MxF Welcome to the Coffin

[Mikki]

☥ The Coffin ☥

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"Enter quietly. The stone lid has been lifted, and the night breathes again."

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Within these walls of silence, I seek companions who are drawn not to the light, but to the lingering shadows. This is not a place for glitter or glamour — it is a resting ground, a chamber where stories bleed slowly and characters are carved from bone and sorrow.

What I Seek:

I seek a patient, easy-going partner who values mutual communication but understands that replies may be sporadic. Between a full-time job and running the site’s D&D games, my time and energy can be limited. I need someone flexible with pacing and timeframes. I am a literate writer with years of experience and take pride in crafting thoughtful, atmospheric replies.

What I Offer:

• Multi-paragraph replies woven with imagery and dread
• Collaborative plotting with room for improvisation
• Themes of power, desire, betrayal, and eternal night
• Respect for boundaries and pacing

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Where I Wander:

Genres

• Dark Fantasy — fractured kingdoms, cursed artifacts, ancient prophecies
• Historical Drama — dynastic intrigue, wars of succession, forbidden alliances
• Mythic Epics — gods, monsters, and mortals bound by fate
• Supernatural Mystery — occult investigations, hidden orders, strange phenomena
• Romantic Tragedy — passion entwined with betrayal, obsession, and downfall
• Political Intrigue — conspiracies, revolutions, and power struggles across empires
• Science Fiction — dystopias, cosmic horror, and explorations of humanity’s limits
• Horror — psychological, cosmic, or folkloric terrors that linger in the mind

Time Periods

• Ancient Civilizations — Mesopotamia, Egypt, Rome, Greece, myth and empire
• Medieval — castles, crusades, feudal struggles, plague and superstition
• Renaissance — art, heresy, alchemy, and the clash of ideals
• Victorian Era — industrial decay, gaslit streets, occult societies
• 1920s–1940s — espionage, noir, occultism, wartime shadows
• Modern Day — urban decay, conspiracies, hidden supernatural undercurrents, modern paranormal
• Far Future — decaying space stations, techno-religions, post-human mysteries

Across all genres and eras, I am open to exploring romance themes and erotica, woven naturally into the stories we create.

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If you are unafraid to step into the coffin, if you long for tales that echo like footsteps in abandoned corridors, then let us conspire. Together, we will write not of salvation, but of lingering damnation.

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☥ Fragments from the Crypt ☥

Selected Writing Samples

The following passages offer a glimpse into my writing style. Enter, and linger awhile.

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Sample I — The Shattering

*The journey was difficult. Mikaela and Vesper were two halves of the same coin. One rose early, to the day time with ease, her smile blessed with the golden glow of the sun's first rays. Dawn.

The other found his home more easily in the dark, his tawny skin illuminated with a silvery glow. They differed on every task, and butt heads on every challenge. It was not an easy trip. Mikaela and Vesper traveled most during twilight and dawn, when their two gods looked down on them together. Lathander and Selůne wracked their chosen minds with dreams, urging the two to continue. To keep moving forward. There was a goal. A quest. An end.

The rain pattered down in a cacophony of sound, threaded with the rumble of overhead clouds that punctuated with flashing strikes of brilliant white throughout. Each shuddering wave of rain pelted them relentlessly, soaking them to the bone. Filling their boots.

Mikaela's gaze wandered up and to the side of her, her chin tilted up, where Vesper stood. Rivulets of water followed the carved lines of worry and frustration down his face.

“This is it.” Her voice didn't waver, but it also didn't hold any emotion. It was a simple statement. A statement that both of them knew, intrinsically, what was meant. The end of their journey. They had to leave it all here. For the good of the realm. For its people who deserved it.

Vesper hesitated for a moment, tore his gaze from the scene before him, and regarded Mikaela with a simple tilt of the head. His expression softened with recognition and the shared feeling of camaraderie.

“It's been an honor despite our differences. I pray your soul finds your beloved in the next life.”

“And may Selůne fold you into her embrace, Vesper.”

