RavenDaas
Vylinius of Varathia
- Local time
- Yesterday 10:26 PM
- Messages
- 8
This post is looking for a GM and has gone through some significant editing to make it appropriate for MxA posting; if you see any use of incorrect pronouns or other bizarre fuck-ups in grammar, please let me know. Thanks. I have posts where I GM in my profile, or, if you just want something that's much kinder and happier. My partner's IRL gender isn't relevant to me. Content warning; gaslighting, Stockholm Syndrome, power gap, homophobic universe. War and death and trade deficits. Our RP would start long before any of these events; don't take the situation down below as a hard rule.
Morgan knew this place. With herculean difficulty he managed to pull himself away from his older companion's grasp, but not out of unhappiness. Blinking, the ancient canals and their storied walls came into view. The water had run dry long ago, but that only allowed his to better take in the eye watering amount of detail that had been lovingly carved into the stone; rather than indulging in perfect smoothness, its long deceased crafters allowed their passion to come in through the ridges and gaps of their work. Every meter denoted a laborer's name, and Morgan couldn't stop himself from tracing the cuts in the stone, putting the eroded, harsh sensation left behind on his fingers to memory.
He takes a breath of delight when he finds what Sylvan, his escort, had intended his to find.
Loveday Allen.
Just as he'd promised, his father had left his name behind on his second proudest work -- second only to his. Over and over again he'd told his stories of this place, of the wonders of it all; especially his mother. Morgan had heard countless stories of this place, and it was everything he'd ever hoped it could be. But Sylvan knew it as the place he was born.
Morgan turned towards the senator, smiling with aching joy.
"How . . . how did you possibly find it?"
"How did you find me?"
Morgan manages to ask the question that's been hanging over their heads like an executioner's ax, forcing his feet to stop, dragging his sister to a sudden, immediate stop.
The gates aren't far now. Neithis are the howls behind them. Sylvan always was good at teaching his hounds.
"Why does that matter?" Comfort asks with a voice desperately trying to be quiet even as his fear grows. Tugging futilely at Morgan's hand to get his moving again. Morgan doesn't budge an inch, his sister's eyes widening at just how heavy Morgan is despite his slight frame. "It's a long story, and there's no time to talk."
"How?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Sylvan brushes Morgan's hair out of his eyes, making the smaller man's heart stop dead in its tracks even at this most innocent and meaningless touch. It couldn't have possibly meant anything, not to Sylvan least of all, no matter what the hero may have fantasized in his too many lonely nights. Morgan's face is flush, and he hopes Sylvan disregards it as nothing more than too much joy and excitement.
"Try me."
Sylvan grins, nodding, taking Morgan's hand in his own again and sending anothis shock of warmth through the knight. Even as they stand together in that secret, happy place together Morgan's remarkable hearing can't help but pick up on the distant thuds of boots on cobbled road. Disorderly feet marching in poor tandem, hundreds, all at once.
"Anothis mobilization?" Morgan asks, but Sylvan shakes his head and hushes him.
"Don't worry about that. I want this day to be about you."
"I'm here for you!"
Comfort finally rasps out, trying to pull away from his idiot sister only to feel Morgan's grip tighten like steel, forcing a whine out of the supposed rescuer.
"You're hurting me!"
"You haven't answered me."
"It . . . it doesn't matter how I found you, okay? Just that we leave. Just that you get away from his."
It happens in a single harsh second. One moment Comfort is standing before his, the next, he's lying on the ground, his eyes widened with shock and his mouth agape as he tries to understand what just happened.
The pain hasn't settled in on his just yet, and Morgan's stomach twists with agony at the thought of all the suffering his sister would needlessly have to go through. But it didn't matter. Morgan didn't ask to be saved.
"You didn't have to ask me to do this."
Sylvan laughs, a noise that Morgan hears more often everyday and still believes he could listen to for the rest of his life. Morgan is in love. He ought to have been yelling it in the streets and paying criers to spread the news, but all he can feel is fear every time he thinks of it.
A member of the Fellowship could not fall in love. Not with anybody -- not with another man. Not with somebody as important as Sylvan, a man above reproach. Above the foul urges Morgan felt towards his.
