Time is of the essence - why write alone? (M looking for F writing partners)

[Tyrus]

Hey all. This is my request thread!

My O's and O's Thread


A bit about myself

I'm Ty. I'm an avid writer and reader who loves co-operative role-playing and creative writing.

I have written in play-by-post forums for around 18 years or so now, and have been writing on Elliquiy since 2011 (more than ten years, where did time fly?)

Why write with me? I put character development and world-building above all else, to create fun and complex co-authored stories with my partners.

My only weakness? I can be a little too ambitious and overly-detailed in my writing, and I like to take my time with my posts. Or is that a strength?

I also like to put my partners first and ensure every part of the story - characters, themes, motivations, arcs - is ours and we own it in every single way.

Don't believe me? Let my stories do the talking... and have a read.


Current Stories (Active)

A Little Indulgence (with Oksana4RP) - Political fantasy: A storm hits the sprawling Citadel as a carefree councilman and ambitious noblewoman play the Great Game with glee, while the peasantry beneath the city seethe with a rage all their wealth and status in the world can't control.

What Comes After (With Dove) - Modern-day drama: Fighting fate is a fickle cause. An illusion that you can begin again, and change the outcome. Finding it, though, that's not the hard part. It's letting go.


Long-Term Stories (On-Pause)

Macabre (with Yggdrasil) - Modern-day vampire horror: A dark dive into the duality of an unwilling nosferatu maintaining his humanity amidst his primal needs, complete with unreliable narration, underworld grittiness and indulgent sexual manipulation.

Do You Believe in Fairies? (With Songless Siren) - Urban fantasy, paranormal drama: An emotionally scarred human unknowingly falls for a high-flying fae lawyer who orchestrates the induction of his human sister into the supernatural community.

Azure Rising (With Sinfulkarma) - Crime drama: A whirlwind of rough sex, harsh words and harder violence as a stone-cold killer meets his match and gets in too deep with a charismatic gangster as addictive as the product she pushes.

The Capricious Captive (With toosweetforrock) - Military fiction: A war-weary soldier fights his base instincts to preserve the innocence of a courageous woman who represents all the good he's tarnished - and a chance at redemption.


At Rest Stories (Concluded)

Here are some past/in limbo stories (absent partners or unfinished RPs) of mine that I loved having the opportunity to bring to life.

What We Become (With DesertFlower) - Post-apocalyptic/zombie: Two survivors of an undead cataclysm band together to make it through to the next day and find purpose in each other's survival - but not without ever-lasting consequences.

A Gem to Die For (With Vlexia) - Viking-esque fantasy: History is the long shadow cast by the past upon the future, but one drangyr travels half the world to defy the encroaching umbra, with the help of an enigmatic witch.

The Calm Before (with Chantarelle) - Fantasy: A nobleman and foreign dignitary navigate the complex intricacies of their melting pot of a city, ignorant of a deeper, underlying threat.

The Forgotten Heiress (With RipTide) - Low-fantasy: A slow-burning forbidden love between a proud orc hunter and outcast human who don't quite fit in their respective worlds and are isolated no matter how hard they try - except with each other.

Reaching Out (With Melieli) - High-school drama: A deep dive into the lasting effects of systematic social media bullying on one teen outcast and how one girl reaching out changes their outlook - for better, and worse.

Love, Hate and Comicon (With Zealously Jaded) - Corporate drama: The believability of virtual reality is all to superior to the unrealness of reality - at least, until one cynical corpo meets his match in the real world.

Never Trust a Gypsy's Kiss (With Vlexia) - Grounded low-fantasy/medieval: A scarred warrior meets an enigmatic gypsy who offers the acceptance, love and redemption he's needed - if only she knew he was beyond saving.

Paradise Noir (With jaliyana) - Crime drama: The depths and depravity of the criminal underworld threaten to swallow its chief source of misery into its abyss - until he inexplicably chooses to save its latest victim.

Play For Me? (With sassychic) - Music romance: All it takes is the right song and person to make the woes of the daily grind a distant memory.

Captive (With April Bouvier) - Slave/master: He didn't know what to do, at least until she fell into his lap. It was like they were meant to be. Wasn't it?


Story Samples

Medieval/Low-Fantasy Example

“You want to know a secret? I fucking hate parties.”

With a false grin and effortless swagger of pure bravado, Tregar turned away from a giggling flock of ladies-in-waiting and entered the ornate doors of the Queen’s Hall of Mirrors with a flourish, an expertly worn mask of carefree happiness and willful debauchery hiding any note of melancholy in his reflection.

It was the most decadent room in a palace filled with them, silvered in Nicantan glass backing every sconce so the noblest, wealthiest and most beautiful people gracing the city of Azure stretched away in every direction. Walls paneled in pale Emphyrian marble of old fretted with veins of glitter. Bright paints on carved screens and statues honoring the Arentius royal family cavorted the corners. The ceiling was four times higher than his manse, covered in vivid etchings depicting the city of Azure's stormy history. The galleries above adorned with rich tapestries of spectacular opulence. Dulcet tones of the Crown's favored bard and his band rang throughout the room, while guests of the highest station and influence danced and rubbed shoulders below, on polished floors covered in exotic Southern carpets and strewn with sweet-smelling rushes. Rich food and exotic wine flowed, with no end in sight. All the while a warm evening breeze washed in through open windows, making the orange flames of a hundred hanging lamps and candles flicker and sway, casting a striking gleam from every movement.

The Queen's Hall of Mirrors was a ballroom still only half as big as the royal castle’s Great Hall, but it made up in grace what it lacked in space... and it still had much of the latter for the storied guests, foreign dignitaries, renowned war heroes, wealthy merchants and rich layabouts alike filling the room for what was to be the largest celebration the Crown had hosted since the Great Northern Fracture.

Well, public celebration, anyway.

“Sir Tregar of House Jordayne, of Tide's End,” the royal herald cried, upon his entrance. The men and women closest to the door examined Tregar with a mixture of delight, intrigue and disdain, which was just the way he liked it. Soon enough, the gossipers twittered, the schemers plotted, and his enemies whispered, hidden amidst the increasing noise of the revelers deeper within.

The natural order of the Silver Court.

Tregar pat the tightly-wound herald, forever doomed to announce the comings and goings on people who were only better than him by luck of birthright, on the shoulder with well-meaning affection, for which he received a withering stare in return. “That will be all, Orson,” Tregar said, as pretentiously as he could muster.

A fun little ritual we share. Well, at least, for one of us.

The other rituals of such blasted royal events did not bring the same satisfaction. Soon, Tregar was flooded with greetings and introductions in clipped, pompous tones that felt like they went on forever, too many damp hands to shake, and endless powdered cheeks to kiss until his hands were sticky and his lips chapped raw. It was an assault on his person, really, a constant bombardment of stupid names and important titles scarcely heard and immediately forgotten. The Lord of Bum-Fuck Nowhere. The Warden of the Western Whatever. The Nephew of Lord Sit-on-His-Ass. The Lady of Lewdness. The Knight of Fuck-off Faraway.

It was a place of majesty and magic, built by the blessed for the use of the best. In reality, many of the people gathered there fell a long way short of either. These were liars, layabouts, wastrels... even killers. Men in bright colored coats, doublets, jackets and robes who wore gilded daggers to play at the worldly and the brave. Women dressed in gaudy, expensive finery, brushed and painted to look younger, or thinner, or wealthier than they were. Lords and ladies jeweled from head to toe, flaunting the kind of status most could only dream of.