Before them a small contingent stood. Several mad men and women, crowned by a singular shard of glass. While behind them she stood. The King Killer. A woman wreathed by shards that glowed with untamed power. Lightning cracked again, followed by a loud rumble above.

The sound of rain pelted hard against armor. Theirs, their opponents. The ground. It was all around them, near deafening.

Mikaela and Vesper drew their weapons and ran into the group, heaving great blows as they did. Moonbeams shot through the crowd, as did Solar flares. Between Vesper and Mikaela it was a dance of Sun and Moon. They brought down nearly half of the contingent. Body littered the ground, their shards flickering out with each true death.

However the two didn't get much farther. A blow struck Vesper across the helm, and another into Mikaela's ribs. Then again, and again. Bloodied, sporting bruises and gashes, they fell to their knees, forced to look up at the glass crowned female while hands pressed their shoulders down, bowing their backs.

Mikaela's cackle punctuated the silence as the crowned woman walked closer.

“You commit Regicide and yet wear a crown yourself? Do you see the hypocrisy or do you believe it does not apply to you?”

“Wretched thing. You died and now live again? Oh creature, I will relinquish your soul from its shackled body”

“You see Vesp,” Mikaela spat out a wad of blood. “She has her lackeys do the dirty work, and thinks she's superior by proxy. What she doesn't realiz-” Mikaela grunted in pain as the woman's sabaton found Mikaela's stomach. Wind rushed out from Mikaela, and she sucked in heaving chest fulls of air. Sputtering amidst the rain that fell down mercilessly.

Vesper struggled toward Mikaela, only to be held back. Pressed down again. Still.

“You'll regret that, witch.” Vesper hissed. A gloved hand wrenched Vesper's head back by his hair, bared his throat. He swallowed hard.

“Will I?” The woman's voice was saccharine in manner. “Will you defend her? Paladin? As you have failed to defend your church? Or did you watch it burn?”

The crowned woman's eyes glowed as she looked down into Vespers’. She held no smile. Her armor gleamed with care and rain, the leather soaked and creaking with each shift of her weight.

“You can join us… your goddess has sacrificed you in some false measure to stop me. For what? The balance would be tipped towards the people. Is that so bad?”

“Unnatural. Balance is to be equal, not tipped one way or the other. Good meets evil. As we meet you on this field. I would rather die in the name of good, than live by your side.” Vesper spat at her feet.

The crowned woman tilted her head.

“Very well then. I tried.” She grabbed Vesper's breastplate, and hefted the male higher, nearly back to his feet with preternatural strength. The glow in her eyes intensified and the magic surrounded the both of them as a cold blue glow.

“Give my best to Selůne.”

Vesper's dying scream flickered out as slowly his body aged, shrank inward and crumbled inside his armor. His blade dropped to the ground and his armor scattered in a wet clatter. His soul was consumed wholly by her crown, a new shard came to life in her wretched coronet.

“Vesper- No!” Mikaela swung her Morningstar into the face of one of the men holding her down, ripping the flesh from his skull before she launched herself bodily at the crowned woman.

Mikaela struck at the woman, who raised her bracer to take the blow, and wrapped her off-hand around Mikaela's throat. Mikaela's eyes turned to sunbeams and she focused the light at the Crowned Woman, who flinched in turn.

Only for a moment. Slowly the light absorbed into the Crowned Woman, swirling into the shards with stolen power.

“It was a good effort. Really.” She wasn't patronizing, more… apologetic. Regretful.

“If only Lathander truly believed in you, instead of treating you like some pet project. Don't worry, your soul will rest after I'm done with it. Come now, love. Join your comrade.”

The light that had flowed beneath Mikaela's skin slowly leeched out, absorbed by the crowned woman. Mikaela's skin shrank, cracked, then collapsed inside her armor. The Morningstar fell to the ground beside Vesper’s blade.

“Take what benefits you, and let us continue from this farce. The gods cannot stop us now.”

The crowned woman didn't laugh, she didn't gloat. This was a sad display. A mournful one, but it aided her means to an end. That was sufficient. As she walked off of the drenched field, the rain bent away from her at the last moment, forming a perceived barrier. Steam hissed as her feet touched the ground as well.