"I like seeing you smile. You and your friends have your quests and knightly errands . . . why shouldn't I have my own?"
"Making me smile?' Morgan asks, incredulously. "Hardly befitting a senator."
"Very well. Making all of you smile, then. Maybe we'll bring your kin with us next time we visit."
"Do you love me?"
Morgan blinks. Sylvan settles into view, the dark lush of his hair swinging over both of them like a dark cloak. his instincts for war barely acknowledge the presence of ten men around them, each armed to the teeth with instruments meant for killing. To a number, diehards, to the Republic. To Sylvan. Their armaments dance with light through the creeping shadows of the city. It always looks so different at night. Even here.
Even at the canals where his father had met his mother. The menace makes his spine curl in its socket. Where was his name, again?
Sylvan cups Morgan's cheek, lifting it up to help his focus. On his eyes, an impossible shade of green. On his lips, softer than his mother's heartbeat. The hand on his cheek turns into a thumb, rubbing smoothing, slow circles.
"Do you love me?" Sylvan repeats. Morgan shivers. Sylvan never repeated himself a third time. his enemies never lived to hear it, and his pets wouldn't dare fail his that many times.
"Yes. More than anything." Morgan answers, instantly. He hears Morgan's muffled cry of outrage, silenced with the snap of a hound's jaws.
"Good. We can go home now."
Sylvan smiles, proud of Morgan's answer, and Morgan feels that same pride rise up to his chest. The confession came so easily now, all the fear and anxiety that had once plagued his wiped out in just these short few months together. Comfort stops existing for the two women -- everything stops existing. The soldiers, the hounds, the city, the end of the world.
It's just the two of them. In this special place.
And they loved one anothis. They did.
The end.
. . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"One thing."
Morgan whines as Sylvan pulls his perfect hand away, and is understandably confused when something heavier settles itself into Morgan's right-hand. It's a long lost friend of hiss. A tool for vanquishing evil, the sort of thing meant for protecting the weak. his mistress presses a single, heavy kiss against the dullest part of the blade.
Sylvan brushes Morgan's hair past his ear, leaning in close as his fingers close around Morgan's hand to help his form a fist around the grip of the blade.
"Kill your bro this for me."
Pretty proud of this one. The Valentine's Day version of this prompt right here. This RP takes place in a post Noblebright universe (probably, open to a great deal of modifications) that went through a devastating calamity of . . . some kind. Orcs? Demons? Undead? My mom? I've got loads of ideas but none of them are important; the key thing to know is that the old noble stock of kind-hearted guardians of the peasantry were slaughtered, leaving behind a new breed of cruel and warped landowning nobility to steer the ship in a shaken, burned out husk of what it once was. Nearly every farm was burned to ashes in the fighting, each city looted, and only the heroics of a group of women and the followers they led were able to protect what was left.
This story isn't about them. It's about a lowly, commonborn Senator man leading his campaign bids to become Consul in his home city that was once the thriving gem of an empire, and is now the crestfallen, economically sluggish and depopulated atrophied heart of a dying regime. The streets are ethics filled with refugees, soldiers, or rioting peasants decrying the stripping away of their republican values, of the latest cuts on public spending, the loss of morality, or . . . so on. Sylvan, a firebrand, has promised to restore the old order and bring their dignity back home to them -- and he plans to do it with the help of the very same women who saved them all, having come to his in a last-ditch effort to find something worth defending. They hope that Sylvan will give the world a nation to aspire to be; a free, democratic republic.
Except Sylvan has only vile intentions.
This RP will inevitably and irrevocably involve deep explorations of complex topics such as fiscal policy, taxes, medieval statecraft, war, and geopolitics. The disinterested be wary. I am open to taking this in a fandom direction; look at my post history for frames of reference.
Kinks: Evil bitches being conniving / genuinely evil and despicable characters, femdom and lesbianism, internalized homophobia, slow burn seduction, gaslighting, D/s couples, collars, domesticization, warriors being turned into harlots, spankings, orgasm denial and control, genuine charisma and atmosphere-building. Most other vanilla and mild kinks. Kissing, distant yearning, one-sided romance. Unhealthy obsession. Contrasts.
