy slither, like the leather of a serpent rubbing against the bark of the driest tree branch.
"You stink of godflesh." The Man-Thing uttered. "Where?"
"I...I...I..."
"Speak." The man-thing hissed.
"In the Devil's Rest!" Another wailed from the crowd. The Man-Thing's baleful gaze fell upon them. They flinched back as though burned by the heat of it.
"Due south!" Another interjected, the fear lacing their voice not unexpected.
The Man-Thing did not care. His thirst having been satisfied there remained but one need in him—a hunger that none but the flesh of a God could satisfy. So he turned south, dragging the sword behind him.
The sword.
The man-thing known as Sathir of the Ashen Feast—the Last God-Eater.
And the gibbering of the god he once devoured in his head.
Little did the would-be-emperor know that his destiny was at hand. A force that neither his magic, nor all his armies could truly contain; the raw power of masculine barbarity—the natural state of mankind:
Conan, the now-former War-Chief of the Zuagir hordes.
Standing atop a high bluff overseeing the Stygian war-camp, the one-time warlord studied it from a distance. Located as high and far as he was, the movements of the Stygian soldiery looked like little more than the skittering of black ants on slowly dimming sand. Though Shem, like its southern and northern neighbors in Stygia, Khoraja and Khauran, were all known for the heat of their shared dominion over the desert wastes upon which they'd carved their kingdoms, the nights here were near on as cold as those of the northern realms. Or perhaps not—perhaps it was merely the softness of their people, so used to the indulgence of heat, that made them say so. Conan, ever-clad in but a loincloth, sandals and a long swirling cape the color of these lands felt not the touch of heat or winter-night.
Scowling as he took in the size of the Stygian horde, he directed his seeing-eye to the other side of the encampment. For all its vaunted size and supposed might, he was not impressed. These southron servants of the Serpent were little more than children donning linen, cloth and bronze—thinking that made them warriors. The Shemites who'd stood against their might had spoken of the terror leading them with hollowed-out eyes and fearful whispers, but Conan felt no such fear. With their King now hiding in her tent what use was there in fear of a flock of weaklings?
None—he knew that.
Taking stock of the haphazard placement of the tents and the loose way in which the late-night patrols moved through their routes he concluded that the Stygian army was top-heavy. Without their King they'd scatter and break to the four winds in no time at all.
"My last favor to these lands." The Cimmerian mused, thinking back to King Khossus and Queen Tamaris—each of whom'd been quite eager for his Zuagir horde to rejoin their ranks as they prepared their own defenses to face the oncoming Stygian hordes. The fall of Shem had been a surprise to them, if not to Conan. His horde had moved through these wastes for months now and he'd known their forces to be rudderless and ready to fall—even if the speed by which this Thoth-Amon had toppled the Kingdom of Shem had surprised even him. Pleasantly so.
Noting the barely put-together palisade made up of the soldiers' gear, Conan grunted.
This would be easy.
Turning from the cliffside he made his way to his horse, stroking the mighty destrier's flanks as he pressed his brow into his. The creature had seen him from battle to battle for more than a year.
"You know the plan." He grunted at the beast like he understood him. "I shall enter the camp and create a distraction. When I do and end their King I shall call for you. Then we shall ride North."
The horse neighed in what Conan hoped was assent.
Nodding at it, Conan turned and began to make his way down the hillside and onto the sands, approaching the Stygian war-camp from its easterly side facing the wastes. An unexpected route, if there ever was any. The River Styx flowed heavy in the south and Asgalun was further north along the coast. Surely if any were to try and match the Stygian's might it would be from those water-heavy directions they'd attack from? Not the wastes. Never the wastes.
But approach from the wastes Conan, his pantherish-stride as silent as the desert winds as he moved across the sands, approaching the camp like a Djinn. Falling prone some hundred meters from the edge of the camp he waited as the patrol encircling it lounged past him before rushing forward and past their routes—his long cloak trailing behind him and shedding the sand of his footprints.
It was easy. Too easy. So easy that for a moment he wondered if he might've bartered the King’s assistance with his next mission in exchange for whipping these dogs into shape—into a proper army.
The thought was amusing and he exhaled sharply, sliding under the dry timber that had been set up as far away from the Kings tent as possible so as not to distract his with its marring of the land. People, soldiers and slaves alike, continued approaching it in order to grab bundles of it to fuel their campfires.
Sliding underneath it, Conan reached for his flint-and-tinder. Grabbing a bushel of dead desert fern he shoved it into the lower-most crevices of the mound before laying face up with it. Striking spark again and again he managed to light it by the third strike. Giving the fuel a few moments to grow, waiting to see if it'd die out he slid back out from under it before heading for the heart of the camp—gliding from cover to cover, shadow to shadow till finally he reached the Royal Canvas.
It was guarded, of course it was. And by no less than half a dozen men at arms wielding bronze spears and great shields. No doubt the deadliest of the Kings men—those sworn to the Serpent Set.
Sucking in a breath Conan eased the scimitar sheathed at his waist experimentally. Waiting with bated breath he eventually caught the smell of something aflame. Said smell was soon after echoed by a loud call of, ["FIRE!"] Spoken out in the Stygian-tongue.
Men and slaves alike rushed for the distraction. The Kings men did not, but in the rush of tanned hides past them Conan snuck in closer. The first Guard did not even realize he was facing his death before Conan's blade slit him from navel to neck in one easy blow.
Encircling the tent and removing the Kings guards one by one, Conan was all set to round to the last man when he stepped atop a stray rock contained underneath the sands. Though too agile to fall on the ground his brief stumble alerted the man and he turned to face the Cimmerian. His dark eyes widened in his even darker face. His mouth opened.
