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Premonitions, curses, and a strange romance…
**Please DM any potential interest/ideas
___
Hi! I'm new to this site but I have been roleplaying for over ten years now.
Ive been looking for different forums for a bit and decided to give this a go!
I tend to write around 3000 characters on average but it can vary based on the scene's needs. My general rule of thumb is, as long as its multi-paragraph, I'll match you within a margin.
Nsfw is encouraged, however, I would like there to be a healthy balance with the story.
Included below you will find a starter post and a brief character profile for my OC. As far as the starter is concerned, please treat it like a jumping off point which you are absolutely free to adjust to suit the character you'd like to play. Come with ideas! I'd love to hear them :D
___
|| STARTER ||
Tavra’s eyes flit open, greeting the morning air with a humid pant as he surfaced from the viscid depth of a peculiar fantasy.
His head felt fuzzy, greeting new consciousness with sober awareness of the contents of his dreams. His limbs were tangled in the very same sheets that had haunted his sleeping palms, sitting up in a half-possessed slump. He could still catch hints of the nectarous melody he had sung, the saccharine syllables of a name he could only half remember— all attached to a face he could not forget. His body felt warm, dazed by the physicality of the fading vision, pressing the back of his hand to the lightly dampened surface of his forehead, feverish with the flush of premonition.
Tavra had only ever peered into the future so directly twice before, and never without meaning to. Foresight was, decidedly, not his specialty, but he knew the way it felt; the tingly, bittersweet aftertaste that was both alluring and dangerous. Knowing, however, did not necessarily translate to belief. He was hesitant to embrace a future that posed him breathless beneath the bulk of a stranger— and yet more hesitant to feel his way around the potential importance of said figure.
He had never particularly liked scrying past the here and now, allergic to precognition in a sense that he never found it particularly useful.
The future was not immovable, for one thing, and his visions of it always came back murky and difficult to translate. His mentor had been a much better interpreter, but clairvoyance was her talent— not his, and any attempt he made was an insult to the craft.
In any case, there were other ways to solve the troubles of today than peeking into the grim results of tomorrow. Magic was an art and it took time— but, with the right ingredients and a little elbow grease, he could ward off ill omens, cure the sick, and bring good fortune to those who needed it. That was his specialty— at least, that was what he prided himself in.
As such, it was not uncommon for the weary and the damned to turn up at the moss coated brick of his doorstep.
That said, power had its allure, and while these days Tavra mainly performed smaller miracles of mending and luck, he had once possessed it in some abundance. He had always wielded his gifts with the full weight of responsibility, never one to abuse them in the name of destruction or avarice. And though his dedications were strong, that had never stopped others from trying to lasso his power for their own selfish gain, Tavra well familiar with the tug of metal and jute. It was why he had fled the city, traveling until his name was merely a myth on the lips of strangers who’d heard tales of wondrous and terrible magic… until cities became towns, and towns became wilderness, and he settled; secluded but free.
It was weeks after his peculiar dream that y/c arrived at his doorstep, discovering a frazzled Tavra whose jaw had nearly buried itself in the dirt when he looked up from the weeds trapped between his claws. He righted himself, discarding the invasive greens he’d been in a drawn out battle with, and patting away bits of soil that clung to his knees. “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon— - - That is, er…” he paused, more directly inspecting y/c after the initial shock. His brows knit together, detecting the pull of something misplaced within the network of energy that Tavra had deemed y/c’s own; magic that did not rest at ease beside the stranger’s pulse. “Perhaps you had best come inside.” he stated, more intently abandoning his gardening as he stepped around various herbs to join y/c on the path towards his door, gesturing for y/c to follow with a swish of his hand.
Pushing open the weathered wood, he held it open for y/c, before the thud of his boots took him further into the cabin, muddied boots forgotten in the wake of urgency. He stooped before the fireplace, coaxing the morning’s embers back to life beneath the gold hue of the afternoon sun. “Sit,” he spoke into the room, tenderly gesturing towards a small collection of mismatched dining chairs surrounding a well loved oak table. One of the chairs sat askew before an empty mug, clearly favored, while the others sat lightly dusted and tucked in. “The furniture won’t bite.”
Beneath the rhythm of the hearth, with water heating to boil, Tavra finally returned his attention to y/c, stalking the perimeter of the room with a thoughtful expression. “So, tell me…” he began, considering the whole of the stranger beneath his good eye, remaining on his feet, hesitant to settle before y/c had presented his case. “What is the nature of your curse, exactly?” he asked.
Thrumming his fingers against his mouth, he backtracked a little, realizing that may have been a bit of a jump. “Ahm… That is what you’ve come for, is it not?”
______
|| Tavra Oléon ||
In the ruins of home, she had carried him— this inexplicable force that promised reprieve— with her gentle hands, and tender voice, she had shown him the way forward.
Age: 27
Height: 5’11, slender, toned build. Sort of lanky at a glance— his strength hidden beneath fabric.
Eyes: His left eye is blue while the right is a sightless, murky grey.
Hair: Raven feather black, fluffy and layered. The length reaches about the middle of his neck, save for a braid on his left which extends to his collar bone.
Skin: Generally pale, gently tanned from time spent gardening. Dusted with freckles.
Prodigy turned recluse...
Arcanely gifted from a young age, Tavra was mentored by one of the greats. Brought up in Ethalay's Tower, he studied and grew, mastering his craft in record time.
Gifts aside, youth had its flaws, and a then naive mage had more than once been lead astray and exploited. In time, he learned to be more wary of the world, distancing himself from glory to pursue smaller miracles.
That does not mean people who know of his past do not still seek him out, but he has made himself harder to find.