These people are my people, and we're fucking doomed.

Tregar's face ached as he returned all the beaming smiles, while his throat grew dryer every time he flaunted more favors or promised the same friendship so generously bestowed upon him, which all but ceased with the next breath. All of it felt so rehearsed, so fake, so pointless, even if he was just so goddamn good at it.

It's all just a part of the Great Game.

And so Tregar got on with it all, and charmed and eye-fucked the skirts off at least a dozen more Tethallan ladies-in-waiting - and, perhaps, the trousers off a particularly animated nobleman - as he gradually made his way to center of the grand room and its pompous celebration, standing right under the painted ceiling depicting the Exodus of Emphyria and founding of Tethalla. As if it was some kind of divine event instead of a mass genocide. It made for a particularly amusing juxtaposition, to celebrate the 10th anniversary of Tethalla's triumph over the Palemen, and an avoidance of another Exodus. Even with all the Nicantans in attendance, it still felt like a celebration that conveniently forgot just how close to doom Azure was without the intervention of the Nicantan Armada.

All around him, the varied colors and strikingly different outfits and skin tones filled the ballroom with a worldly sight. The honored guests that flooded the capital in the last week were mostly Tethallans from all across the coastlands and highlands, but these country bumpkins were practically foreigners themselves to Azure, gawping at all the Crown's exccessive opulence like lost little children. Some were stocky Hylanders from the Eastern Gates, where the people lived harsh but prosperous lives at the base of the Amaranthine Highlands that separated Tethalla from its eastern neighbors by land, while others had traveled from the arid regions of the Far South and the Great Plains of Ardashir. There was a delegation of striking pale-skinned beauties from Fiora with fiery hair, and half-a-dozen dour giants from the Vethrum Dynasty who practically looked sickly and naked outside of their intricately fashioned plate armor. Perfumed bravos and sensual socialites from Nicanta, with their slicked or braided black hair and licentious prancing, proved larger in number than expected, though the more boring and drawling officers of the Armada accompanied their ranks. There were even a pair of noblemen from the Kyomata Isles, a rare sight given how much the Azuran people despised the warlike islanders.

Tregar puffed his cheeks, cleared his throat, and went to work, indulging Tethallan nobleman wearing the Old Blood fashion of heavy robes of black, silver and gold, even in the heat, with praise the country's military might. No thanks to your balding, fattening, useless asses. Their young, stand-offish country sons, tightly wound in their fitted military jackets and braid-wreathed uniforms of bright blue, crimson and emerald, all to eagerly fell for the same honeyed lies. Most of the Tethallan women in their arms were far less rigid in formal wear, doing their best to shine brighter than their contemporaries in all manner of tantalizing ensembles of silk, lace and satin, which Tregar did not fail to admire or pay due attention to. Bless the Luminary for the Silver Court's competitive ways.

He traded pleasantries with homely Hylanders who proudly stomped around the ballroom in what amounted to their finest tunics and breeches, which were the subject of scathing mockery among the fine furs and majestic gowns of the Fioran nobility. Play the two off each other, and they come eating out of your hand to gain your praise. Like the sweet dust addicts lurking Wrathrot.

The tall and swarthi People of the Plains towered above everyone in beaded silk shirts and samite skirts inlaid with garnets and rubies, while a few stood to the sides in the white robes and skullcaps of their priesthood. Their proud and high-nosed representatives needed a humbler approach. Yes, we're all about restraint and devoutness to our Luminary as you are to your Temple Gods. No, of course we don't desecrate your local temples out of bigotry and fear.

The Vethrumites were perpetual soldiers entirely out of their element, standing cold and still like hulking giants on the sidelines of the bustling crowd, nonetheless standing out in their obsidian-black quilted doublets and trousers too tight for their barbarian figures. Just about the easiest bastards to talk to, given they don't say much in return.

Tregar's favourite sort of verbal fencing, of course, if he had to pick one, was entertaining his Mother's people; lean and slim Nicantan women dressed in vivid dark leather and expensive cloth, ridiculously loose and billowing in places, painfully tight in others, and other places still entirely, distractedly bare. You know, my family is very close with the Queen, and we have several spaces in the royal apartments...

The bravos required a more ribald disposition to impress, sauntering around in their velvet finery and flamboyant colours, some trying to catch him off-guard with fast-spoken Nicantan as he joked with them about the pleasures of the local women. Fuck you all too, my distant countrymen.

Even the servants were dressed like nobles, silently prowling the hall and leaning over tables to fill goblets with ever-flowing amounts of Pendragon wine. Though they always conveniently stay out of my reach, the bastards.

On and on, it all seemed to go, but the night was young, and the celebration had barely begun.

Tregar grabbed a goblet of wine from the nearest servant and gulped it all down with a flourish. He needed something fortifying for the next task. Close by, a pair of positively striking Nicantan women stood and whispered, dressed in what was some of the most formal and extravagantly designed dresses he'd ever seen worn in Azure. The pleasant but often sticky heat of Azure tended to dissuade the foreign elite in wearing any material that restricted movement or created undue warmth, most choosing free-flowing silks. But he'd seen enough Azuran noblewomen importing and emulating the grand gala gowns, fitted bodices and luxury furs of Fiora and the daring velvet and leather garments of Nicanta to know this was the type of opulence they aspired to match. It wasn't surprising, then, that this pair had leaned into their exoticism. At the sight of such eye-catching head-turners in resplendent garb, it was past time to start taking the Nicantan delegation a little more seriously.

As Mother insists.

The more mature of the pair waved a gold embroidered folded fan generously and beamed at Tregar as he approached - and for once, he surprisingly felt a little nervous, even behind the usually infallible mask of the playful, charming power broker. He knew this woman; she was Lady Ondine, a regular visitor to the Azuran Silver Court, and old friend of Tregar's mother, and a prominent power broker behind the Nicantan Armada. Lady Undying, so the Nicantan soldiers whispered cruelly. He'd last seen the Lady as a much younger man, certainly far less adept at the Great Game and far more interested in sneaking off from his social duties at the closest opportunity he could grasp. It was easier, back then, to run off with the cooks and the groomers and the squires posted in the Citadel and use his higher-born privilege to impress. Playing the Great Game with an experienced and influential noblewoman of her standing, he'd need to put in the real work. Especially if it was to broker a potential marriage with the younger woman standing beside her.

Dare he admit it to himself, but the woman was, for once, up to the incessant wave of portraits Mother insisted on drowning him with. The same shrewd brown eyes from the painting gazed at him now with an enticing curiosity, shining in the bright light of the room in a bewitching manner. She, Tregar did not know; but it was clear she was astonishingly beautiful - and that he should get to know her.

Needed to, were the words Mother used.

Tregar should have sauntered on over and worked his charm, like he did all the rest. He should have played the good heir and played all his cards to secure his future legacy.

He should have done a lot of things, really.

Instead, Tregar finally stood still, and drank more wine.

Well, to be precise, he stood, drank wine, and instead watched Mireya, fluttering about behind the Nicantan pair, in the corner of his eye. Surreptitiously, to start with, but less so with every subsequent drink. She was one of the only reasons, really, he had truly bothered to come here. That and the wine, thank the Luminary for wine.