But no sound came out—none, but the sound of his face tumbling onto the sands before he too collapsed atop of them like a sack of wheat. Conan grunted, pleased.
Moving over to the tent he paused, peeking in through the canvas to take stock of what awaited him in it—instinctively reaching to his belt to loosen the dagger awaiting to be plunged into said man’s neck.
Conan, the now-former War-Chief of the Zuagir hordes.
Standing atop a high bluff overseeing the Stygian war-camp, the one-time warlord studied it from a distance. Located as high and far as he was, the movements of the Stygian soldiery looked like little more than the skittering of black ants on slowly dimming sand. Though Shem, like its southern and northern neighbors in Stygia, Khoraja and Khauran, were all known for the heat of their shared dominion over the desert wastes upon which they'd carved their kingdoms, the nights here were near on as cold as those of the northern realms. Or perhaps not—perhaps it was merely the softness of their people, so used to the indulgence of heat, that made them say so. Conan, ever-clad in but a loincloth, sandals and a long swirling cape the color of these lands felt not the touch of heat or winter-night.
Scowling as he took in the size of the Stygian horde, he directed his seeing-eye to the other side of the encampment. For all its vaunted size and supposed might, he was not impressed. These southron servants of the Serpent were little more than children donning linen, cloth and bronze—thinking that made them warriors. The Shemites who'd stood against their might had spoken of the terror leading them with hollowed-out eyes and fearful whispers, but Conan felt no such fear. With their King now hiding in her tent what use was there in fear of a flock of weaklings?
None—he knew that.
Taking stock of the haphazard placement of the tents and the loose way in which the late-night patrols moved through their routes he concluded that the Stygian army was top-heavy. Without their King they'd scatter and break to the four winds in no time at all.
"My last favor to these lands." The Cimmerian mused, thinking back to King Khossus and Queen Tamaris—each of whom'd been quite eager for his Zuagir horde to rejoin their ranks as they prepared their own defenses to face the oncoming Stygian hordes. The fall of Shem had been a surprise to them, if not to Conan. His horde had moved through these wastes for months now and he'd known their forces to be rudderless and ready to fall—even if the speed by which this Thoth-Amon had toppled the Kingdom of Shem had surprised even him. Pleasantly so.
Noting the barely put-together palisade made up of the soldiers' gear, Conan grunted.
This would be easy.
Turning from the cliffside he made his way to his horse, stroking the mighty destrier's flanks as he pressed his brow into his. The creature had seen him from battle to battle for more than a year.
"You know the plan." He grunted at the beast like he understood him. "I shall enter the camp and create a distraction. When I do and end their King I shall call for you. Then we shall ride North."
The horse neighed in what Conan hoped was assent.
Nodding at it, Conan turned and began to make his way down the hillside and onto the sands, approaching the Stygian war-camp from its easterly side facing the wastes. An unexpected route, if there ever was any. The River Styx flowed heavy in the south and Asgalun was further north along the coast. Surely if any were to try and match the Stygian's might it would be from those water-heavy directions they'd attack from? Not the wastes. Never the wastes.
But approach from the wastes Conan, his pantherish-stride as silent as the desert winds as he moved across the sands, approaching the camp like a Djinn. Falling prone some hundred meters from the edge of the camp he waited as the patrol encircling it lounged past him before rushing forward and past their routes—his long cloak trailing behind him and shedding the sand of his footprints.
It was easy. Too easy. So easy that for a moment he wondered if he might've bartered the King’s assistance with his next mission in exchange for whipping these dogs into shape—into a proper army.
The thought was amusing and he exhaled sharply, sliding under the dry timber that had been set up as far away from the Kings tent as possible so as not to distract his with its marring of the land. People, soldiers and slaves alike, continued approaching it in order to grab bundles of it to fuel their campfires.
Sliding underneath it, Conan reached for his flint-and-tinder. Grabbing a bushel of dead desert fern he shoved it into the lower-most crevices of the mound before laying face up with it. Striking spark again and again he managed to light it by the third strike. Giving the fuel a few moments to grow, waiting to see if it'd die out he slid back out from under it before heading for the heart of the camp—gliding from cover to cover, shadow to shadow till finally he reached the Royal Canvas.
It was guarded, of course it was. And by no less than half a dozen men at arms wielding bronze spears and great shields. No doubt the deadliest of the Kings men—those sworn to the Serpent Set.
Sucking in a breath Conan eased the scimitar sheathed at his waist experimentally. Waiting with bated breath he eventually caught the smell of something aflame. Said smell was soon after echoed by a loud call of, ["FIRE!"] Spoken out in the Stygian-tongue.
Men and slaves alike rushed for the distraction. The Kings men did not, but in the rush of tanned hides past them Conan snuck in closer. The first Guard did not even realize he was facing his death before Conan's blade slit him from navel to neck in one easy blow.
Encircling the tent and removing the Kings guards one by one, Conan was all set to round to the last man when he stepped atop a stray rock contained underneath the sands. Though too agile to fall on the ground his brief stumble alerted the man and he turned to face the Cimmerian. His dark eyes widened in his even darker face. His mouth opened.
But no sound came out—none, but the sound of his face tumbling onto the sands before he too collapsed atop of them like a sack of wheat. Conan grunted, pleased.
Moving over to the tent he paused, peeking in through the canvas to take stock of what awaited him in it—instinctively reaching to his belt to loosen the dagger awaiting to be plunged into said man’s neck.
It had been a long journey from where Elric, called on by destiny, had begun his journey westward from the shores of Pan Tang, sailing the Seas of Fate to whence they might lead. He'd lost track of both time and the miles he'd sailed on these misty seas, with just the lull of sleeping when he grew too weary to not do so, letting him know days were yet passing somewhere beyond the veil of shadow.