**Please DM any potential interest/ideas
___
Hi! I'm new to this site but I have been roleplaying for over ten years now.
Ive been looking for different forums for a bit and decided to give this a go!
I tend to write around 3000 characters on average but it can vary based on the scene's needs. My general rule of thumb is, as long as its multi-paragraph, I'll match you within a margin.
Nsfw is encouraged, however, I would like there to be a healthy balance with the story.
Included below you will find a starter post and a brief character profile for my OC. As far as the starter is concerned, please treat it like a jumping off point which you are absolutely free to adjust to suit the character you'd like to play. Come with ideas! I'd love to hear them :D
___
|| STARTER ||
Tavra’s eyes flit open, greeting the morning air with a humid pant as he surfaced from the viscid depth of a peculiar fantasy.
His head felt fuzzy, greeting new consciousness with sober awareness of the contents of his dreams. His limbs were tangled in the very same sheets that had haunted his sleeping palms, sitting up in a half-possessed slump. He could still catch hints of the nectarous melody he had sung, the saccharine syllables of a name he could only half remember— all attached to a face he could not forget. His body felt warm, dazed by the physicality of the fading vision, pressing the back of his hand to the lightly dampened surface of his forehead, feverish with the flush of premonition.
Tavra had only ever peered into the future so directly twice before, and never without meaning to. Foresight was, decidedly, not his specialty, but he knew the way it felt; the tingly, bittersweet aftertaste that was both alluring and dangerous. Knowing, however, did not necessarily translate to belief. He was hesitant to embrace a future that posed him breathless beneath the bulk of a stranger— and yet more hesitant to feel his way around the potential importance of said figure.
He had never particularly liked scrying past the here and now, allergic to precognition in a sense that he never found it particularly useful.
The future was not immovable, for one thing, and his visions of it always came back murky and difficult to translate. His mentor had been a much better interpreter, but clairvoyance was her talent— not his, and any attempt he made was an insult to the craft.
In any case, there were other ways to solve the troubles of today than peeking into the grim results of tomorrow. Magic was an art and it took time— but, with the right ingredients and a little elbow grease, he could ward off ill omens, cure the sick, and bring good fortune to those who needed it. That was his specialty— at least, that was what he prided himself in.
As such, it was not uncommon for the weary and the damned to turn up at the moss coated brick of his doorstep.
That said, power had its allure, and while these days Tavra mainly performed smaller miracles of mending and luck, he had once possessed it in some abundance. He had always wielded his gifts with the full weight of responsibility, never one to abuse them in the name of destruction or avarice. And though his dedications were strong, that had never stopped others from trying to lasso his power for their own selfish gain, Tavra well familiar with the tug of metal and jute. It was why he had fled the city, traveling until his name was merely a myth on the lips of strangers who’d heard tales of wondrous and terrible magic… until cities became towns, and towns became wilderness, and he settled; secluded but free.
It was weeks after his peculiar dream that y/c arrived at his doorstep, discovering a frazzled Tavra whose jaw had nearly buried itself in the dirt when he looked up from the weeds trapped between his claws. He righted himself, discarding the invasive greens he’d been in a drawn out battle with, and patting away bits of soil that clung to his knees. “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon— - - That is, er…” he paused, more directly inspecting y/c after the initial shock. His brows knit together, detecting the pull of something misplaced within the network of energy that Tavra had deemed y/c’s own; magic that did not rest at ease beside the stranger’s pulse. “Perhaps you had best come inside.” he stated, more intently abandoning his gardening as he stepped around various herbs to join y/c on the path towards his door, gesturing for y/c to follow with a swish of his hand.
Pushing open the weathered wood, he held it open for y/c, before the thud of his boots took him further into the cabin, muddied boots forgotten in the wake of urgency. He stooped before the fireplace, coaxing the morning’s embers back to life beneath the gold hue of the afternoon sun. “Sit,” he spoke into the room, tenderly gesturing towards a small collection of mismatched dining chairs surrounding a well loved oak table. One of the chairs sat askew before an empty mug, clearly favored, while the others sat lightly dusted and tucked in. “The furniture won’t bite.”
Beneath the rhythm of the hearth, with water heating to boil, Tavra finally returned his attention to y/c, stalking the perimeter of the room with a thoughtful expression. “So, tell me…” he began, considering the whole of the stranger beneath his good eye, remaining on his feet, hesitant to settle before y/c had presented his case. “What is the nature of your curse, exactly?” he asked.
Thrumming his fingers against his mouth, he backtracked a little, realizing that may have been a bit of a jump. “Ahm… That is what you’ve come for, is it not?”
______
|| Tavra Oléon ||
In the ruins of home, she had carried him— this inexplicable force that promised reprieve— with her gentle hands, and tender voice, she had shown him the way forward.
Age: 27
Height: 5’11, slender, toned build. Sort of lanky at a glance— his strength hidden beneath fabric.
Eyes: His left eye is blue while the right is a sightless, murky grey.
Hair: Raven feather black, fluffy and layered. The length reaches about the middle of his neck, save for a braid on his left which extends to his collar bone.
Skin: Generally pale, gently tanned from time spent gardening. Dusted with freckles.
Prodigy turned recluse...
Arcanely gifted from a young age, Tavra was mentored by one of the greats. Brought up in Ethalay's Tower, he studied and grew, mastering his craft in record time.
Gifts aside, youth had its flaws, and a then naive mage had more than once been lead astray and exploited. In time, he learned to be more wary of the world, distancing himself from glory to pursue smaller miracles.
That does not mean people who know of his past do not still seek him out, but he has made himself harder to find.
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