A whole floor of people danced between him and Mireya. Sparkling, whirling figures of impossible elegance, increasingly turning into a wine-affected blur. There must have been two hundred others, at least. Yet all he could see was Lady Mireya Marsham and Lord Rolland Bywater, talking and laughing. Mireya once said only he could make her laugh that way. The player, it seemed, was spectacularly played.

“To you, Mireya,” Tregar whispered under his breath, before downing his drink with a suffocatingly false chuckle, wine dripping down his neatly trimmed beard.

And to the fucking Great Game.

Romance/Fantasy Example

Andreus shoved open the ornately carved doors of his bedchamber with a flourish that would have made a lesser man look like a fumbling oaf. The room, a stark contrast to the smoky austerity of his private dining hall, was a riot of crimson silks, golden ornaments and plush tapestries depicting fantastical stories and carnal encounters, all rendered in thread so lifelike, they seemed on the verge of leaping off the walls to join him in his vice. A fire roared in the hearth as he had commanded, warming the spacious room to his liking, while scented candles imported from Ardashir wafted the scent of some exotic flower from the Great Plains, thick and heady in the confined space. The brown-skinned trader he'd bought them from had told him the smell helped heighten the intensity of one's arousal, whether awake or asleep. Andreus had promptly bought the entire stock.

Anything to extend the pleasure you give me.

In the center of the room, sprawled languidly on a chaise lounge upholstered in the same crimson as the drapes, was Princess Valeria of House Pellox, First of her Name, and Blood of Emphyria. A vision in an exotic gown of equally crimson silk that clung to her curves like a second skin, she looked the epitome of impossible elegance. All porcelain skin, fire-kissed hair cascading down her back, and eyes that glittered like the deep ocean of the Cerulean Sea. Even brighter than the diamond necklace and earings that adorned her, gifts that he had arranged befitting of her debut in the Queen's Hall of Mirrors, in front of the Known World's most powerful. She was worth it all, and more.

Andreus smirked. A beautiful viper, he had once thought. He had been wary of her reputation since their youth – a notorious collector of hearts, her Lord Father all too aware of the prize he dangled in front of the families of the Old Blood like a dagger to the throat. She'd been promised to many Houses before the Crown arranged their betrothal - Dryland, Jordayne, Strand, Terentius - yet none had satisfied her. Not until she could get into a room with her Prince, she'd told him, years later. Oh, how he'd liked that.

But before it all, Andreus was inconsolable. How he'd raged when his father announced the arrangement. When he had told Andreus he was to marry that big-eyed, dagger-tongued woman, he had threatened to sail to the Forbidden West, to lose himself in the endless conflict there with the remnants of the Palemen, outside of the King's direct control, for his father was too much of a coward to come to the battlefield himself to retrieve him. But Andreus had relented, and met with Valeria and her Lord Father in private for the first time since their youthful days in the Silver Court. Eyeing each other from across the Throne room. Ever curious, but ever aware that they were very much... alike.

Andreus had always thought he wanted a demure Princess. A woman who held no ambition of her own but to please him, a woman who never challenged himself, and definitely not a woman who spoke back, and told him what she truly felt. Such a woman would be ill-fitting for a Crown Prince, especially a man like Andreus. He always got what he wanted, and the world gave him what he wanted. There were no exceptions, and no illusions as to who held the real power.

Except her.

Now? She looked more beautiful, and elegant, and powerful every time he saw her.

Now? He loved her bright and big eyes, and her tongue even more.

Now? He could say he shared his power, with someone who was worthy of it.

A Princess of Azure, of Tethalla, of Old Emphyria, and soon, a Queen.

A thrill of anticipation shot through Andreus's body. Dealing with sniveling ambassadors was tedious, but this? This was a challenge he relished, and looked forward to reveling in, for the rest of his rule. The Princess, unlike the simpering courtiers, was never easily cowed. He did not expect unearned loyalty, or even affection, but their nights of untamed passion and unrestrained decadence had produced both those qualities naturally. They understood each other, served each other. obeyed each other. And each other only.

Prince Andreus, ever the pragmatist, knew exactly how to leverage things to his advantage, in this nightly game they played, to both of their delight. He sauntered into the room, crimson cloak billowing dramatically behind him, like a predator entering his den. Ready to claim his prize.

Andreus didn't rush this time, as much as the hot blood in his veins spurned him to do. He had learned with Valeria that the thrill of the hunt was often sweeter than the kill, so he unclasped his cloak with deliberate slowness, letting it fall to the plush carpet with a heavy thud. His intense gaze, a slow sweep across the room, lingered on the way the crimson silk of her gown dipped low, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of creamy shoulder. His eyes hungrily ate her smooth, slender legs up to her shapely thighs, exposed for only him to see. He could see she wore little makeup, and her delicate hands and toes were manicured just the way he had always told her he liked it. If there was ever a vision of the Luminary in the flesh, she is it.

He crossed the distance between them in three long strides, his height making a mockery of the lavish space reserved for members of the Royal House. Valeria was forced to crane her neck to meet his gaze, looking positively petite compared to his broad frame. The contrast between her delicate form and his powerful build was stark, something he always enjoyed seeing. It was the perfect representation of their power dynamic... and how quickly it shifted, for she was more than what the Gods bestowed upon her form.

Andreus cupped his Princess' chin, his other calloused hand dwarfing her smooth one, before claiming her lips in a deep kiss that parted her mouth, and brooked no resistance. The muscles in his forearms, honed by years of wielding sword and shield, tensed beneath the fine fabric of his tunic as he pulled her close... and he saw the way she stared, even as well as she hid her true self when playing their games. Every brush of their bodies was a stark reminder of the chiselled indomitable warrior beneath his fineries. The one she commanded him to play, when the candlelight faded, and the moon took its place. A role which Andreus was more than experienced and happy to indulge in.

"Princess Valeria," Andreus drawled, stepping back for a moment. His voice was a low rumble that sent a tremor through the scented air. He'd had many nights of practice at such authoritative entrances, after all. "You grace my humble chambers with your delicate presence." A ghost of a wicked smile played at his lips. A fleeting acknowledgement that their treasured bedroom games, and the escalation of their desires, were only just beginning.

The Great Game was afoot, and both players knew the stakes. He spent the next few moments in a carefully orchestrated dance of words and wit, as he slowly removed himself from the stuffy confines of his tunic and hose, removing the leather belt that held it all together and throwing it by the fire. He feigned interest in her supposed political machinations, knowing full well they were a mere smokescreen for her true desires, and his.  He countered her barbs with playful retorts, his voice dropping to a husky murmur when their eyes continuously met, after hungrily devouring the other's form, for once was not enough. I could never have enough of her, he thought. Not after that first taste.

His right hand still intertwined with her left, Andreus pulled the woman from her lazy lounging to sit upright before him, her beautiful auburn locks shimmering against the fire beside them, though it could never burn as bright. His mouth watered as the silk of her robe clung to all the right places, and his eyes greedily gazed down into her own to gauge her reaction to the sight of his form, standing tall and proud in front of her. Above her. Perhaps outside their bedroom, a Lord disrobing for his Lady first was queer. But he was a Prince of Azure, and she a Princess. He was as diligent in delivering her pleasure as she was. Besides, it pleased him when she worshipped what he had endured.