He knew not when or whence he'd arrived, but upon exiting the sailing ship, which promptly retreated back into the mist, with Stormbringer at his back, he made inland before coming to a crossroads on a woefully under-traversed dirt path of some sort. The crossroads played host to a number of wagons, carts, as well as a longhouse of sorts sporting an insignia naming it as the Gilded Goblet Inn.
"Promising." Elric mused, entering into it. The pleasant rush of warmth and smoke clinging to the rafters high above greeted him like an old friend. There were many figures lingering in every corner of the room, ranging from a pair of aged soldiers playing dice, to barmaids sashaying around the place and even an unfamiliar-looking creature with painted skin strumming at a lute.
A Pict. Elric recalled from lives past.
"Welcome, welcome!" One of the barmaids, a buxom beauty with hair the colour of wheat and freckles all over, greeted. "Take a seat anywhere."
The possibilities were endless, it seemed. Or so her eyes promised, anyhow.
Those possibilities lingered on the back of Elric of Melniboné's mind as he took in the shape, size, and stench of the Gilded Goblet. It was a place built on the edge of memory, with thick pipe smoke and old songs all having been varnished into the wood; only to be accented by laughter too stubborn to die. The tavern had the stink of celebration stretched thin over regret and felt like a place where men forgot their names in tankards whilst bards tuned old truths into newer lies.
Elric, ever the pale echo of more splendid rooms, found his forlorn crimson gaze roving from a slow-turning roast beast on a spit to the half-breed minstrel whose voice clung to the rafters like incense. There were strangers and stories to be had here—some glittering in gold thread, and others hidden beneath the grime of armour and ale. The firelight danced off stein and steel alike, and even Stormbringer crooned only faintly, as though sensing that whilst some petty bloodletting might not have been out of the norm, this was not to be its feasting ground.
Still... the Albino Prince merely exhaled, low and long, like the sigh of a grave being unsealed. He yet felt the stares of those in the room linger on his narrow back. He was clad in dichotomy with his inner vestments being those of his distant homeland—the luxurious make of the Dragon Isle, paralleling the kind of make that not even the royalty could afford in these lands, whilst his outer layer consisted of furs, leather, and steel hued so dark it might as well have been a shadow cast upon him by some dying flame from long ago.
It was the stark colouring of his vestments that brought the rest of his royal bearing into true focus. The matted locks the colour of bleached bone that peeked out from under his fur-lined leather hood jutted out like a bone from torn flesh. His face, handsome and aristocratic as befitting the Emperor of Melniboné as it may have been, was unnaturally pale even by the standards of the northernmost men of the Young Kingdoms. But in truth, it was not his pallid splendour that caught people's eye:
It was his eyes. Ruby red, slanted and moody from memories etched deep beneath them, they were like the deepest reaches of the ocean in some faraway place. They roamed the Goblet—shifting from the table that had just opened up near to the wall. An obvious retreat, perhaps, even if lacking in the allure of the hearth or the stairs leading upstairs to the room that Melnibonéan coin could barter for. It would not have been the first, nor the last, time that Elric had eschewed the pleasure of others' company in favour of his morose solitude, but this time he was caught in a different mood. The soft strum of a battered lute being tuned and the eyes of a half-breed, like his own people were, called to him. An alluring prospect that saw him march over to where the Pict was humming a melody not yet known to him.
He sunk into a seat facing the roaring fires of the hearth, one half of his face consumed in the shadow of his hood, but the other—the half facing the Minstrel—bathed in the warmth of the hearth.
Lowering the heavy bale of furs and leathers that was Stormbringer's scabbard to rest against one arm of his chair, he lifted his sword hand up to the bar, raising a single finger. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. Every word spoken, though heavily accented, cut through the Goblet like a King proclaiming commands from his throne.
"Wine." He instructed before sinking deeper into his seat. A single ruby red eye twinkled as it took in the sight of the Bard. Then he spoke again, voice low and private like a secret treasure of some sort.
"She leaves too much space between the notes." He mused to Stormbringer, his voice laced with a knowing smile that said nothing. He didn't really expect a response. The sword was alive, yes, but not in the sense that many—him included—might've thought. Even so... with the passage of time he'd come to address it almost like a living, thinking thing, and this time was no different. He much preferred her silent company to that of the noisier mortals dotting this place.
And then... Elric felt it. Like the touch of cool fingers trailing up his hand from where it rested atop the bundles covering the Black Blade of Arioch. A tingle of magic awakening. And then... another figure slammed open the door, stepping into the tavern like a cold breeze.
Elric turned to them.
He knew not when or whence he'd arrived, but upon exiting the sailing ship, which promptly retreated back into the mist, with Stormbringer at his back, he made inland before coming to a crossroads on a woefully under-traversed dirt path of some sort. The crossroads played host to a number of wagons, carts, as well as a longhouse of sorts sporting an insignia naming it as the Gilded Goblet Inn.
"Promising." Elric mused, entering into it. The pleasant rush of warmth and smoke clinging to the rafters high above greeted him like an old friend. There were many figures lingering in every corner of the room, ranging from a pair of aged soldiers playing dice, to barmaids sashaying around the place and even an unfamiliar-looking creature with painted skin strumming at a lute.
A Pict. Elric recalled from lives past.
"Welcome, welcome!" One of the barmaids, a buxom beauty with hair the colour of wheat and freckles all over, greeted. "Take a seat anywhere."
The possibilities were endless, it seemed. Or so her eyes promised, anyhow.
