Ducky
𝙈𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝘿𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙧
Inner Sanctum Nobility
Meet The Duck
About The Person
I'm Duck, Ducky, or whatever sort of pun you would like to apply using that term. I'm a 34 year old Man living in the Midwest ( EST ) - though tend to hop back and forth from there and the Deep South ( CST ) on occasion. Once upon a time I did silly things for the U.S. Government, but have since retired and am a full time, stay at home dog-dad to my two wonderful fur children ( which you can see here )
My typical availability is 8AM to about 1AM on any given day, though with some variance to be had therein. In time time I've been on the Sanctum I've come to enjoy interacting with all manner of people, and I hope to add you, good reader, to the list of those people. Feel free to slip into my DM's and we can put on something comfortable for the both of us.
My typical availability is 8AM to about 1AM on any given day, though with some variance to be had therein. In time time I've been on the Sanctum I've come to enjoy interacting with all manner of people, and I hope to add you, good reader, to the list of those people. Feel free to slip into my DM's and we can put on something comfortable for the both of us.
About The Writing
I am constantly and nigh always a multi-paragraph writer and will regularly deliver on 1,000+ word counts. I've been writing for the better quarter of a century ( a fancy way to say 25ish years ) and started like many people around my age in MSN / AOL chatrooms and progressed to various different message boards ( like this one! ) and eventually into real-time text based games which I eventually wound up coding. ( MUD's, MOOs, MUSH, etc. If these mean anything to you, then I like you already. )
I tend to lean toward a dark and gritty style of story writing and tend to embody rough, gruff, and tumble sort of characters much more fluidly than clean-cut nice guys. I also tend to roleplay older gentleman, though will dip into the early 20's range if you insist. I'm a perpetual world builder and will likely dwell on the smallest details of our world that we set ourselves in and tend to flesh out things that really don't matter in the grand scheme of things. Do our characters have a ship? Then it will probably have a blueprint and/or deck schematic. Do we live in a dystopian security state? I'll probably make our characters badges..
I tend to lean toward a dark and gritty style of story writing and tend to embody rough, gruff, and tumble sort of characters much more fluidly than clean-cut nice guys. I also tend to roleplay older gentleman, though will dip into the early 20's range if you insist. I'm a perpetual world builder and will likely dwell on the smallest details of our world that we set ourselves in and tend to flesh out things that really don't matter in the grand scheme of things. Do our characters have a ship? Then it will probably have a blueprint and/or deck schematic. Do we live in a dystopian security state? I'll probably make our characters badges..
Scroll down to find a series of ongoing plots by me opposite other fantastical writers. Otherwise, I've included this original short story for your review.
The deep, rushing sound of an oncoming freight train echoed from within the pitch black darkness of night, and ended in the violent explosion of hissing seafoam and an acrid, salty mist, which evaporated into the starless sky. Another, unyielding ocean wave crashed against the jagged rock and barnacle infested shores of what was a particularly grotesquely shaped peninsula. On all sides, as if to form the makings of a misshapen spiderweb, differently sized arms of rock and silt, jerked, curved, cut, and climbed in all different sorts of shapes and angles, all sprawling outward from the base of an imposing, salt-stained lighthouse. The storm, and the lighthouses' inhabitant had both been a constant presence about the peninsula for the last two weeks.
It had to stop soon, Amos thought. Though the deep wrinkles in the furrow of his brow suggested that it wasn't the first, nor likely to be the last time that he'd had such a thought. As if prompted by the realization he was doing so, the fingers of his right hand kneaded against against his forehead. Though dry, the steep ridges of his calloused fingertips slid effortlessly across his skin, pooling, beads of sweat smudging into every weathered crevice of his face, streaming downward along the flanks of a bulbous and crooked nose, which he pinched, just-so, about its bridge. His chest rose, and as it fell, a long a exhale of steamy breath rolled its way outward, dancing into the crisp night air which surrounded him, and with it, carried concern away as if it was never about in the first place.