The evidence of his warrior life was etched across his skin in a map of faded scars. A jagged white line snaked across Andreus's left shoulder, a testament to a close encounter with a vicious Paleman's axe. His broad chest, usually hidden by layers of clothing, bore a network of fainter lines, a spider web of reminders from countless sword swipes and glancing blows from jealous lesser Lords and even a Bravo of Nicanta, who unwisely mocked the Prince upon the announcement of his betrothal to Princess Valeria. One prominent scar,  raised against the pale skin of his hard stomach, followed the sharp curve of a rib, a chilling whisper of a near-fatal encounter. His scars weren't bad enough to be grotesque disfigurements, but a brutal poetry that spoke of battles fought and victories won. They were a language he had hoped Valeria, a woman who understood the thrill of the hunt, appreciated. But it was already long ago that she had assured him. It did not mean they couldn't reenact such moments in their private Great Game, however.

"Valeria," he whispered now, his left hand grasping her beautiful face with intensifying strength. "My Princess, I have served this country tonight. Now, I need you to serve your Prince." The words rolled off his tongue with a heady mixture of measured authority and sensual seduction, just as the full weight of his bodily arousal - elicted by the sight of her form, her grace, her obedience - made itself clear to her eyes.

Vampire/Modern-day Sample

Grim-faced and disciplined, Daemon studied the mass of monsters around him for any hint of trouble as the Blue Club's suffocating music ricocheted through his very bones.

Lights flickered and strobed relentlessly across the concrete cavern, casting shadows and angles that paid no compliments to the demonic faces all around him. Cold-blooded bodies collided and pressed against him in the surrounding crush, while a harsh mixture of acrid, earthy and sweet aromas flooded his senses. Sensual groans, sultry promises, frenzied screams, gravelly growls and the occasional heartbeat assaulted his being. It was almost impossible to tell who was what in such a thick crowd of freaks like that, especially with the tantalising scent of fresh blood also in everyone's noses. But there was nothing like a good old-fashioned mass feeding to bring the undead together.

The incessant noise of the heavy electronic music and the boisterous horde was throbbing, pulsating... palpable. Harsh strobe lights at the top of the domed room cast an eerie, temporary glow over the inebriated and drug-fueled revelers in the Pit below, before sweeping onto the next group, creating a weird spectacle of jerky, spasmodic puppets on a string, cheering when it was their time in the limelight. The frenetic energy and cacophonous atmosphere, as anarchic as it was, was undeniably infectious. Even as he stood on the sidelines, watching for any sign of conflict, Daemon could understand how one could get lost in the commotion.

In the middle of the mass were the bone-white faces, glassy gray eyes and regal adornments of Consilium heritage. Even amidst such nocturnal chaos, their otherworldly beauty was unmistakable from the rest of the horde. A handsome man with an inhumanly sculpted jawline opened and closed his mouth playfully as dark-red liquid poured freely from his person, generously coating his rich clothing. His femme fatale partner calmly held out her gloved hands out to catch the flow, licking it off him like a wild animal, to the roaring amusement of the uninhibited party-goers surrounding them. More bodies came piling into the Pit with each passing second, in anticipation for their turn for the sticky stuff.

After all, first blood was for house royalty, but the real feast came after.

Whirling neon-blue lighting now flashed on all sides, illuminating the Pit with a newly amplified, pulsating effulgence that made most of Seattle's other underground nightclubs look like a kid's party. There were no dancers, no "normal" drinks on tap here; just a mob of cursed flesh in their nightclothes, mouths agape and arms held high, as the sprinkler system abruptly spilt the crimson life-force of thousands of human cattle into the crowd below, while loudspeakers on posts and on-lookers leaning against the railings above mouthed incomprehensible cries of excitement and ecstasy.

Daemon's steely-eyed gaze skipped from face to face, doing his best to ignore the pangs of hunger in his belly and keep his mind on the job. An abundance of piercings, powdered skin and blood red lips. Endless tight black numbers, expensive suit jackets, and torn and ripped denim alike. Mouths full of deadly fangs and scarlet vitality, bopping heads rocking cultivated widows peaks, backcombed bouffants and crisp fades. This was where the elite of Macabre's regular clientele gathered for their nightly feed, fuck and ravishment of one another; where the limits of human imagination barely scratched the surface. Where Daemon subconsciously aspired to one day be a part of, despite everything he told himself.

In life, Daemon had always stood out like a sore thumb. His dark skin and troubled upbringing hadn't exactly afforded him the luxury of anonymity. Even here, right among these frenetic, rabid, writhing things, his presence was misplaced and questioned. But it was his stoic demeanour and imposing physique that kept any of those nasty thoughts at bay, aside from the occasional sneer.

The truth was he wanted to hate Macabre and its nocturnal depravities with every undead fibre of his being. But the insatiable bloodlust crazing his body and the loneliness engulfing him emptied his head of all logical thoughts but the hunger.

I came to Seattle to be a better man. Some dream, Daemon.

The warm and delicious scent of the very thing he craved hit him in full force as he smartly moved away from the intoxicated crowd and through the heavy velvet drapes sectioning off the VIP Blue Club from the rest of the sprawling underground venue. Daemon had suppressed his primal urges as best he could, but sometimes being in a room full of the red stuff still inevitably led to those blackouts the purebloods loved to punish newly Embraced for. He wasn't going to risk it, not after the last time.

As he climbed the grimy stairs back to the main bar above, a petite blonde bombshell with the faint signum of the Nosferatu clan tattooed on her slender neckline sauntered past him with a wicked smile, her fluttering heartbeat calling out to him like a siren's song, promising deadly delights... but a pair of hulking male accomplices tailed her closely, firm hands on the familiar's dainty shoulders, threatening postures and piercing stares with a clear readiness for violence. The scent of brimstone and the look of their pointed claws made any stand-off a tense one; Daemon could only fake a look of equally murderous intent to keep the monsters moving without retaliation, eventually exhaling with relief as he realised they opted to pass him without a challenge. He continued his ascension to more appropriate surroundings that befit his newly-found undead station. He wondered if the girl knew exactly what kind of night she got herself into. He'd seen far too many human familiars in over their heads before, but what could he do?

Macabre was a thriving hub of vampire activity in Seattle, one that attracted ancient bloodlines, old money, human familiars, varcolaci and the newly Embraced alike to its doors. It was the first place he had heard about while on the road to nowhere; spoken of like some underworld haven by other newly Embraced. Somewhere to seek refuge, indulge, and awaken again. Once he arrived, it was everything they had said and more; but it didn't take long for Daemon to see first-hand just how easy it was to get lost in the enticing promises, intoxicating atmosphere and endless vices the lower sections of the club offered. Alcohol, drugs, sex, and clean blood on-tap for those who could pay or knew the right people. Because wealth alone didn't proffer you with status here; only pure-blooded heritage, or association with such.

But even with that status, it was still just as easy to wake up with your limbs detached, and your immortal body broken as the Gataro sold your fleshy parts to the highest Adrasteia bidder. Or witness the Nosferatu demanding blood tribute from lower-class patrons that couldn't possibly offer, just for the fun of the savage mauling that followed. Daemon had seen enough of what these ancient monsters did to the 'lessers' of their own kind to remain on as high alert as possible.

Friends in the right places always help.