Those possibilities lingered on the back of Elric of Melniboné's mind as he took in the shape, size, and stench of the Gilded Goblet. It was a place built on the edge of memory, with thick pipe smoke and old songs all having been varnished into the wood; only to be accented by laughter too stubborn to die. The tavern had the stink of celebration stretched thin over regret and felt like a place where men forgot their names in tankards whilst bards tuned old truths into newer lies.
Elric, ever the pale echo of more splendid rooms, found his forlorn crimson gaze roving from a slow-turning roast beast on a spit to the half-breed minstrel whose voice clung to the rafters like incense. There were strangers and stories to be had here—some glittering in gold thread, and others hidden beneath the grime of armour and ale. The firelight danced off stein and steel alike, and even Stormbringer crooned only faintly, as though sensing that whilst some petty bloodletting might not have been out of the norm, this was not to be its feasting ground.
Still... the Albino Prince merely exhaled, low and long, like the sigh of a grave being unsealed. He yet felt the stares of those in the room linger on his narrow back. He was clad in dichotomy with his inner vestments being those of his distant homeland—the luxurious make of the Dragon Isle, paralleling the kind of make that not even the royalty could afford in these lands, whilst his outer layer consisted of furs, leather, and steel hued so dark it might as well have been a shadow cast upon him by some dying flame from long ago.
It was the stark colouring of his vestments that brought the rest of his royal bearing into true focus. The matted locks the colour of bleached bone that peeked out from under his fur-lined leather hood jutted out like a bone from torn flesh. His face, handsome and aristocratic as befitting the Emperor of Melniboné as it may have been, was unnaturally pale even by the standards of the northernmost men of the Young Kingdoms. But in truth, it was not his pallid splendour that caught people's eye:
It was his eyes. Ruby red, slanted and moody from memories etched deep beneath them, they were like the deepest reaches of the ocean in some faraway place. They roamed the Goblet—shifting from the table that had just opened up near to the wall. An obvious retreat, perhaps, even if lacking in the allure of the hearth or the stairs leading upstairs to the room that Melnibonéan coin could barter for. It would not have been the first, nor the last, time that Elric had eschewed the pleasure of others' company in favour of his morose solitude, but this time he was caught in a different mood. The soft strum of a battered lute being tuned and the eyes of a half-breed, like his own people were, called to him. An alluring prospect that saw him march over to where the Pict was humming a melody not yet known to him.
He sunk into a seat facing the roaring fires of the hearth, one half of his face consumed in the shadow of his hood, but the other—the half facing the Minstrel—bathed in the warmth of the hearth.
Lowering the heavy bale of furs and leathers that was Stormbringer's scabbard to rest against one arm of his chair, he lifted his sword hand up to the bar, raising a single finger. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. Every word spoken, though heavily accented, cut through the Goblet like a King proclaiming commands from his throne.
"Wine." He instructed before sinking deeper into his seat. A single ruby red eye twinkled as it took in the sight of the Bard. Then he spoke again, voice low and private like a secret treasure of some sort.
"She leaves too much space between the notes." He mused to Stormbringer, his voice laced with a knowing smile that said nothing. He didn't really expect a response. The sword was alive, yes, but not in the sense that many—him included—might've thought. Even so... with the passage of time he'd come to address it almost like a living, thinking thing, and this time was no different. He much preferred her silent company to that of the noisier mortals dotting this place.
And then... Elric felt it. Like the touch of cool fingers trailing up his hand from where it rested atop the bundles covering the Black Blade of Arioch. A tingle of magic awakening. And then... another figure slammed open the door, stepping into the tavern like a cold breeze.
Elric turned to them.
The Emperor's words pumped through Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen's ears with the same sanguine clarity as the blood of Paul Atreides, the so-called Muad'Dib—Messiah—dripped down from the tip of his fingers. The boy had been good... perhaps the best he'd ever faced, but in the end his defeat had not been decided by skill, but by sheer animal vitality.
He... Feyd-Rautha had wanted it more. He'd not fought out of necessity or the distant dream of some paradise, but to win. And he had.
Refusing to turn and face the Emperor, whose every syllable, every claim that he was merely a champion mocked what had occurred this day, he instead tore those inky black eyes of his from the beautiful princess he knew he was to marry. Instead turning them to the here and now, he turned. His gaze swept through the mass of onlookers... courtiers, nobles, Bene-Gesserit... Fremen.
The very same that had just laid waste to said Emperor's supposedly invincible Sardaukar. Their leader... their Messiah lay dead at his feet. A Martyr. Even with his blood yet pumping hot with the fire of battle, he knew that neither the battle nor the war was yet over—or perhaps more succinctly... that if it was, they'd already lost. What was one knife against many? What was the heir to the Baron so hated in these lands to do when faced by men and women who'd soon realise that no matter their dead saviour, they still outnumbered their oppressors a thousand to one?
The answer seemed obvious:
Claim them.
The Emperor, blind—consciously or not—to the haste in which he was claiming victory, cleared his throat, perhaps thinking that Feyd-Rautha had not heard him.
"My champion," he repeated with as much dignity as he could under the circumstances. "Name your prize."
He knew what he was expected to say... to claim, and he fully meant to, but when he finally spoke, it was to claim much, much more than the hand of the Emperor's only daughter and some distant dream of a throne.
"Your Mahdi fell," he spoke out, his voice a deep-lined whisper of animal fervour wrapped up in a silk so soft that all that wished to hear him had to perk their ears to do so. And they did. In this moment, he owned this room. Owned them. Even if for just a moment.
"But this trial was sacred," he continued, tossing his dagger, the blade yet glimmering with the Martyred Muad'dib's blood, up in the air before catching it... blade down. Slamming it against his chest, he looked from one man—one Fremen—to the next. "He died beneath the eyes of... Shai-Hulud. Beneath my blade. So who now stands in the blood of the chosen?"