Amos had been in this godforsaken lighthouse the better part of thirteen days, and the fever he'd developed had been with him for nigh half that. He laid atop what had to have been the itchiest mattress he'd ever experienced, and in fifty-four years he'd experienced his fair share. The woolen blankets were moth-ridden, and when he'd agreed to man a hitch at this lighthouse he'd assumed they would have at least left ample supplies. That, too, was not the case. In fact, he couldn't think of a single thing about his stay in this damnable three story tower that he could compliment, save its curious history of having once been the watchtower of a former castle that had long since succumbed to natural erosion and now found itself scattered about in the rocks that made up the levee, and he supposed the fact that the last keeper had left and now he had a job.
"Well there's no sense whining about it when there's coffee to be had," he grumbled, and though he'd managed what amounted to a haphazard draping of hole-tattered wool across one leg, sleep was not coming to him. Amos sat upright, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed, and groaned about it. Like a seasoned oak, he did not tend to move these days without a force of effort. With a series of little creaks and cracks, he rose to his feet. He was clad in what was once a union suit, though it had seen better days, and it had been rolled about his hips and tied, exposing his torso. He grabbed the low burning oil lamp from his bedside; he'd need to refill that when he got downstairs, slipped his feet into a pair of haggard leather boots, and began his trek downstairs.
The steps were slow and the footfalls heavy, the circular architecture of the stairs was arduous otherwise. Amos held the lantern outstretched at nearly hip height, and with each thunk of a rubber-soled boot he made his way down. What revealed itself under the dim illumination of his lantern was a kitchen that nobody dreamt of; weevil cursed and uncertainly splintered wooden flooring, a soot-stained potbelly stove set central to the round room, and a singular portside window with no pane with a single, half hanging wooden shutter. It was absolutely lackluster in appearance and yet, a low hum of appreciation escaped Amos' lips in appreciation for the nicest room in the tower.
"It's bloody impossible to be comfortable," Amos half-grunted as he rapped an ashen knuckle against the stove's flue, insuring it was still warm and working, "Damnable sweat spells, then when I cool down I freeze due to the longest god-damned winter flash freeze in history." A percolator full of water and ground coffee beans later, a freshly topped off oil lantern, and Amos sat in a rickety highbacked chair in front of the stove. In a word, he was miserable. Sweat seemed to exude from every pore and yet the tip of his nose dripped from the chill. He plunged his fingers into the depths of a wiry, inky-black beard that extended well below his collarbone and drug them upward through it, tilting back his head, and inhaled through his nostrils. What came from that endeavor was a sharp, and disgustingly ungentlemanly snort of snot and unmentionable fluids, with a twinge of residual lamp oil as his fingers neared his nostrils, and concluded in a gravelly, nasally intoned "Aaahhhh...," of relief; which Amos then swallowed.
Comfort. Was what went through Amos' mind as he removed the percolator from the stove and poured himself a tin mug of rich, black, bean juice. He'd dreaded being so close to the stove as he was already hot, but now that he was he relished in it. He sat back down with his cup and sipped at the steamy liquid contently. Be comfortable. Amos thought, and why shouldn't he. Now that he was back in his chair he'd lost what small bit of comfort he'd had from his proximity of the stove, and with a dull echo of wood being drug across itself, he pulled his chair closer. "Much better." He muttered to himself, his chapped lips perched against the rim of his mug as he took a sip.
Only a few moments had passed, though as Amos sat with his coffee, it just wasn't enough anymore. Be warm. The coffee had helped, it warmed his insides for a splash and being close to the stove had near made him crack a smile, though as quick as it came, it seemed to be fleeting doubly so. "It was burning all night. I should have checked," Amos chided himself, the fire had been burning while he slept, and was likely on coals when he'd set the percolator. He opened the feed door of the stove and what met him was a surprise; not only was the stove not on coals but it was positively engorged. Warm, quick pops and cracks emitted from the stove and the vibrant yellow-orange hues of the flames danced wildly in the reflection of Amos' hazel eyes.