Out-of-towners weren't so openly welcomed in Seattle. But the Brethren had accepted him after the Proving, and subsequently made his day-to-day a little easier, even with the type of depraved dirty work enforcing a never-ending nightclub entailed. As far as he was concerned, Nyssa and her crew were the only reason he made it through his first night in Seattle - and all the nights after - alive, well-fed and limbs intact.

That, and because I make sure the Nosferatu's blood orgies and illegal Turnings go uninterrupted. Or whatever the fuck they're doing.

"You still on-shift, freshblood?"

The harsh voice of Omar pulled Daemon from his thoughts. The older man was leaning against the cold concrete walls of the packed stairwell, enjoying a fresh drag from his hundredth cigarette for the night. Even undead, Daemon still felt sickened from the slow and creeping stench.

"I'm done in five," he replied dryly. "Snuck out before they brought out the real human entertainment. Nobody'll notice."

Omar laughed heartily, though his amusement was cut short by another of his incessant coughing fits. The way the old man told it, two hundred years of unrestricted substance abuse had naturally taken its toll, even on his genetically perfected insides, and effectively made his voice sound like it travelled via vocal chords of heavy sandpaper. He was apparently a well-known travelling singer, once, with a deep and pleasing baritone that melted hearts and guaranteed wet and willing feedings; now, every time he spoke made Daemon wonder which breath would be his last.

Suppressing another cancerous fit, Omar grinned at him in evident approval, flashing his rotten yellow teeth and decayed fangs for all to see. Judging by the looks of disgust from nearby attendees passing through, it made sense he was on his lonesome. "Still can't resist the smell, huh?" You talking about the blood or your goddamn toxic vice, old man?

Daemon shuffled through a particularly large patron to find a spot beside the old black man, resisting the urge to gag from the smoke. "You of all people here know how badly I fared last time in the Pit."

"It ain't something to be ashamed of, kid. Just the way it is for Turned."

"Easy thing for a varcolaci to say," said Daemon, smirking. "Worst thing you guys have to deal with are the constant furballs."

"Says the motherfuckers walking around with coagulated stains over their jackets every night."

"You know how disgusting it is to help the busboys clean up your fucking shedding?

Omar ignored his dig and changed the subject, as usual. "You're getting better at hiding it is what I'm saying. You don't even shake anymore."

"Yeah, well, I'm taking no chances. I don't exactly want to give Nyssa a reason to regret her decision."

"How about the rest of the Brethren? Ezra still on your ass? Last I heard he was purging your ranks out of spite."

Daemon's smile faded at the memory of the severe beating he endured. "He's been off-site for weeks. Motherfucker."

"About time they let Nyssa start running things. That woman is something, ain't she?"

"She is," he agreed. Daemon could only smile at the thought, even as Omar unleashed a cloud of sickly stink into his face. He did it to get a rise out of him, and knew how he felt about the sensuous woman.

"Well, my friend," Omar said, patting Daemon on the back with hearty familiarity, gently squeezing his way out of the corner and through the growing crowd that were descending the stairs. "Have a good night, yeah? Best stay away from the Pit, though - last I heard, the Consilium's bringing in some special entertainment later!"

Daemon watched as Omar was engulfed by the sea of well-dressed men and women eagerly joining the feast to be. The only varcolaci who had free reign of the place. He had heard rumblings of the Nosferatu pulling out the human favourites to celebrate the Consilium's recent arrival in Seattle, but Daemon had opted to keep himself mostly out of the loop. The less he knew, the better chance he had to go home without more regrets.

God knows I have enough as it is.

Daemon pushed through to the bustling upper floor and the difference in smell hit him at once. A smell of rot and old salt water, of unnatural shit and piss, of fast living and slow decay. Gone was the ultra-modern, multi-level nightclub mecca with state of the art lights and sound systems and shadowy booths full of private delicacies, built into the city's tunnel system with shocking engineering genius; here was the uglier above ground front of it all. A draughty industrial cavern carved out of an old maintenance facility, with cold moonlight, harsh winds and icy raindrops finding chinks in the shutters, leaving bright lines and wet patches across the dusty boards and re-purposed barrels and crates littering the corners of the warehouse. In the middle was a much smaller dance-floor, still packed to the brim with bodies, but of a different sort, the lower-rungs of the vampire caste system. Newly Embraced pretending at status, hoping to be seen; gargoyle-looking Adrasteia pushing their latest product; and human familiars with eyes glazed over and necklines reddened. Not to mention much more leather, whips and chains. It had a more industrial feel to it than the opulence of the Blue Club, but the honest roughness of Macabre was one that Daemon preferred.

To the far left of was perhaps the only area that rivalled the Blue Club in popularity: The Carfax. Daemon glanced at his watch, shrugged to nobody in particular, then pushed his way through the bustling crowd towards the bar. He was abruptly stopped by a lanky male familiar with a jewelled cross dangling between his hairy chest, sadly poking out from his cheap silk shirt. Daemon's eyes made out the signum of the Gataro on his neck as the male and his two companions appraised him from head to toe. The man ran his tongue over a set of resin fangs, flashing them as if they were the real thing.

Got some balls wearing that symbol and those props, motherfucker.

"Can I help you?" Daemon asked neutrally, occasionally peering over the bar to try and grab Ruthie's attention. The overworked bartender was being accosted by a couple of horny regulars over on the other side, and Ichabod was nowhere to be seen. He couldn't blame them, though. But then again, Daemon was always a sucker for redheads.

The human chuckled, leaning in to have his voice better heard, jewelled hand on Daemon's shoulders like they were old friends. "It's Chad, remember?! We were here last week! You reckon you could put in a word for us to get in downstairs, bro?"

Daemon worked through his memory, the corners of his mouth creeping into a smile as he remembered exactly who the git was. "Chad, yeah, I remember you. Hard to forget."

Hard to forget someone who insulted a Nosferatu and got away with it by the grace of god.

Chad and his friends grinned, while Ruthie seemingly came to his rescue with a tired smile. "Hey sweetheart, what can I do for y - "

"Three Blood and Sands!" Chad yelled, leaning over the wooden finish of the bar with far too much confidence, beaming at Ruthie's bewildered face. Daemon did his very best to resist hauling his lanky ass back to the front, letting Maurice beat him black and blue.

He's just a stupid human with shit drink taste and penchant for picking the wrong fights. Mostly harmless.

"How about you, Daemon?" shouted Ruthie over the increasingly suffocating noise of the bass and a crowd of rowdy patrons screaming and dancing not too far from the main bar.

"Pint of the usual!"

Ruthie disappeared to get their drinks ready while Chad and his weedy friends loitered by his side like parasites. "Come on bro, we'll pay you good!" He shifted from casual talk to pretty much pleading. "I'd get my handler to get me in, but the Gataro have a beef at the moment with the wolves - and they're all fucking killjoys!"

Daemon shook his head, occasionally scanning their surroundings of any trouble, out of habit. Off-duty and still dealing with this shit, jesus christ. "No can do. Familiar without his handler is basically asking for trouble. You boys are lucky you even got in here."

One of Chad's friends, the short one, waved his hand at him in feigned annoyance. "Come on! The pussy here is fucking weak, man. We just wanna party with the Nos is all!"

Trust me, you don't kid. You'll last sixty seconds down there before you're mince meat. Literally.

A shoulder roughly bumped into his ribs. Daemon flashed his fangs and hissed out of habit, to the slight shock of Chad. "Hey man, chill! Just thought - just look over there! Thought you'd appreciate the view."