Turning from the Fremen to the fallen Atreides, he inhaled sharply... loudly, pointedly, before spitting out a thick wad of water on the fallen man. A tremor resounded from the Imperial party. What barbarity was this?
"You!" he suddenly continued, well aware of the dichotomous way in which the Fremen and their enemies would take his act, whilst pointing his blade at the Fremen who'd stood at Paul Atreides' right hand. He'd heard him called Stilgar. "You're the strongest. Come! Name me tyrant or rightful champion, but do so before Shai-Hulud! Before the Prophecy!"
The hall was silent as the grave. As silent as the desert before the thumping of the Fremen leader stepping forth could be heard. His religious fervour, briefly having waned when his supposed savior had fallen, was glimmering in his eyes.
A possibility, Feyd-Rautha smirked, allowing his gaze to trail through the others in the deathly silent room.
Choose, his eyes seemed to command.
Greetings, Seeker!
The scenario outlined up above should paint a clear enough picture of the set-up, but to simplify it even further I am interested in a scenario where Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen emerges victorious over Paul Atreides in the duel at the end of Dune—or Dune Part 2 if you'd like to base this more on the Denis Villeneuve movies.
To that end I come to you in search of other canon or original characters. Some of the canons that spring to mind would be the likes of Princess Irulan, Lady Jessica, Gurney Halleck, Stilgar, Chani, Margot Fenring or the like. Heck, if you're interested in doing some fast-forwarding we could even have either Paul or Duncan Idaho's ghola or even Alia join Feyd in the story. As noted, I'm also open to OCs, but please do make sure they're setting and story appropriate and above all: understand as a writer what they're getting into with a character like Feyd who whilst perhaps at times charming in that serpentine way, is not for the faint of heart! The prospect of one or more characters being killed is possible at every moment.
He... Feyd-Rautha had wanted it more. He'd not fought out of necessity or the distant dream of some paradise, but to win. And he had.
Refusing to turn and face the Emperor, whose every syllable, every claim that he was merely a champion mocked what had occurred this day, he instead tore those inky black eyes of his from the beautiful princess he knew he was to marry. Instead turning them to the here and now, he turned. His gaze swept through the mass of onlookers... courtiers, nobles, Bene-Gesserit... Fremen.
The very same that had just laid waste to said Emperor's supposedly invincible Sardaukar. Their leader... their Messiah lay dead at his feet. A Martyr. Even with his blood yet pumping hot with the fire of battle, he knew that neither the battle nor the war was yet over—or perhaps more succinctly... that if it was, they'd already lost. What was one knife against many? What was the heir to the Baron so hated in these lands to do when faced by men and women who'd soon realise that no matter their dead saviour, they still outnumbered their oppressors a thousand to one?
The answer seemed obvious:
Claim them.
The Emperor, blind—consciously or not—to the haste in which he was claiming victory, cleared his throat, perhaps thinking that Feyd-Rautha had not heard him.
"My champion," he repeated with as much dignity as he could under the circumstances. "Name your prize."
He knew what he was expected to say... to claim, and he fully meant to, but when he finally spoke, it was to claim much, much more than the hand of the Emperor's only daughter and some distant dream of a throne.
"Your Mahdi fell," he spoke out, his voice a deep-lined whisper of animal fervour wrapped up in a silk so soft that all that wished to hear him had to perk their ears to do so. And they did. In this moment, he owned this room. Owned them. Even if for just a moment.
"But this trial was sacred," he continued, tossing his dagger, the blade yet glimmering with the Martyred Muad'dib's blood, up in the air before catching it... blade down. Slamming it against his chest, he looked from one man—one Fremen—to the next. "He died beneath the eyes of... Shai-Hulud. Beneath my blade. So who now stands in the blood of the chosen?"
Turning from the Fremen to the fallen Atreides, he inhaled sharply... loudly, pointedly, before spitting out a thick wad of water on the fallen man. A tremor resounded from the Imperial party. What barbarity was this?
"You!" he suddenly continued, well aware of the dichotomous way in which the Fremen and their enemies would take his act, whilst pointing his blade at the Fremen who'd stood at Paul Atreides' right hand. He'd heard him called Stilgar. "You're the strongest. Come! Name me tyrant or rightful champion, but do so before Shai-Hulud! Before the Prophecy!"
The hall was silent as the grave. As silent as the desert before the thumping of the Fremen leader stepping forth could be heard. His religious fervour, briefly having waned when his supposed savior had fallen, was glimmering in his eyes.
A possibility, Feyd-Rautha smirked, allowing his gaze to trail through the others in the deathly silent room.
Choose, his eyes seemed to command.
Greetings, Seeker!
The scenario outlined up above should paint a clear enough picture of the set-up, but to simplify it even further I am interested in a scenario where Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen emerges victorious over Paul Atreides in the duel at the end of Dune—or Dune Part 2 if you'd like to base this more on the Denis Villeneuve movies.
To that end I come to you in search of other canon or original characters. Some of the canons that spring to mind would be the likes of Princess Irulan, Lady Jessica, Gurney Halleck, Stilgar, Chani, Margot Fenring or the like. Heck, if you're interested in doing some fast-forwarding we could even have either Paul or Duncan Idaho's ghola or even Alia join Feyd in the story. As noted, I'm also open to OCs, but please do make sure they're setting and story appropriate and above all: understand as a writer what they're getting into with a character like Feyd who whilst perhaps at times charming in that serpentine way, is not for the faint of heart! The prospect of one or more characters being killed is possible at every moment.
The Five Families, increasingly squeezed by the cops and their newer, flashier rivals request assistance from the Mother Country.
A lone ambulance driven by a felon on the path to redemption comes across a massacre with, but one survivor.