"Yes," Amos whispered in disbelief. The fire was much too alight to continue to burn safely within the stove, and he knew he needed to stoke it as to shift the kindling and coals to settle, "Gods, I feel good..." he muttered, the heat of the open-faced stove washed over him and forced the sweat of his torso to glisten in its light. For the first time that Amos could recall in what felt like forever he felt good; then he blinked, and reached for the fire stoker. Or rather, what should have been a fire stoker, though in reality he had been forced to use the leg from an old stool as they hadn't bothered to leave any actual tools in the lighthouse.
The wood within the stove shifted and the flames fell slightly as the kindling of the fire settled into its place. Amos sighed, and took his seat back before the stove, still poking at the occasional bit of wood in the fire before finally withdrawing the stool leg which had, as wood does, also caught fire. Amos chuffed, rolling his eyes, it was just one more thing about this place he wouldn't be sad to miss. There was nothing that said he couldn't at least try to be happy though, and right now watching the small flame lick from the tip of the former stool leg made him happy. He sipped his coffee, and thrust the leg through the air, a trail of fire fluttering at its tip. For a brief moment, Amos was a kid again, and he smiled. He rose to his feet, lifted his coffee to his lips and he laughed. A deep, hearty, belly laugh. He wasn't a kid again, oh no, as he held the leg outright and crouched ever-so-much at the knees, he was a musketeer. He moved forward with a step, and he swished the stool leg through the air as if a swashbuckler of world renown!
And then his life began to change. What he felt next was the violent twinge of flames at his fingers. He'd not been paying attention and all of the swinging had fed the small flame which was once at the tip of the piece of wood into a full blown blame, and it licked at his hand. "Fuck!" Amos shouted, and repeated that phrase in a growing crescendo of fucks as he rushed to the stove to throw the leg into the fire. Be whole. As he let loose the leg of the stool, the flames of the stove practically leaped from the hatch to grab it and absorb it into itself, and then he dropped his coffee. Amos had forgotten about the lantern oil on his hands, the lid of the shoddy metal oil keeper had fallen off its threads when he had refueled the oil lantern and in this instant, he was starkly reminded of that fact by the red-hot flames which engulfed his entire hand.
Amos screamed, a deep and guttural release from the depths of his soul as he withdrew his hand near his chest, he would like to think he'd handle this better though in this instant he was nothing more than a sobbing child. He thrashed, to and thro in the room but there was nothing. As he tried, helplessly to swat away the flames from his hand, his other hand ignited. His efforts of preservation were ongoing, and he grabbed the still near boiling-hot percolator of coffee and dumped it across what part of his hand he could and it did positively nothing, and was as if pouring a drop of water into a red hot pan. It was growing, the pain, it was unbearable, white hot senses plucked at his every nerve ending and as he thrashed, the oil from having stroked his beard caught fire, his whole face, and finally his entire head was engulfing in flames. He fell to his knees.
There was darkness. There was nothingness. Then there was... warmth? The darkness subsided and it was pushed away by the opening of Amos' eyes. It was dark because he'd closed his eyes. He was there, in the tower, and he felt amazing. He extended his hands before him, and they moved with streaks of dancing flames which licked from the edges of his skin which was now the shade of a glowing hot piece of iron. He drew one leg up to rise from the kneeling position he'd been in, only to feel that motion was surprisingly smooth. Amos couldn't remember the last time he could bend his knees without pain or cracking for the better part of the last thirty years. He stood, and as he turned to look the small mirror of polished silver which hung over the wash basin reflected something that he was having a hard time coming to understand.
From the crown of his head to the flat of his foot, Amos was still on fire, but not the sort of fire you got from being burned alive, no, he was the fire and it was him. His clothes were gone, and he stood stark naked and glowing as if his body was made of steel and it'd been left in the forge, though his disheveled, slicked back hair and bushy beard had been replaced with alternating shades of fire, and his eyes glowed the most piercing shade of bright white he'd ever seen. The occasional, flickering spark popped from the surface of his flesh but he was still very much Amos. "This is...," he began, and when he did the first thing he noticed that his voice had weight, not the physical sort, but it felt as if he were to yell, they just might hear him across the ocean, "...amazing!" he shouted, and let loose a rumbling uproar of laughter.