Daemon's hard eyes followed where he pointed. Right in the thick of the crowd in front of them, an auburn-haired beauty wondered through the press towards the Carfax. Even from that distance, Daemon could pick up the intoxicating aroma of thriving, vibrating life... and the slightly heightened heartbeat of a human out of their element. No signum from what his eyes could see, but plenty of hungry eyes on her from all sides. Chad gave a low whistle, while a varcolaci brute leered over her as she passed the bulk of the crowd, his humanoid glamour barely holding as his saliva dripped to the floor shamelessly.

"On second thought," the short one said excitedly, "I'm cool here boys. One second." And he was gone.

Daemon turned back to the bar, in time for Ruthie to serve him his drink. She looked exhausted, and over everything. He could sympathise. On the far end of the bar, her hell-hound of an ex continued to screech for her undivided attention, while Chad and his other friend messily cheered to another night of pretend.

Escaping their grasp, Daemon secured a seat and drank his poison in silence, eyes quickly finding their way to the human. He wondered if it she found the place by mistake, or got lured there by an over-eager Nosferatu. Either way, she was in for an awakening.

Drama/Gang Example

Cole didn't know what to do, which wasn't a first in his life. But this time, it was certainly a predicament.

A strange woman stood in his room, one he didn't even know existed until a few hours ago, revealing hurtful things about another strange woman who had utterly captivated him. She stared back at him with a mixed look of curiousity and pity, as if he was far from a hired killer and instead someone who could be a... confidant.

Cole studied Catriona in silence as she recovered from the assault, narrowed eyes watching the faint rise and fall of her chest, ears prickling at the rattle of her breath, too soft for someone who he had nearly choked to unconsciousness. Her black lashes cast shadows on her striking face, and her mouth had a red ripe colour in the dim lamplight. She caught him staring, or perhaps guessed at the fleeting thoughts that must have been etched on his face: "You treat all girls who come over so late this way?"

"You told me what you wanted to," Cole replied dismissively. "But I still don't get why you think I care."

Catriona seized her opening, knew even with the flash of anger in his dark eyes he was latching onto something she said. "I'd say anyone fucking their boss and doing their dirty work in the streets would want to know she has some other men on the side, at the ready. Unless she was open and told you about the arrangement, which... judging by the killer's glint in your eyes, you hadn't even entertained that possibility."

Anger tightened Cole's jaw, and his deep-seated rage was far from simmering. Just suppressed, as best he could manage. "What makes you think she's anything to me but that? Who are you," he almost shouted, but regained control over the volume of his voice, "to assume anything about me? Some fucking medic patching up killers, gossiping like a pathetic schoolgirl." He took two big steps forward, the full extent of his hulking physique looming over her like an intimidating otherwordly shadow in the low light.

"This is far from gossip," she simply said. "This is your life."

Cole's tired eyes narrowed even more, if it was even possible. "What's your angle, Catriona?" A lot of obvious possibilities were suddenly dwelling on him, then. Possibilities that didn't seem quite so ridiculous or readily apparent, at first. "What do you know?" Another step forward, well within range of striking her again. "You're here now, and clearly not in a rush to leave. I think some answers are due, before I'm fucking happy to let you walk out of this room intact." His snarl was vicious, welcoming of resistance.

So he could choke her again the moment she tried anything funny.

That same mischievous curve to her lips alluded to nothing but amusement. No fear, or hesitation. "All I know is Casey McCallum is a dangerous woman. I have no delusions about what she would do to me, if she heard what I said. Or knew I was speaking to you about this." One long arm lazily reached out to touch him. Pianist's fingers, with cool white skin and perfect manicure. They were soft and cold against his chest. He did not react, but he did not brush it away, either. "There are plenty like me, working for the McCallum operation, that are not as secure as you." A slight shift in tone of her soft voice, but still sultry. "That live in fear for doing the wrong thing, or not being there at the exact impossible time they requested. We see things, so they keep us under tighter leashes, until the money and the prestige and the connections don't matter anymore." Her fingers trailed down his chest, and he guiltily felt himself stir, until they met air and came back to rest on her collarbone. "We've lost a lot to this family."

"Like what?" He snorted.

"My freedoms."

"What?"

"I think you relate more than you will admit."

"I don't."

"Well, I'm a prisoner."

"My sympathies," he said sarcastically. Though not as harshly as he had intended to sound.

"You can have mine, for what that's worth. You're just as much a pawn in this degenerate chess game as the rest of us. And you've lost even more than I have. Your shoulder." It was like the pain shot up his arm in the moment. "Your friends." He knew she was referring to Ravi and Lester, but he couldn't help but think of the Westsiders. Of Malik and Kintell. "Your dignity," she closed, voice suddenly biting and harsh.

His fury flickered about again, and he quickly steered the talk away from Casey. "You're just some bitter, morally questionable medic that feels regret for getting involved in this mess." He grabbed her arm with some force and held her close, meaning to intimidate with another swift act of violence. Catriona only simpered at the contact.

"Really? So Casey McCallum is not some incompetent, treacherous, psychopathic, patricidal murdering cunt who uses anyone and anything to get her way? She killed her own father, killed half of the men that served her family since she was a snivelling little shit in school-gear, probably blowing the old bastards for all we knew."

All of that should have set Cole off again. His brain was screaming at him to smash the woman's face against the wall until it was pulverised, but he stayed his hand. He couldn't help but listen. He couldn't think of a thing to say.

"She's promptly driven the Azure distribution network into the public eye," she continued, tone confident. Like she knew she had him. "Allowed petty gangs and disloyal partners to take advantage of her stupidity and loss of leadership. She's put the frontline workers like us in danger, withheld our pay, had her dogs threaten our families should we run. She's used and manipulated men like yourself, men too stupid and mesmerised by her promises to see they're just another body. Another meatshield."

"No," he boomed in roaring disapproval. "You have it wrong. You're twisting everything."

"I'm the one who has it wrong?" She was halfway to whispering in his ear. "They say she's been fucking this ER doctor at Central since she was thirteen years old and the creep was nineteen. Ran off with him to escape her father, but the pedophile bastard took advantage of the dumb cunt's stupidity. Has been using him ever since to blackmail his fellow doctors and nurses into working for her. Blackmail me, and my sister, into staying." Her voice quavered minutely, but found its bite again soon enough. "They still fuck now, even with you at her back-and-call. Still hear of her fucking several other men, actually. Dozens more of us will tell you the same thing. It's no fucking joke. She has them all to have ready to sick on the other, should they not be needed anymore. Wonder how long it'd take before that was you, Cole?"

"You're - you're fucking insane," he growled back, though the seeds of doubt were too evident in his expression.

"Like heading into Flagship Hill to stop the bikers from destroying our warehouses? For the entire city and world to see, to broadcast to millions? Those same bikers she riled up and antagonised for the sake of, what? Some stupid girl? Or her pride?"

"It's not like that," he said weakly... even though it was exactly like that.

"That ER doctor - they're lovers," she purred, reaching out to touch his face. He didn't move away. "More than what she considers you, from what we hear. More than what some killer that works for her could ever be. It's no kind of secret she favours him. Ask anyone working for her, you'll see it in the way they look at you mockingly in the halls. Ask her." She daringly stroked his mouth with one delicate finger, the glint in her eyes almost revelling in his utter confusion, rage... despair.