A single father attempting to recapture a bit of romance with an unlikely paramour forced to do the unthinkable for their happy ending.
But what connects these seemingly disconnected threads?
One City.
Three Men.
A Single Story.
And...
record scratch
...who are you again?
Ciao Bella!
That may require some explanation, so buckle your belts and let's talk narrative structure. Sexy, I know.
In simple terms I am looking to write an interwoven narrative starring three men written by yours truly, as well as any characters you may wish to insert into it. The story can obviously be experienced from a single perspective shared by one of my blokes and one of your characters, but to get the whole story you'd need to have three characters, one working alongside each of the three men. Clear enough?
The tone I'm looking for is neo-noir. Think New York at night, flashing headlights, dimly lit alleys starkly contrasted with fluorescently lit high-rises and skyscrapers. The rich are obscenely so whilst the poor are left wallowing in the leftovers of their excesses. This isn't a story about fancy rich people being fancy or scrappy underdogs winning, but rather a deeper contemplation on power. What it costs to have and to keep. Come to me with that in mind if interested.
A lone ambulance driven by a felon on the path to redemption comes across a massacre with, but one survivor.
A single father attempting to recapture a bit of romance with an unlikely paramour forced to do the unthinkable for their happy ending.
But what connects these seemingly disconnected threads?
One City.
Three Men.
A Single Story.
And...
record scratch
...who are you again?
Ciao Bella!
That may require some explanation, so buckle your belts and let's talk narrative structure. Sexy, I know.
In simple terms I am looking to write an interwoven narrative starring three men written by yours truly, as well as any characters you may wish to insert into it. The story can obviously be experienced from a single perspective shared by one of my blokes and one of your characters, but to get the whole story you'd need to have three characters, one working alongside each of the three men. Clear enough?
The tone I'm looking for is neo-noir. Think New York at night, flashing headlights, dimly lit alleys starkly contrasted with fluorescently lit high-rises and skyscrapers. The rich are obscenely so whilst the poor are left wallowing in the leftovers of their excesses. This isn't a story about fancy rich people being fancy or scrappy underdogs winning, but rather a deeper contemplation on power. What it costs to have and to keep. Come to me with that in mind if interested.
Having just come from the high of re-watching Nosferatu (2024) Extended Edition with those glorious four extra minutes on top of the theatrical release along with other films in the genre like Dracula, Last Voyage of the Demeter, Underworld, Fright Night, 30 Days of Night, Night Teeth, Sinners and... Lesbian Vampire Killers—
Okay wait—forget about the last one listed!
Unless?
Never mind!
Anywho... where was I? Yes! I've been on a bit of a Spooktober media frenzy of late and would be interested in writing a story in that vein, be it something short term or even long-term ongoing in addition to the VTM story I am already greatly enjoying. For my part here's some plot hooks I've been musing over:
A Romance Centuries in the Making...
'Some would call it the greatest romance never told. A tale of love, sorrow, rage and blood centuries in the making that started hundreds of years ago when Y/C was first turned into a Vampire. Y/C's sire had been a cruel and capricious man—a rake, a cad and a bounder—in his own life and his undeath had not done him any favours so together you carved a bloody swath through the Continent until one fateful day a mob descended upon your resting place and dragged your Sire out into the scorching light of dawn where he turned to ash for seemingly forever, leaving you hollow and devastated for in spite of his madness and cruel cunning your sire had ever had, but one weakness....'
'You.'
'The centuries passed with you gaining both in age and in power until yet another fateful night you came upon a scent you'd not smelled in a long time. The scent of a human whose blood smelled all too familiar to your senses. Tracking the scent you eventually came upon the sight of M/C whom despite the centuries difference and clearly being a mortal is the spitting image of your Sire.'
Of Fur and Fang
'The Eternal War between Vampires and Werewolves has reigned for untold millennia with neither side managing to gain the upper hand. What happens when two of their number are forced to go rogue to save both species from a third, previously unaccounted for, threat?'
Nosferatu (2024)
No blurb here, but don't unveil the spoilers if you haven't seen the movie yet.
I can't have been the only one that was vaguely disappointed by the movie's ending. Instead of the transcendent destruction we've come to expect of Eggers and the bad guy winning we instead got a... happy ending? What is this!? No, what I want to do is give our spin on either the climax to that story, or picking up with an alternative ending where Ellen—or whatever heroine we wind up incorporating—fully submitting to Orlok—or whatever vampire we wind up incorporating—and in the process being transformed somehow. Maybe she just sides with him and he keeps her as a sort of blood bank? Maybe she gets transformed into his Vampire bride?
Dracula: A Love Tale
No blurb here either, but given that I have seen this movie also (take that North Americans!) I'd be interested in giving it my own spin also. Let's talk Vampire and reincarnating lover concepts and tear our hearts out together!
Okay wait—forget about the last one listed!
Unless?
Never mind!
Anywho... where was I? Yes! I've been on a bit of a Spooktober media frenzy of late and would be interested in writing a story in that vein, be it something short term or even long-term ongoing in addition to the VTM story I am already greatly enjoying. For my part here's some plot hooks I've been musing over:
A Romance Centuries in the Making...
'Some would call it the greatest romance never told. A tale of love, sorrow, rage and blood centuries in the making that started hundreds of years ago when Y/C was first turned into a Vampire. Y/C's sire had been a cruel and capricious man—a rake, a cad and a bounder—in his own life and his undeath had not done him any favours so together you carved a bloody swath through the Continent until one fateful day a mob descended upon your resting place and dragged your Sire out into the scorching light of dawn where he turned to ash for seemingly forever, leaving you hollow and devastated for in spite of his madness and cruel cunning your sire had ever had, but one weakness....'