Her crown of shards settled down into an arrangement around her head, as if on purpose. Glinting magic of gunfire and moonlight twinkle in the shards. A hint at their stolen power. A glimpse of the souls held within.

The crowned woman, Vaelthra, didn't look back at the fallen pile of armor. She didn't need to. She knew what was at stake here. She knew that the gods would have to burn for a better world. For a right world. Where Kings were no more. This would be her legacy.

“I promised you Seralyne. You died under a tyrants heel. And every king is a tyrant waiting to reveal themselves.” She continued walking, purposeful, determined.

“ Let the gods come. I will unmake every bloodline that thinks themselves ordained, every dynasty, every legacy.”

Her boots squelched in the mud, but the action didn't slow her down. She didn't strain or waver.

“No King will rule unchallenged while your bones lie cold. I will tear down every Monarch from their throne. Every scepter, crown and gilded seat.”

She wiped her face with her hand. The ashen dust of the two bodies from the souls she had absorbed turned into a gray mask on her face.

“Rest, Seralyne. I will finish what your death began."*

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Sample II — Loviatar's Blessing

*
The air thinned, growing colder with each intake of breath. Every sharp inhalation seemed to jam shards of ice deep into veins that struggled to keep hold of the life essence that had once filled them. Instead, they quaked with the lack thereof.

The flamed scones stopped moving, drops of water hung mid-fall, breath stopped. As if the sands of time had been stilled. The shadows of the great effigy before Temerity darkened, thickened, before they poured down to the space in front of him, puddled on the floor in an inky light-absorbing mess. A moment passed before that familiar feminine woman stepped into the plane of existence, all color and life where there had been none in her own plane.

"Temerity... Your offering is... commendable. Your own heart. You even carved it out for me." Her small delicate fingers wrapped around the offering, and it felt as if it was in his own chest that she reached her fingers into. Blood welled back into his body, retracing its red weeping paths back into his chest where now a shadowed thing beat, similar to the heart in Loviatar's hands. Only blacker. Darker. A simple single offering. The whole of his being. Loviatar brought the heart up to inspect it closely, her pale fingers dripping with the crimson life while the muscle trembled in her hand. She pressed a single kiss to the still warm thing, and it stilled, as if frozen in place. She let go of the heart and it floated in front of her before beginning to circle around her small atmosphere, as if a lodestone. Shrinking in size to much the same measure.

Loviatar stepped towards Temerity, dropping to his level, her physical body pressing into his, feeling like needles against his skin, before placing a kiss on his forehead. The way an adoring mother might bequeath her most cherished young. Life leached back into his body from the precious contact of her tender flesh. Shocking his breath back into his chest, while a slender fingertip dragged through the wound of his chest, the flesh knitting together after each pass with no ragged edges.

"I name you my Champion." Her voice was nothing but a soft breathy purr. Darkness gathered around them, snaking its way towards Temerity to seep into his body. What had before been simple orange glowing eyes now burned with an inner black flame, roiling in black tendrils from his eyes. His skin looked softer in color, more lavender. He had been kissed by death and survived, but at a cost.

The Priestesses, shrouded in a measure of both disbelief and awe, snapped into action at but a sharp look from the goddess, falling over themselves to run to Temerity's aid. To their Champion's aid. As they gathered around Temerity, hands pressing healing magic into his flesh, nonsexual but task-like in ministration.

Loviatar watched, as the life was reclaimed by Temerity, his body healing with each command of life from her Priestesses. She pursed her lips.

"Make Pereghost pay. Make him bleed."
*

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Sample III — The Star Fox and the Hound

*
The burn of that impossible cold torched her nerves. It made every part of her catch fire. It was so cold. Icy hot pain seared through her body. A body which lurched against the plasma cuffs that held her against a titanium sheet. She could feel the skin of her back stick to it in places. Could feel the numb pull and tear of her skin. She tried not to move. Tried so hard to be still. However the cold wracked her body with shivers. Pain came over her senses and…

Vesryn woke up with a start. A gasp escaped her as she pressed a hand to her face then chest. She was okay. It was just that memory. Vesryn pulled the synth sheet closer to her chest, and curled into the fetal position. Maybe if she tried real hard she could fall asleep again.