Limits: I don't have any desire to see non-con as a fetish (only as an element of worldbuilding just like poverty and disease and slavery), or tentacles or animals or hyper anything or porn logic or porn dialogue, futas. Stereotypical / generic worldbuilding.
Morgan knew this place. With herculean difficulty he managed to pull himself away from his older companion's grasp, but not out of unhappiness. Blinking, the ancient canals and their storied walls came into view. The water had run dry long ago, but that only allowed his to better take in the eye watering amount of detail that had been lovingly carved into the stone; rather than indulging in perfect smoothness, its long deceased crafters allowed their passion to come in through the ridges and gaps of their work. Every meter denoted a laborer's name, and Morgan couldn't stop himself from tracing the cuts in the stone, putting the eroded, harsh sensation left behind on his fingers to memory.
He takes a breath of delight when he finds what Sylvan, his escort, had intended his to find.
Loveday Allen.
Just as he'd promised, his father had left his name behind on his second proudest work -- second only to his. Over and over again he'd told his stories of this place, of the wonders of it all; especially his mother. Morgan had heard countless stories of this place, and it was everything he'd ever hoped it could be. But Sylvan knew it as the place he was born.
Morgan turned towards the senator, smiling with aching joy.
"How . . . how did you possibly find it?"
"How did you find me?"
Morgan manages to ask the question that's been hanging over their heads like an executioner's ax, forcing his feet to stop, dragging his sister to a sudden, immediate stop.
The gates aren't far now. Neithis are the howls behind them. Sylvan always was good at teaching his hounds.
"Why does that matter?" Comfort asks with a voice desperately trying to be quiet even as his fear grows. Tugging futilely at Morgan's hand to get his moving again. Morgan doesn't budge an inch, his sister's eyes widening at just how heavy Morgan is despite his slight frame. "It's a long story, and there's no time to talk."
"How?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Sylvan brushes Morgan's hair out of his eyes, making the smaller man's heart stop dead in its tracks even at this most innocent and meaningless touch. It couldn't have possibly meant anything, not to Sylvan least of all, no matter what the hero may have fantasized in his too many lonely nights. Morgan's face is flush, and he hopes Sylvan disregards it as nothing more than too much joy and excitement.
"Try me."
Sylvan grins, nodding, taking Morgan's hand in his own again and sending anothis shock of warmth through the knight. Even as they stand together in that secret, happy place together Morgan's remarkable hearing can't help but pick up on the distant thuds of boots on cobbled road. Disorderly feet marching in poor tandem, hundreds, all at once.
"Anothis mobilization?" Morgan asks, but Sylvan shakes his head and hushes him.
"Don't worry about that. I want this day to be about you."
"I'm here for you!"
Comfort finally rasps out, trying to pull away from his idiot sister only to feel Morgan's grip tighten like steel, forcing a whine out of the supposed rescuer.
"You're hurting me!"
"You haven't answered me."
"It . . . it doesn't matter how I found you, okay? Just that we leave. Just that you get away from his."
It happens in a single harsh second. One moment Comfort is standing before his, the next, he's lying on the ground, his eyes widened with shock and his mouth agape as he tries to understand what just happened.
The pain hasn't settled in on his just yet, and Morgan's stomach twists with agony at the thought of all the suffering his sister would needlessly have to go through. But it didn't matter. Morgan didn't ask to be saved.
"You didn't have to ask me to do this."
Sylvan laughs, a noise that Morgan hears more often everyday and still believes he could listen to for the rest of his life. Morgan is in love. He ought to have been yelling it in the streets and paying criers to spread the news, but all he can feel is fear every time he thinks of it.
A member of the Fellowship could not fall in love. Not with anybody -- not with another man. Not with somebody as important as Sylvan, a man above reproach. Above the foul urges Morgan felt towards his.
"I like seeing you smile. You and your friends have your quests and knightly errands . . . why shouldn't I have my own?"
"Making me smile?' Morgan asks, incredulously. "Hardly befitting a senator."
"Very well. Making all of you smile, then. Maybe we'll bring your kin with us next time we visit."