He hadn't felt this good in... well, ever. He made a fist, and his fingers didn't ache. He jumped, and he bones didn't creak. He bent, and his back didn't cause him to groan. He felt... awesome. "Welcome." a voice declared matter-of-factly, and it was so out of place that it took Amos by surprise. "It can take some getting used to," came again from what seemed nowhere, and Amos did a turn of the kitchen to try and find the source. "Down here," the voice spoke again and the door of the stove clanged open loudly. Amos was entirely uncertain, and as a result approached the stove with caution, crouching down to look at the fire. And it had eyes, the same as his.
"Holy mother of...," was all that Amos could get out before the fire cut him off, "Yes, yes, it's a fire, with eyes, I get it. I've heard this thousands of times. Do get over it will you? Listen, we have work to do. Your world is very new and frankly I shouldn't even be talking to you, but we're kind of in a bind and your soul was the only one with the spark I'd seen in a few thousand years, and buddy we could use the help..." as the fire continued, Amos stared, blankly and blatantly dumbfounded as he blinked, or thought he was blinking, his eyes. "Oh, curse the twelve celestials, kid. Look. Here's the rundown, and stop blinking, it's like you keep turning a giant flashlight off and on every time you do it and you don't exactly need to do that anymore. There's this big thing out here called space. Millions of little planet things, and like a gazillion different people and species... look, okay, it's not super important. What is important is you've just had your spark awakened and we need to get you the heck off your planet and up here with us so we can get your training going because we're about a month away from the Reavers destroying our timeline. What's really important is... Oh screw it, this is going to hurt, but just... We don't have time. We need you here now."
Suddenly, and without warning, the flames from the fire within the stove leaped outward in the form of two powerful hands and clenched themselves around Amos' wrists, "Be Free!" the fire commanded, and as it did so, it yanked Amos forward and into the roaring fire of the stove. Amos screamed and attempted to protest as it felt like he was actually starting to burn again when the fire grabbed him, but within seconds he was sucked into the fire and the flames shot upright and out with ferocity through the flue of the stove, leaving behind a few smoldering coals in the stove. Like that, Amos was gone, and when the fire exploded from the top of the flue, it expanded into an unquantifiable amount of sparkling dust particles that distributed into the cold night sky.
The lighthouse would need a new keeper.
It had to stop soon, Amos thought. Though the deep wrinkles in the furrow of his brow suggested that it wasn't the first, nor likely to be the last time that he'd had such a thought. As if prompted by the realization he was doing so, the fingers of his right hand kneaded against against his forehead. Though dry, the steep ridges of his calloused fingertips slid effortlessly across his skin, pooling, beads of sweat smudging into every weathered crevice of his face, streaming downward along the flanks of a bulbous and crooked nose, which he pinched, just-so, about its bridge. His chest rose, and as it fell, a long a exhale of steamy breath rolled its way outward, dancing into the crisp night air which surrounded him, and with it, carried concern away as if it was never about in the first place.
Amos had been in this godforsaken lighthouse the better part of thirteen days, and the fever he'd developed had been with him for nigh half that. He laid atop what had to have been the itchiest mattress he'd ever experienced, and in fifty-four years he'd experienced his fair share. The woolen blankets were moth-ridden, and when he'd agreed to man a hitch at this lighthouse he'd assumed they would have at least left ample supplies. That, too, was not the case. In fact, he couldn't think of a single thing about his stay in this damnable three story tower that he could compliment, save its curious history of having once been the watchtower of a former castle that had long since succumbed to natural erosion and now found itself scattered about in the rocks that made up the levee, and he supposed the fact that the last keeper had left and now he had a job.
"Well there's no sense whining about it when there's coffee to be had," he grumbled, and though he'd managed what amounted to a haphazard draping of hole-tattered wool across one leg, sleep was not coming to him. Amos sat upright, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed, and groaned about it. Like a seasoned oak, he did not tend to move these days without a force of effort. With a series of little creaks and cracks, he rose to his feet. He was clad in what was once a union suit, though it had seen better days, and it had been rolled about his hips and tied, exposing his torso. He grabbed the low burning oil lamp from his bedside; he'd need to refill that when he got downstairs, slipped his feet into a pair of haggard leather boots, and began his trek downstairs.