Cole found he couldn't breathe normally, or focus. Could only think of Kenny, and choking the life out of that pale face. He felt humiliated, betrayed, laughed at, as he recalled the withering looks and open laughter. Like a fish tickled from a river and left choking on the soil. The fury boiled up in him so hot, he could hardly keep himself together.

"Fuck off!" He flung Catriona's hand off his face, finally. "I see what you're fucking doing. You don't think I know you're goading me, bitch? For whatever fucking bullshit you're trying to make happen? Make me do your dirty work? I'm nobody's fucking puppet!"

Instead of cringing away, Catriona only came forwards, pressing against him, chocolate eyes as big as dinner plates. "What I have done to you, Cole? I've told you what I know, what I know you would want to know. You've made no sacrifices for me. Was I the one who sent you into a suicide mission? Who almost killed you in a coup? Who has toyed with you like a puppy?" He could feel her breathe on his face, warm and pleasant as her scent. God, everything still hurt. He was so tired. "You're no fool, Cole."

"...I'm no fool," he repeated like a fool, his face on fire and blood battering at his skull. He yelped in a strangled way, throat closed up and unsure of how to properly unleash the anger he had built up within. Like that was her intention all along, Catriona let go of him, left him with his grief, staring back up at her with his own eyes, widened, speechless, as she made for the door.

"So stop acting like one."

[Tyrus]

My writing partner preferences

First and foremost: I am interested in writing interesting, mature plots, characters, and stories. 

I like exploring adult themes and depicting adult interactions, but a story is more than just sex or violence. Consider me a plotter (long-term narrative development) than a runner (one-shot stories).

When it comes down to it, I seek a writing partner who's just as committed to crafting all elements of the story as I am. That includes plot, characters, dialogue, motivations, lore, world-building, mysteries, etc. And to have fun too, of course.

I've found in the past I don't quite resonate with stories that get straight to adult elements without building a compelling story or characters around it. Makes for a dry RP that whittles out fast, in my experience.

I'm also a less frequent poster with a varied real life (RL) schedule. While I do my best, I tend to post only when I reach a level of quality I deem acceptable. I never rush for the sake of it. In short, I'm looking for a partner who jumps into and embraces all aspects of the story as much as I do... and has the patience to make it into something that's a great read.

P.S. I prefer stories to be posted in the forums. I'm not a fan of stories via Discord, only OOC chat.

My writing approach

I would best describe myself as a 'gardener' type of writer. I plant seeds of smaller details that can spring to life and grow organically the further the story goes along.

I put a lot of emphasis on world-building, mystery and intrigue, and spend a decent amount of time gradually shaping each character's quirks, histories and motivations to enjoy the long-term pay-off, as they naturally develop throughout the story and keep things interesting. 

I consider myself a fairly detailed writer in terms of content, with a minimum of four or five paragraphs, with a tendency for the long-form (sometimes, as some of my current partners would attest to, I'm far too dedicated to upholding that). I am flexible, however, and have recently pivoted to a more rapid-fire approach to posts for quicker turnaround.

I've written and continued many stories with many partners over several years, so I currently lean towards that preference. I admittedly have quite a demanding RL work schedule that has, in the past, prevented me from replying immediately. If you prefer a partner that can produce daily or weekly posts always, I might not be best fit for you, but I will always reply. Unless something's wrong, then I'll tell you why.

My writing style is predominately third-person limited. I write each perspective with only the knowledge of the character in question, setting up mysteries and wider continuity via gradual development and a limited perspective. I enjoy writing and introducing several POV characters, depending on what the story calls for. It's never fun without conflicting personalities and drama! The concept of unreliable narration and multiple point-of-view writing structures is something I love to explore and employ in my writing, so heads-up there.

Character development is a major focus and emphasis of mine. I try to write realistically; that is, with flawed, but likeable characters and plots which aren't too far-fetched, but that aren't boring or light on detail either. If I had a particular style I tend to employ most regularly, it would be described as grounded, gritty, and a little (okay, maybe overly) dark in terms of humour.

Strengths

I write stories across many different genres, but I think my biggest strength lies in stories based on a low/high-fantasy or alternate history premise. I feel most comfortable with fictionalised settings, where I can gradually build the background of the world, its characters and their relationships in tandem with my writing partner.

As mentioned earlier, I tend to write fairly reflective/introspective/analytical sort of characters, and I'm able establish strong voices with these types of POVs (maybe because I draw from myself). That's not to say I can't or don't have fun with more straight-forward or brutish types of male protagonists - I just know what I'm best at (lol).

However, ultimately I do like to challenge myself and be challenged, and am open to every story idea or 'tone' - this is just what I think my strengths lie, to give an idea.

Weaknesses

I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty bad with visuals. As in, sourcing and providing supporting imagery to convey the characters and settings I write. Partially because the characters and settings I construct tend to be hard to find existing imagery close to representing the words I type, but also because I can't draw or design anything for shit (lol). If you're the type of writer who wants a partner that is heavily image-based, I might not be the best fit for you here, but I will always try and cater as best I can.

Fluff

When it comes to my favourite reads, I am a major fan of the low-fantasy, grimdark genres and have gravitated towards there the last few years. Guiltily obsessed with ASoIaF especially.

I'm a bit of a goofball OOC and like to chat with my partners. But if you like to stay focused on the story, I'm all good with that, too.


Stories I'm looking for at the moment

My biggest successes here at Elliquiy and the stories I've enjoyed writing the most are those I've gradually built in partnership with another.

I'm also shameless in stating I especially love when partners play character(s) that truly challenge my own.

I'm quite open to many different types of ideas and settings, so don't be shy to share yours!

I prefer PMs instead of posting here, so send me a message.

If I had to pin-point what I'm currently craving, it'd be along the lines of...

Example Scenarios

Forbidden Fruit: The complexities of initial attraction with a slow-burn story centering on two people who meet at the wrong time. Drawn to each other from common interests or backgrounds, they develop an undeniable connection by unique circumstance, only for the realities of geography and distance to grind things to a halt. Sometime later, they find themselves in the same space again... only for one or the other (or both) to be with someone else, with the intensity of their attraction simmering at the surface. They both adamantly fight against the idea of cheating or being attracted to someone else, and slowly (whether they realise it or not) start to self-destruct their current relationship and achievements for someone they're not even quite sure they 'want' beyond a fuck. A complete and utter out-of-control spiral, caused solely by lust - or perhaps love? Backdrop either modern or medieval setting.

Non Ducor, Duco: A grim exploration of the hypocrisies of chivalry and knighthood from the eyes of a once celebrated, now ridiculed warrior who is assigned the "shameful" duty of exchanging information and carriage of orders between the away military in a foreign land, and back to the home kingdom. Imagining a puffed-up man who, while of questionable birth compared to other knights of similar noble blood, gained his fame for his sheer fighting prowess. While away he grows resentful of his perceived harsh treatment, but gains a new perspective on the enemy and his country's atrocities against neighbouring countries, including outright genocide and famine, while they play at pretty tourneys at home. Initially, he guiltily disobeys orders to seek any chance of "glory" and gain enough clout to be forgiven for his crimes, which includes killing men on the other side... but eventually his eyes are opened to what he's really been celebrated for. I'd love to air out his crimes very slowly, to add an element of mystery to its severity. Acting as his moral compass, foil or leveler would be your noble-born PC, not awestruck by his past fame or impressed with his behaviour. Either an anchor to bring him back to reality and what really matters, or a bitter representation of the unattainable prize he could never get back home, no matter how much he had hoped his fighting fame would allow him where his "questionable" bloodline would not.