'You.'
'The centuries passed with you gaining both in age and in power until yet another fateful night you came upon a scent you'd not smelled in a long time. The scent of a human whose blood smelled all too familiar to your senses. Tracking the scent you eventually came upon the sight of M/C whom despite the centuries difference and clearly being a mortal is the spitting image of your Sire.'
Of Fur and Fang
'The Eternal War between Vampires and Werewolves has reigned for untold millennia with neither side managing to gain the upper hand. What happens when two of their number are forced to go rogue to save both species from a third, previously unaccounted for, threat?'
Nosferatu (2024)
No blurb here, but don't unveil the spoilers if you haven't seen the movie yet.
I can't have been the only one that was vaguely disappointed by the movie's ending. Instead of the transcendent destruction we've come to expect of Eggers and the bad guy winning we instead got a... happy ending? What is this!? No, what I want to do is give our spin on either the climax to that story, or picking up with an alternative ending where Ellen—or whatever heroine we wind up incorporating—fully submitting to Orlok—or whatever vampire we wind up incorporating—and in the process being transformed somehow. Maybe she just sides with him and he keeps her as a sort of blood bank? Maybe she gets transformed into his Vampire bride?
Dracula: A Love Tale
No blurb here either, but given that I have seen this movie also (take that North Americans!) I'd be interested in giving it my own spin also. Let's talk Vampire and reincarnating lover concepts and tear our hearts out together!
Some of my original characters are presented here. Will be updated with new one when time permits.
Fandoms
In addition to the specific prompts I am also interested in the below fandoms. The list includes the canons I have written in them previously or am interested in doing so, as well as the characters I'm most interested in writing against in []. That's not to say that I won't write against others, but picking one of them's a pretty surefire way of getting me to say 'yes.'
ANИA: [Anna]
A Song of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones: Daemon Blackfyre, Daemon Targaryen (Rebel Prince), Jaime Lannister, Ned Stark, Robert Baratheon, Tywin Lannister [Cersei Lannister, Margaery Tyrell, Rhaenys Targaryen, Visenya Targaryen]
Altered Carbon: Takeshi Kovacs
Asian Saga: Blackthorne, Dirk Struan, Toranaga
Babylon 5: G'Kar, Jeremy Sinclair, John Sheridan, Londo Mollari
Barsoom Series: John Carter
Berserk: Guts, Griffith [Guts, Griffith, Casca]
Biblical: Cain
Blade Runner: KD6-3.7 [JOI]
Bondverse: Alec Trevelyan, James Bond, Le Chiffre
Buffyverse: Angel, Giles, Spike [Angel, Buffy, Faith]
Command & Conquer: Kane
Conan / Howardverse: Conan, El Borak, Kull, Solomon Kane [Conan, Red Sonja]
Cyberpunk (2020 / 2077): Johnny Silverhand [Meredith Stout]
DC Comics: Aquaman, Batman, Damian Wayne, Dream (of the Endless), Hal Jordan, Jason Todd, John Constantine, Lex Luthor, Oliver Queen, Ra’s al Ghul, Superman, Vandal Savage [Barbara Gordon, Death, Mera, Supergirl, Talia al Ghul, Wonder Woman]
Dragonlance: Raistlin Majere, Sturm Brightblade
Dune: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, Leto Atreides, Paul Atreides, Vladimir Harkonnen [Alia, Chani, Irulan, Lady Jessica, Margot Fenring, Paul Atreides]
Elder Scrolls: Indoril Nerevar
Elric Saga / Moorcockverse: Dorian Hawkmoon, Elric of Melniboné, Erekosë [Stormbringer]
Expanse: Amos Burton, Josephus Miller [Avasarala, Camina Drummer]
Firefly: Malcolm Reynolds [Inara]
Forgotten Realms (Baldur’s Gate): Astarion, Bane, Drizzt, Gale, Lae’zel, Szass Tam, Torm [Aribeth de Tylmerande, Jaheira, Minthara, Selûne, Shadowheart, Shar, Viconia DeVir]
Greco-Roman Myth: Achilles, Ares / Mars, Jupiter / Zeus, Odysseus
Historical (& Dramas): Alexander VI, Aurelian, Cao Cao, Cardinal Richelieu, Charles XII (of Sweden), Gustavus Adolphus, Henry VIII (of England) [Catherine the Great, Zenobia]
Indiana Jones: Indiana Jones
Last Kingdom: Finan, Uhtred [Skade]
Léon: The Professional: Léon
Lord of the Rings: Aragorn, Elendil, Isildur, Sauron, Thranduil [Arwen, Galadriel]
Mad Max: Max Rockatansky
Man from U.N.C.L.E.: Napoleon Solo
Marvel: Daredevil, Doom (Victor von), Kilgrave / Purple Man, Magneto, Moon Knight, Punisher, Thor, Tony Stark, Wolverine [Elektra, Magik, Rogue]
Norse Myth: Baldur, Heimdall, Odin, Thor
Once Upon a Time in Hollywood: Cliff Booth
Penny Dreadful: [Magda, Vanessa Ives]
Road: The Man [The Son]
Robert Eggers’ Filmography: Amleth, Friedrich Harding
Star Wars: Anakin / Vader, Han Solo, Kyle Katarn, Revan [Bastila Shan, Padmé Amidala]
Stargate: Anubis, Apophis, Ba’al, Jack O’Neill (with two L’s) [Sam Carter]
Taboo: James Delaney