The steps were slow and the footfalls heavy, the circular architecture of the stairs was arduous otherwise. Amos held the lantern outstretched at nearly hip height, and with each thunk of a rubber-soled boot he made his way down. What revealed itself under the dim illumination of his lantern was a kitchen that nobody dreamt of; weevil cursed and uncertainly splintered wooden flooring, a soot-stained potbelly stove set central to the round room, and a singular portside window with no pane with a single, half hanging wooden shutter. It was absolutely lackluster in appearance and yet, a low hum of appreciation escaped Amos' lips in appreciation for the nicest room in the tower.
"It's bloody impossible to be comfortable," Amos half-grunted as he rapped an ashen knuckle against the stove's flue, insuring it was still warm and working, "Damnable sweat spells, then when I cool down I freeze due to the longest god-damned winter flash freeze in history." A percolator full of water and ground coffee beans later, a freshly topped off oil lantern, and Amos sat in a rickety highbacked chair in front of the stove. In a word, he was miserable. Sweat seemed to exude from every pore and yet the tip of his nose dripped from the chill. He plunged his fingers into the depths of a wiry, inky-black beard that extended well below his collarbone and drug them upward through it, tilting back his head, and inhaled through his nostrils. What came from that endeavor was a sharp, and disgustingly ungentlemanly snort of snot and unmentionable fluids, with a twinge of residual lamp oil as his fingers neared his nostrils, and concluded in a gravelly, nasally intoned "Aaahhhh...," of relief; which Amos then swallowed.
Comfort. Was what went through Amos' mind as he removed the percolator from the stove and poured himself a tin mug of rich, black, bean juice. He'd dreaded being so close to the stove as he was already hot, but now that he was he relished in it. He sat back down with his cup and sipped at the steamy liquid contently. Be comfortable. Amos thought, and why shouldn't he. Now that he was back in his chair he'd lost what small bit of comfort he'd had from his proximity of the stove, and with a dull echo of wood being drug across itself, he pulled his chair closer. "Much better." He muttered to himself, his chapped lips perched against the rim of his mug as he took a sip.
Only a few moments had passed, though as Amos sat with his coffee, it just wasn't enough anymore. Be warm. The coffee had helped, it warmed his insides for a splash and being close to the stove had near made him crack a smile, though as quick as it came, it seemed to be fleeting doubly so. "It was burning all night. I should have checked," Amos chided himself, the fire had been burning while he slept, and was likely on coals when he'd set the percolator. He opened the feed door of the stove and what met him was a surprise; not only was the stove not on coals but it was positively engorged. Warm, quick pops and cracks emitted from the stove and the vibrant yellow-orange hues of the flames danced wildly in the reflection of Amos' hazel eyes.
"Yes," Amos whispered in disbelief. The fire was much too alight to continue to burn safely within the stove, and he knew he needed to stoke it as to shift the kindling and coals to settle, "Gods, I feel good..." he muttered, the heat of the open-faced stove washed over him and forced the sweat of his torso to glisten in its light. For the first time that Amos could recall in what felt like forever he felt good; then he blinked, and reached for the fire stoker. Or rather, what should have been a fire stoker, though in reality he had been forced to use the leg from an old stool as they hadn't bothered to leave any actual tools in the lighthouse.
The wood within the stove shifted and the flames fell slightly as the kindling of the fire settled into its place. Amos sighed, and took his seat back before the stove, still poking at the occasional bit of wood in the fire before finally withdrawing the stool leg which had, as wood does, also caught fire. Amos chuffed, rolling his eyes, it was just one more thing about this place he wouldn't be sad to miss. There was nothing that said he couldn't at least try to be happy though, and right now watching the small flame lick from the tip of the former stool leg made him happy. He sipped his coffee, and thrust the leg through the air, a trail of fire fluttering at its tip. For a brief moment, Amos was a kid again, and he smiled. He rose to his feet, lifted his coffee to his lips and he laughed. A deep, hearty, belly laugh. He wasn't a kid again, oh no, as he held the leg outright and crouched ever-so-much at the knees, he was a musketeer. He moved forward with a step, and he swished the stool leg through the air as if a swashbuckler of world renown!