“Ah fuck it.” It was time to start her day.


Zeta station II was the best it got for Vesryn these days. She tried to limit her time here, tried the best she could to grab what she needed and leave before anyone could recognize her.

It helped that she kept to wearing a visor, used a voice modulator to alter her verbal signature and dressed in drab brown garments that allowed her to blend in with the general public. Less a statement and more a necessity. Her existence was spent gathering data and trying to find her way out of the crosshairs of the Telnari Dominion. A Herculean feat if nothing else.

She paid for the supplies at her usual place, a general store run by a Guilneal who kept to himself and didn’t ask questions. Bug eyed bastards with a hardened carapace and an ashen complexion that made most people wince.

“Gargix, how’s business?” Her voice modulator rumbled out a rough robotic-like voice that wavered slightly.

“Vee, you are still alive. I can have your normal supplies brought to your garage, where are you docked at?”

“Uh 23 this time, Gargix. Try not to bruise the star fruit. It is my only source of vitamin c in this wasteland and I need them to last longer than a freight jump.”

“Of course, of course. I have some mech drones if you need extra hands on board the Radiance?”

“Why…? No. I don’t need drones. I do my own work. I’ve told you this.”

“I had to ask. Space gets… lonesome Vee.”

“Which is fine by me.” The voice modulator crackled, unable to translate the compressed growl that came across as a fry through the speakers.

“Alright alright. I’ll stop asking. Shipment will be forthcoming. I assume you have the credits?”

“Yeah. I got ‘em. Check your HUD.”

Gargix looked down at his tablet and nodded with a small gargle, a sound that might have passed for a grunt for his species.

“Anything else?”

“Nope, I’ve got the refuelling Master to speak to and then I’m gone. See you in a phase or two.”

“Watch your back Vee. It is dangerous out there.”

Vesryn didn’t answer, simply waved him off as if the entire encounter was nonsense. Though, Vesryn enjoyed the interaction. It was the same every time. The same supplies, the same up-selling, the same ending. Be careful.

A habit that would need to be changed despite knowing Gargix had been paid a handsome price to feign ignorance if mention of her name cropped up. Vesryn knew it was a slim chance but Gargix could always double cross. You never knew.

Negotiations went more simply with the refuelling master. Before she could really reflect on any lost time, Vesryn was in her ship Radiance. She began switching on her ignitions and priming her coils.

The cruiser was simple enough, not exactly modern. More of the classic Rank 3 Echelon builds before the war. It was beefy enough to handle a hit or two thanks to her ingenuity, and a couple of well fused Omnirion plates, and had a little more maneuverability due to the nonstandard wing adjustments she had made. She wasn’t a Telnari warbird, but she did the job. Some might say it was a piece of junk. Garbage. Some would also walk away with their teeth missing.

It was home for her. For now. Until she was free. Free to go home. Free to make sure her family was still alive. Maybe.

Vesryn removed the visor that hid her face, and set it on a hook next to her pilots’ chair. Recycled air was better than the stink of Zeta station II. Clean, not as humid, and didn’t smell of bodies and excrement. Still though, she marvelled at those who could stand to live there.

Shortly, her engines were purring, her cargo stowed away, and she sat in front of her dash, setting her ship for an autopilot hyperspace jump back to her small section of The Black.

A sound drew her attention away, however. Something was wrong. Maintenance workers ran with canisters of fire foam and masks towards a large storage room. A fire? She wrinkled her nose, her eyes taking in the scene. That wouldn’t bode well.

She aborted the starcharted navigation, dropped the ship into manual, and hoisted the ships’ steering in front of her. As it clicked into place, lights slowly twinkled into existence indicating the systems that were initiating. She wasn’t going to sit here and wait. That would just be asking for trouble. Despite the supposedly innocuous event, Vesryn felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Vesryn jolted the engines and she took off through the first clear corridor she had and then replaced the Sun visor on her starshield. She replaced the front shields to protect the rear end and engines of her ship, in case the fire got worse, and prepared her systems for a hyperjump.