Underworld: Lucian [Selene]
Valerian and Laureline: Valerian [Laureline]
Vampires: Dracula, Orlok
Vikings: Ragnar, Rollo [Lagertha]
Warhammer 40K: Horus, Leman Russ, Rogal Dorn, Sanguinius
Wheel of Time: Loghain, Matrim Cauthon, Mazrim Taim, Rand al’Thor [Aviendha, Elayne Trakand, Min Farshaw, Moiraine Damodred]
Witcher: Emhyr, Geralt [Ciri, Triss, Yennefer]
A Song of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones: Daemon Blackfyre, Daemon Targaryen (Rebel Prince), Jaime Lannister, Ned Stark, Robert Baratheon, Tywin Lannister [Cersei Lannister, Margaery Tyrell, Rhaenys Targaryen, Visenya Targaryen]
Altered Carbon: Takeshi Kovacs
Asian Saga: Blackthorne, Dirk Struan, Toranaga
Babylon 5: G'Kar, Jeremy Sinclair, John Sheridan, Londo Mollari
Barsoom Series: John Carter
Berserk: Guts, Griffith [Guts, Griffith, Casca]
Biblical: Cain
Blade Runner: KD6-3.7 [JOI]
Bondverse: Alec Trevelyan, James Bond, Le Chiffre
Buffyverse: Angel, Giles, Spike [Angel, Buffy, Faith]
Command & Conquer: Kane
Conan / Howardverse: Conan, El Borak, Kull, Solomon Kane [Conan, Red Sonja]
Cyberpunk (2020 / 2077): Johnny Silverhand [Meredith Stout]
DC Comics: Aquaman, Batman, Damian Wayne, Dream (of the Endless), Hal Jordan, Jason Todd, John Constantine, Lex Luthor, Oliver Queen, Ra’s al Ghul, Superman, Vandal Savage [Barbara Gordon, Death, Mera, Supergirl, Talia al Ghul, Wonder Woman]
Dragonlance: Raistlin Majere, Sturm Brightblade
Dune: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, Leto Atreides, Paul Atreides, Vladimir Harkonnen [Alia, Chani, Irulan, Lady Jessica, Margot Fenring, Paul Atreides]
Elder Scrolls: Indoril Nerevar
Elric Saga / Moorcockverse: Dorian Hawkmoon, Elric of Melniboné, Erekosë [Stormbringer]
Expanse: Amos Burton, Josephus Miller [Avasarala, Camina Drummer]
Firefly: Malcolm Reynolds [Inara]
Forgotten Realms (Baldur’s Gate): Astarion, Bane, Drizzt, Gale, Lae’zel, Szass Tam, Torm [Aribeth de Tylmerande, Jaheira, Minthara, Selûne, Shadowheart, Shar, Viconia DeVir]
Greco-Roman Myth: Achilles, Ares / Mars, Jupiter / Zeus, Odysseus
Historical (& Dramas): Alexander VI, Aurelian, Cao Cao, Cardinal Richelieu, Charles XII (of Sweden), Gustavus Adolphus, Henry VIII (of England) [Catherine the Great, Zenobia]
Indiana Jones: Indiana Jones
Last Kingdom: Finan, Uhtred [Skade]
Léon: The Professional: Léon
Lord of the Rings: Aragorn, Elendil, Isildur, Sauron, Thranduil [Arwen, Galadriel]
Mad Max: Max Rockatansky
Man from U.N.C.L.E.: Napoleon Solo
Marvel: Daredevil, Doom (Victor von), Kilgrave / Purple Man, Magneto, Moon Knight, Punisher, Thor, Tony Stark, Wolverine [Elektra, Magik, Rogue]
Norse Myth: Baldur, Heimdall, Odin, Thor
Once Upon a Time in Hollywood: Cliff Booth
Penny Dreadful: [Magda, Vanessa Ives]
Road: The Man [The Son]
Robert Eggers’ Filmography: Amleth, Friedrich Harding
Star Wars: Anakin / Vader, Han Solo, Kyle Katarn, Revan [Bastila Shan, Padmé Amidala]
Stargate: Anubis, Apophis, Ba’al, Jack O’Neill (with two L’s) [Sam Carter]
Taboo: James Delaney
Underworld: Lucian [Selene]
Valerian and Laureline: Valerian [Laureline]
Vampires: Dracula, Orlok
Vikings: Ragnar, Rollo [Lagertha]
Warhammer 40K: Horus, Leman Russ, Rogal Dorn, Sanguinius
Wheel of Time: Loghain, Matrim Cauthon, Mazrim Taim, Rand al’Thor [Aviendha, Elayne Trakand, Min Farshaw, Moiraine Damodred]
Witcher: Emhyr, Geralt [Ciri, Triss, Yennefer]
Misc
Below's a list of frequent discussion topics and my opinions on them.
Faceclaims
I don’t mind one way or another! I’m equally comfortable with pure prose, using artwork for reference, or ‘casting’ actors as faceclaims. The only exception is anime-style faceclaims, which are a turn-off for me.
NSFW
When it comes to adult material, I’m comfortable with anything from a fade-to-black to a moderate level of intimacy, depending on the story and partner preference. As for violence, gore, and darker themes, I match the tone of the narrative or genre we’re exploring. If you’re ever unsure — ask!
Posting Philosophy
I respond to my partner’s post as a whole, not line by line. In other words, I treat everything you’ve written as canon within the scene. I won’t retcon your actions. If you describe something that would kill my character, well… then he’s dead. This is why, especially in combat or tension-heavy scenes, I usually end my posts with my character attempting something rather than assuming the outcome. That way, we both decide how the action resolves in our respective turns.
Gamemastering
I’m a lifelong dungeon master in real life, but I’m not looking to GM a one-on-one story. Both of us should contribute meaningfully to the narrative. Perfect balance isn’t necessary, there will be arcs where one person carries more weight, but the story should always feel like a shared creation.
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