And then his life began to change. What he felt next was the violent twinge of flames at his fingers. He'd not been paying attention and all of the swinging had fed the small flame which was once at the tip of the piece of wood into a full blown blame, and it licked at his hand. "Fuck!" Amos shouted, and repeated that phrase in a growing crescendo of fucks as he rushed to the stove to throw the leg into the fire. Be whole. As he let loose the leg of the stool, the flames of the stove practically leaped from the hatch to grab it and absorb it into itself, and then he dropped his coffee. Amos had forgotten about the lantern oil on his hands, the lid of the shoddy metal oil keeper had fallen off its threads when he had refueled the oil lantern and in this instant, he was starkly reminded of that fact by the red-hot flames which engulfed his entire hand.
Amos screamed, a deep and guttural release from the depths of his soul as he withdrew his hand near his chest, he would like to think he'd handle this better though in this instant he was nothing more than a sobbing child. He thrashed, to and thro in the room but there was nothing. As he tried, helplessly to swat away the flames from his hand, his other hand ignited. His efforts of preservation were ongoing, and he grabbed the still near boiling-hot percolator of coffee and dumped it across what part of his hand he could and it did positively nothing, and was as if pouring a drop of water into a red hot pan. It was growing, the pain, it was unbearable, white hot senses plucked at his every nerve ending and as he thrashed, the oil from having stroked his beard caught fire, his whole face, and finally his entire head was engulfing in flames. He fell to his knees.
There was darkness. There was nothingness. Then there was... warmth? The darkness subsided and it was pushed away by the opening of Amos' eyes. It was dark because he'd closed his eyes. He was there, in the tower, and he felt amazing. He extended his hands before him, and they moved with streaks of dancing flames which licked from the edges of his skin which was now the shade of a glowing hot piece of iron. He drew one leg up to rise from the kneeling position he'd been in, only to feel that motion was surprisingly smooth. Amos couldn't remember the last time he could bend his knees without pain or cracking for the better part of the last thirty years. He stood, and as he turned to look the small mirror of polished silver which hung over the wash basin reflected something that he was having a hard time coming to understand.
From the crown of his head to the flat of his foot, Amos was still on fire, but not the sort of fire you got from being burned alive, no, he was the fire and it was him. His clothes were gone, and he stood stark naked and glowing as if his body was made of steel and it'd been left in the forge, though his disheveled, slicked back hair and bushy beard had been replaced with alternating shades of fire, and his eyes glowed the most piercing shade of bright white he'd ever seen. The occasional, flickering spark popped from the surface of his flesh but he was still very much Amos. "This is...," he began, and when he did the first thing he noticed that his voice had weight, not the physical sort, but it felt as if he were to yell, they just might hear him across the ocean, "...amazing!" he shouted, and let loose a rumbling uproar of laughter.
He hadn't felt this good in... well, ever. He made a fist, and his fingers didn't ache. He jumped, and he bones didn't creak. He bent, and his back didn't cause him to groan. He felt... awesome. "Welcome." a voice declared matter-of-factly, and it was so out of place that it took Amos by surprise. "It can take some getting used to," came again from what seemed nowhere, and Amos did a turn of the kitchen to try and find the source. "Down here," the voice spoke again and the door of the stove clanged open loudly. Amos was entirely uncertain, and as a result approached the stove with caution, crouching down to look at the fire. And it had eyes, the same as his.