"Do you love me?"
Morgan blinks. Sylvan settles into view, the dark lush of his hair swinging over both of them like a dark cloak. his instincts for war barely acknowledge the presence of ten men around them, each armed to the teeth with instruments meant for killing. To a number, diehards, to the Republic. To Sylvan. Their armaments dance with light through the creeping shadows of the city. It always looks so different at night. Even here.
Even at the canals where his father had met his mother. The menace makes his spine curl in its socket. Where was his name, again?
Sylvan cups Morgan's cheek, lifting it up to help his focus. On his eyes, an impossible shade of green. On his lips, softer than his mother's heartbeat. The hand on his cheek turns into a thumb, rubbing smoothing, slow circles.
"Do you love me?" Sylvan repeats. Morgan shivers. Sylvan never repeated himself a third time. his enemies never lived to hear it, and his pets wouldn't dare fail his that many times.
"Yes. More than anything." Morgan answers, instantly. He hears Morgan's muffled cry of outrage, silenced with the snap of a hound's jaws.
"Good. We can go home now."
Sylvan smiles, proud of Morgan's answer, and Morgan feels that same pride rise up to his chest. The confession came so easily now, all the fear and anxiety that had once plagued his wiped out in just these short few months together. Comfort stops existing for the two women -- everything stops existing. The soldiers, the hounds, the city, the end of the world.
It's just the two of them. In this special place.
And they loved one anothis. They did.
The end.
. . .
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"One thing."
Morgan whines as Sylvan pulls his perfect hand away, and is understandably confused when something heavier settles itself into Morgan's right-hand. It's a long lost friend of hiss. A tool for vanquishing evil, the sort of thing meant for protecting the weak. his mistress presses a single, heavy kiss against the dullest part of the blade.
Sylvan brushes Morgan's hair past his ear, leaning in close as his fingers close around Morgan's hand to help his form a fist around the grip of the blade.
"Kill your bro this for me."
Pretty proud of this one. The Valentine's Day version of this prompt right here. This RP takes place in a post Noblebright universe (probably, open to a great deal of modifications) that went through a devastating calamity of . . . some kind. Orcs? Demons? Undead? My mom? I've got loads of ideas but none of them are important; the key thing to know is that the old noble stock of kind-hearted guardians of the peasantry were slaughtered, leaving behind a new breed of cruel and warped landowning nobility to steer the ship in a shaken, burned out husk of what it once was. Nearly every farm was burned to ashes in the fighting, each city looted, and only the heroics of a group of women and the followers they led were able to protect what was left.
This story isn't about them. It's about a lowly, commonborn Senator man leading his campaign bids to become Consul in his home city that was once the thriving gem of an empire, and is now the crestfallen, economically sluggish and depopulated atrophied heart of a dying regime. The streets are ethics filled with refugees, soldiers, or rioting peasants decrying the stripping away of their republican values, of the latest cuts on public spending, the loss of morality, or . . . so on. Sylvan, a firebrand, has promised to restore the old order and bring their dignity back home to them -- and he plans to do it with the help of the very same women who saved them all, having come to his in a last-ditch effort to find something worth defending. They hope that Sylvan will give the world a nation to aspire to be; a free, democratic republic.
Except Sylvan has only vile intentions.
This RP will inevitably and irrevocably involve deep explorations of complex topics such as fiscal policy, taxes, medieval statecraft, war, and geopolitics. The disinterested be wary. I am open to taking this in a fandom direction; look at my post history for frames of reference.
Kinks: Evil bitches being conniving / genuinely evil and despicable characters, femdom and lesbianism, internalized homophobia, slow burn seduction, gaslighting, D/s couples, collars, domesticization, warriors being turned into harlots, spankings, orgasm denial and control, genuine charisma and atmosphere-building. Most other vanilla and mild kinks. Kissing, distant yearning, one-sided romance. Unhealthy obsession. Contrasts.
Limits: I don't have any desire to see non-con as a fetish (only as an element of worldbuilding just like poverty and disease and slavery), or tentacles or animals or hyper anything or porn logic or porn dialogue, futas. Stereotypical / generic worldbuilding.
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