Hyperspace initiated. 5…4….

Vesryn clicked her safety belts into place, and shoved her visor back over her face, replacing the voice modulator.

3….2…….1

She watched for a moment as the station grew very still, then began to melt away. Her ship lurched forward and they jumped.
*

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Sample IV — Jocelyn's cold reality

*Jocelyn smoothed the front of her satin gown. A deep blue color that shimmered slightly in the morning light that filtered through the windows of her hallway. She rolled her shoulders back, and plastered a smile on her face before rounding the corner and entering into her tea room. At a far window stood a male dressed in a dark black wool coat, his doublet patterned in the elvish fashion despite his countenance bearing mostly human traits. Save for the very tips of his ears. Something Lord Bairnwood always boasted about. His elven lineage.

Jocelyn curtsied only as low as was deemed socially acceptable and no lower, though quite a few other people would likely have gossiped. Lord Bairnwood held a position in the nearby town as a Justice. A title that held power, and he enjoyed the use of it.

“Ah Lord Bairnwood, how can I assist you today?” Jocelyn gestured to the ornate chairs, next to a small round table that was being filled with small pastries, hand sandwiches and of course, tea. Her maid, Anne, had set a select items on her own small plate and a fixed and doctored cup of her favorite tea. Jocelyn cast Anne a grateful look but said nothing.

Lord Bairnwood refused to sit, instead he cast a disapproving glance over the food. He clasped his hands behind his back. He was a man of some considerable presence- broad shouldered, dressed in fine clothes that suggested his wealth and power, his posture as rigid as a soldier’s.

“Lady Jocelyn.” He turned slowly to smile at her, polite, practiced and entirely devoid of any warmth. “You look well, the manor suits you.” He moved towards the table to lean against the edge of it. Encroaching into her space just enough to be felt without being impolite.

“I came because the Crown has noticed an irregularity in your holdings. A woman of your station, managing such significant lands alone. It is an anomaly that attracts attention from those who might wish to see them reallocated.”

“I have all well in hand, as you saw while you came onto the property.” She had briefly raised a bandaged hand and immediately stowed it back into her lap. Her heart thundered in her chest. Lord Bairnwood’s eyes had caught the movement and a thin knowing smile stretched across his face. However, it never reached his eyes.

“You are injured,” he observed, his voice dropping an octave. “A dangerous weakness for someone in your position, Lady Jocelyn. It suggests you are not quite as capable as you claim.” He straightened up as he walked to stand directly behind her chair. The proximity is deliberate, a silent demonstration of power.

“The Crown does not care for anomalies. It cares for stability,” he says, leaning down slightly so his breath cascades down her neck. “A husband would provide that stability. A husband would ensure these lands remain productive and properly governed. I have several candidates in mind-men of standing, who could protect you from the very vultures that are circling this estate.”

“I have not seen or heard of these vultures you mention. Tell me Lord Bairnwood, have you seen my holdings lacking in their tithes to the Crown?” She sets her jaw, trying to avoid clenching her teeth.

Lord Bairnwood lets out a short dry chuckle that sounds more like a dismissal. He reaches for a tea cup on the table, turning it slowly in his hands without taking a sip.

“Tithes are not the issue, Lady Jocelyn. You are quite diligent with your coin,” he says, his tone conversational, almost bored. “The issue is the Stewardship. A woman managing hundreds of acres, overseeing laborers, making legal decisions… it creates a vacuum of authority. The Crown dislikes vacuums." He sets the cup down with a soft clink and walks back to the window, turning to watch her with the detached interest of a predator observing wounded prey.

“I am offering you a way to fill that vacuum before someone less scrupulous than myself decides to fill it for you.. There are men in the capital who would be honored to take on your burden- and your lands- as part of a marriage contract.”

“Oh so you would prefer a certain type of vulture then?” She emphasizes the word, pinning him with it. He was leveraging something, perhaps even trying to make himself appear desireable. She sat a little straighter.