"Holy mother of...," was all that Amos could get out before the fire cut him off, "Yes, yes, it's a fire, with eyes, I get it. I've heard this thousands of times. Do get over it will you? Listen, we have work to do. Your world is very new and frankly I shouldn't even be talking to you, but we're kind of in a bind and your soul was the only one with the spark I'd seen in a few thousand years, and buddy we could use the help..." as the fire continued, Amos stared, blankly and blatantly dumbfounded as he blinked, or thought he was blinking, his eyes. "Oh, curse the twelve celestials, kid. Look. Here's the rundown, and stop blinking, it's like you keep turning a giant flashlight off and on every time you do it and you don't exactly need to do that anymore. There's this big thing out here called space. Millions of little planet things, and like a gazillion different people and species... look, okay, it's not super important. What is important is you've just had your spark awakened and we need to get you the heck off your planet and up here with us so we can get your training going because we're about a month away from the Reavers destroying our timeline. What's really important is... Oh screw it, this is going to hurt, but just... We don't have time. We need you here now."
Suddenly, and without warning, the flames from the fire within the stove leaped outward in the form of two powerful hands and clenched themselves around Amos' wrists, "Be Free!" the fire commanded, and as it did so, it yanked Amos forward and into the roaring fire of the stove. Amos screamed and attempted to protest as it felt like he was actually starting to burn again when the fire grabbed him, but within seconds he was sucked into the fire and the flames shot upright and out with ferocity through the flue of the stove, leaving behind a few smoldering coals in the stove. Like that, Amos was gone, and when the fire exploded from the top of the flue, it expanded into an unquantifiable amount of sparkling dust particles that distributed into the cold night sky.
The lighthouse would need a new keeper.
What I'm Looking For / Request Section
I'm open to new concepts and my DM's are open, but this is just a loose jumping off point if you're looking to write with me and don't know where to start ( I strongly recommend the next to my name wink, wink ) - They're only loosely fleshed out and we would need to work on them together on how we want to shape the story. Let me know if any of them interest you.
In the distant future, technology and space travel have boomed. There's more planets and colonies than you could visit in one lifetime, and somehow Mars is where the hustle and bustle found itself. But all it did was create the same shitty circumstances on Earth on a hundred other planets. Some are good, some are terrible, but people are always shit. The idea is to be relatively down on-our-luck sorts of characters who try to rise to the occasion of a world who's basically forgetting they exist.
Character Ideas: Two bit bounty hunters who really need to score their next bounty. // A bounty hunter and their target, but it's not all that it seems on the surface. // Regular blue-collar types who decide they're going to make it big somehow.
Cowboy Bebop-esque
Character Ideas: Two bit bounty hunters who really need to score their next bounty. // A bounty hunter and their target, but it's not all that it seems on the surface. // Regular blue-collar types who decide they're going to make it big somehow.
Cowboy Bebop-esque
Whether it's the latest VR game we get stuck in, or a random beam of shimmering red light suddenly engulfs the city, the concept is sort of the same: We get transported from our relatively normal lives to that of a place we've never been and with people we've never seen. The world as we know it is totally different and we've got to adapt and make the best of it because neither of us can figure out how to get out. If you want to turn this into a world where there are sort of 'game' like mechanics that's fine. I've read a lot of LitRPG books and I think it would be a blast to write. There's also tons of open possibilities with this one.
Character Ideas: Friends who get transported together. // Strangers who are forced to work together. // Exes who hate each other but don't know who the other is in the new world.
Character Ideas: Friends who get transported together. // Strangers who are forced to work together. // Exes who hate each other but don't know who the other is in the new world.
In the roaring 20's and 30's, the world was in a golden age that some think it should have never left. The story to undertake is one that plays heavily into the styles and themes of that era. Gangsters, corruption, either the active ongoing or just having ended World War and a turn in technological advancement that would pave the groundwork for America to thrive.
Character Ideas:Due to the death of someone close, one of us inherits a bar/restaurant/nightclub and the other is the person they need help getting it going. Could be a mobster, or could be a trumpet player. Who knows. // A private detective who's hired to investigate the other character. It could be for murder, it could be for infidelity, who knows. // Street level criminals decide they're tired of taking peoples shit, and the struggles they go through to get their own thing going.
Character Ideas:Due to the death of someone close, one of us inherits a bar/restaurant/nightclub and the other is the person they need help getting it going. Could be a mobster, or could be a trumpet player. Who knows. // A private detective who's hired to investigate the other character. It could be for murder, it could be for infidelity, who knows. // Street level criminals decide they're tired of taking peoples shit, and the struggles they go through to get their own thing going.
Set in a low-fantasy world, an event occurred that caused what were described as wild and wonderous magics to disappear from the world. Where once they razed castles from ice and obsidian, now are dull rock and stone. Furthermore, it's been so long since it fizzled out that the ruling power has decided it was evil. But it's still around, somewhere, somehow, in the depths of few and far between, waiting for the time to bring it back to the world.
Character Ideas:An inquisitor, or someone who hates magic, who is healed by a magic user, forcing him to change their thoughts on magic. // A newly awakened magic user falls victim to their own new powers, luckily they're discovered by a fellow magic user. They nurse them back to health and then start on teaching them the ways of being a magician. // Criminals, but their only crime is being different. Magic users who wish to see the world burn and will stop and nothing to recruit or conquer until they get the equality they deserve.
Character Ideas:An inquisitor, or someone who hates magic, who is healed by a magic user, forcing him to change their thoughts on magic. // A newly awakened magic user falls victim to their own new powers, luckily they're discovered by a fellow magic user. They nurse them back to health and then start on teaching them the ways of being a magician. // Criminals, but their only crime is being different. Magic users who wish to see the world burn and will stop and nothing to recruit or conquer until they get the equality they deserve.
Come one, come all, to the greatest show that the world would never wish for him to tell. To a land of mythical magicks and wizardry, a realm of barbarically reawakened banshees and dangerously doglike barghasts! Be forewarned that the very world you are about to be exposed to may potentially place you in gargantuan amounts of grave danger! Allow yourselves, if you will, to dedicate a modicum of your magnanimously provided attention to allow the unscrupulous ulterior motives of a world that wishes you harm from beyond the planes of our existence to be unveiled! Though! Fear not dear curious citizens as you shall be most promptly and professionally protected from the cacophony of ner-do-wells by the worlds most pragmatic professor to have ever practiced these great feats of practical magic in pursuit of a perpetually growing prestige within a particularly perilous profession! The most wonderfully well-versed wielder of wondrously wild magick and wizardry! The Warden of Westcott! Grand Master Magician Atticus Ambrosios!
... and that's just the opening line.
A fabled grand magician, Atticus Ambrosios is known far and wide as the most well versed and powerful magic user in the area. The only problem is that he's an absolute fraud, having never actually practiced any sort of magic or with any understanding about what being someone with magic blood entails. Unfortunately, with his fame comes misfortune and he is targeted by an evil magician working to bring an ancient evil back to life. With no magic of his own and an immediate need for the protection of one has has no place to turn; Tansy Miller, his biggest critic, and fortunately one of the few real practicing magic users left.
... and that's just the opening line.
A fabled grand magician, Atticus Ambrosios is known far and wide as the most well versed and powerful magic user in the area. The only problem is that he's an absolute fraud, having never actually practiced any sort of magic or with any understanding about what being someone with magic blood entails. Unfortunately, with his fame comes misfortune and he is targeted by an evil magician working to bring an ancient evil back to life. With no magic of his own and an immediate need for the protection of one has has no place to turn; Tansy Miller, his biggest critic, and fortunately one of the few real practicing magic users left.
You have a wonderful idea, and you told me so by clicking on this paragraph of fog. I'd love to hear from you about it and your proposition for what I am certain is a quality concept; with you, a fantastic writer. You can click the little envelope next to my name or just click the link below this and it will take you to create a message sent to yours truly. I look forward from hearing from you.
These are in no way intended to be fully-fleshed and complete concepts, and will require some discussion with each other prior to beginning play in these worlds. This is by no means an inclusive list or all that I am interested in, please click the next to my name to send me a message and let's discuss it. I look forward to the chance to build a world with you.
DISCLAIMER: If you clicked a link and have been returned here, it is because the thread has not been publicly posted yet and/or is listed as TBD.
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