Lord Bairnwood’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes narrow, just a fraction. The air in the tea room grows colder, the polite veneer stretching thin.

“I prefer order,” he says, his voice losing it the last vestige of conversational warmth. “And I prefer to deal with people who understand the reality of their situation. You are playing a dangerous game, Lady Jocelyn, pretending you have more leverage than you actually do.”

He took a step towards her, his presence filling the space between them like a closing trap.

“You are alone. You have no allies, no family of standing, and now, it seems, you are even physically compromised. That makes you vulnerable. And vulnerable things tend to break if they do not bend. The threat was there in his voice, but he emphasized his point by leaning over the table, his hands flat on the wood beside her.

“I have the proper competency to choose a male for myself. What are the stipulations the Crown would require for a match then? A marriage?” She swallowed around a lump in her throat.

Lord Barnwood's eyes flash with something akin to approval-not for her strength, but for her compliance. He straightened, the predatory tension in his shoulders relaxing into something more comfortable, more dangerous.

“A wise question,” he says, his voice regaining its smooth courtly tone. “The Crown requires three things: a husband of noble lineage, a signed transfer of stewardship rights, and a public ceremony held within the quarter.The lands would remain under your name for the duration of you life, but the legal authority-the right to sign contracts, to levy taxes, to represent the estate in court- would pass to your spouse.” He picks up a small biscuit from the tray, snapping it in half with a sharp crack. “There are several men who meet these criteria,” he continues, his gaze sweeping over her with renewed interest.

“Noble lineage?” she sighed the words, deflating.

Lord Bairnwood offers a small, condescending nod. “Yes. Lineage that the Crown recognizes. A commoner’s name would not suffice, no matter how much gold they brought to the marriage bed.” He takes a bite of the biscuit, chewing slowly as he watches her deflate. The satisfaction is visible in the way his posture relaxes further.

“I can provide a list of names by tomorrow evening,” he says, his voice smooth and final. “Men who are respectable, men who are established. Choose carefully Lady Jocelyn. Once the contract is signed, the Crown’s interest in your ‘anomaly’ will vanish, and your lands will be secure.” He turns back toward the window, the conversation seemingly concluded in his mind. “I shall leave you to your thoughts. Do not take too long to decide. The vultures are patient, but they are not eternal.”

“And will you be including your name on this list?” She retorted, her face stoic while her heart felt as if it was galloping toward the coastline.

Lord Bairnwood paused. He turned back towards her, the biscuit halfway in his mouth and for the first time the mask of courtly indifference slips. A slow, deliberate smile spreads across his face-not the polite one from before. This one appeared sharper, more genuine.

“My name is already at the top of every list, Lady Jocelyn,” He says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “I do not need to include it. I am the one who curates the options.”He walked back to the table, leaning over it with his hands flat on the wood, mirroring her earlier posture. The distance between them is minimal now. His breath fogged across her face, hot and humid. She didn’t flinch, but he could swear he saw a flicker of fire in their depths.

“I have been very patient with you,” he continues, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that makes the air in the room feel heavy.

“I apologize, you may have to continue to practice your virtues, Justice Bairnwood.” She smiled, nodding slowly before rising. She avoided making any sort of advancement into his space, and retreated for the door. “My maid Anne will show you out. An honor, as always.” She curtsied again, a fake smile plastered to her face.

Lord Bairnwood stands slowly, his gaze following her as she moves toward the door. The rejection is subtle, wrapped in politeness, but he hears it. If he was offended, then he did not look it. He was intrigued by the possibility of prey that had more fight in it than he had initially calculated.

“Virtue is a rare commodity in my position, Lady Jocelyn,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the room. “But I have always found that patience yields the finest results.” He stepped away from the table, smoothing the front of his silk doublet with a slow deliberate motion.

“I will send the list tomorrow evening. Do not mistake my departure for an end to our negotiations.”

He walked past the door with an easy grace. Anne, the maid, waited in the hallway with a rigid professional posture and disappeared with Justice Bairnwood down the hallway.*

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