Pick of the Poison: Consistency, as they say in the trade, is a slow poison. It will kill you one day. A professional poisoner in medieval Tyvia who has outlasted his contemporaries with caution, unpredictability and more than a little luck, contemplates the value and motivations of his latest contract: A deadly hit on the deceased king's eldest daughter and her retinue, apparently in the way of her younger brother's direct ascension. The Triumvirate who want to use the boy as their unknowing pawn don't quite fit the picture of a reliable employer, or one that would leave a trace of their political machinations... unfiltered. Sensing his impending demise, the Poisoner hedges his bets on the Princess instead, offering up his unique services to get the jump on her enemies and win the favour of her people - all without having to lift a finger. All to the tune of more gold than he could carry, of course. But the sweet-natured, noble-minded Princess might not be a fan of the Poisoner's venomous proposition, on account of her trifling moral boundaries. Perhaps he could count on his winning smile to gain an audience. It was infectious, after all. But then again, so was the plague.

Sworn Enemies: All of his life, he'd hated her with every fibre of her being. She represented everything he despised in a person, for reasons both in and out of her direct control. Yet no matter the circumstance, distance or harsh words, they found themselves in the same space throughout the years, over and over again. So how he raged when she dared show up at his best friend's wedding. Share a table with that dagger-tongued, pig-nosed, judgemental fucking bitch? Suffer through that piercing stare that got through to the vulnerable core of him every time, no matter how many walls he put up to forget how she treated him? No fucking way. But by the dead, life offers up its surprises. After meeting again as worldly adults, he can't help but feel like a hypocrite. Can't help but be enamoured with that stare, body, and fearlessly opinionated mindset. He now loved her nose, and her tongue even more. It's almost enough to make him swear off other women. Almost.

Other, general scenarios and ideas to build out with you:

• Crime and gang-related stories.
• Modern-day affairs/office-place dramas.
• Post-apocalyptic tales.
• Medieval sagas (little to no magic).
• Romance.
• Military-style tight knit team fractured from within.
• Drama.
• Horror.

Thanks guys.

[playfullchick76]

I would be interested in playing out a walking dead one with you, if you were interested. Perhaps even a Maid/master one, where I was a backpacker, snatched by you and forced to be your exotic maid, maybe even made to speak in a French or Dutch accent, if thats your thing, if not, its okay.

[bluecoco]

Here I am! Over here! What you're looking for! *points to self*

lol

How are you? I'm new to the site, but not new to roleplaying. I've created roleplays and taken part in many over the past 10 years... Crazy how long it has been. I consider myself an advanced writer/very literate. Above anything I enjoy a good plot to jump into. Sex and the like I would consider only one facet of stories I prefer to take part in. Character development is a must. I think our writing styles and preferences are very in tune with each other.

We should become partners, if I fit to your liking! ;P I have a On/off page up in the ladies forum called "Coco's Good Touch/Bad Touch" where you can see a little more about me.

I'd enjoy RPing the following matches with you that you listed:
Maid/Master.
Boss/Secretary
Best friends.
Stepdaughter/Stepfather.
Crime and gang-related stories.
Medieval Tales/Fantasy/Romance
Superhero roleplays
Drama/Horror

and "What We Become" interests me.


Let me know if you'd be open to RPing with me!

[Tyrus]

Hey bluecoco, thanks for replying to my thread. :)

Welcome to the site! You should definitely PM me with your ideas and thoughts, sounds like we got the same sort of writing styles, expectations and interests. :)

[playfullchick76]

I would be interested in a walking dead one, most definately, as I'm  a big fan of the series. I have yet to watch fear the walking dead yet, but Its next on my list to be watched.

[Tyrus]

Bumping my thread instead of making a new one. I currently am seeking a new story with new partners, due to a few existing stories of mine put on hold by the other party. Craving something modern day in particular, but am open to ideas and brainstorming. All of my favourite stories have started from random conversations, so shoot me a message if you like my writing! (I've linked my published posts/stories in the OP). :)

[Tyrus]

Bump. Looking for one more new story!

[GeekGirl88]

Hey. I read this thread and your O/Os. Seems like we might work well together. In terms of ideas, I read your Forbidden Fruit concept but my brain put a twist on it. I saw it starting in a modern/near-future setting, but that second meeting happening after some sort of apocalypse where the characters could indeed be taken but there is the added element of "who do you trust in this ruined land? Sigh, is it worth possibly breaking up or leaving your new-enforced clan/tribe?

[Tyrus]

Thanks to everyone that messaged me and replied here! Appreciate the interest and ideas. I'm currently picking up a few stories, and for now I am not looking to start any more to be considerate to my current new and long-term partners. Thanks again!

[Tyrus]

Thanks to everyone who have been messaging me this past month - it's been exciting to see so many awesome ideas spawned from my 'Forbidden Fruit' scenario! To say I'm surprised at the level of sustained interest in this particular story premise (which I initially included on a whim) is a vast understatement.

However, I am currently running several ongoing stories at the moment and I'm unable to commit to any new stories on account of a fairly hectic RL schedule - and to be fair to my current partners. To everyone who have messaged me, thanks again - I'll let you know directly when I may be free in the future to potentially kick off another tale.

[Tyrus]

Updated OP with further detail and new links.

Have had one story flounder, so I'm tentatively looking to start one new story for the New Year!

(This is not including some separate story ideas floated from my current partners - I'll be hitting some of you up on those long overdue requests in the coming days once I'm on my Christmas holiday. Hoorah!)

[Hex]

Hello Tyrus~

I've read your roleplay request and I'm interested, I'd love to talk to you and further discuss and create a roleplay with you.  Swing me a dm whenever and I'd love to get started on potential rps.

Regards,
Hex.

[Tyrus]

Updated post with more detail on preferences/expectations. Added two new story prompts/scenarios. Currently in discussion with one new writer, but may be open to a second story depending on if posting cadence preferences align.

[TooSweetForRock]

Giving my strongest recommendation to take him up on the opportunity! I absolutely love writing with Tyrus! Don't miss out.

[Tyrus]

Thank you so much, Sweet! Appreciate the kind words. I love writing with you as well. :)

To everyone who has messaged me this past month: Thank you for all your wonderful ideas and interest, and sorry to those I couldn't commit a new story with due to my current story schedule (my current cadence is one or two posts per story a week).

However, I have been in talks with some writers in various stages of planning and it appears some of these stories might not be moving forward, as I haven't heard back for some time (I am referring to the ones without reply for over three weeks)/they're otherwise swamped with RL commitments.

I will be messaging a few people who reached out originally, but that I didn't proceed talks with due to being committed to these lapsed prompts.

So, at present, I'm currently interested in at least one or two new stories! This doesn't count a few stories presently in-planning with my current partners, FYI to those involved.

Thanks everyone!

[Tyrus]

Looking for one more rapid fire, back-and-forth story. Same depth of world-building, character-building and whiplash dialogue I outline above, just adapted and built a lot more on-the-fly than I used to do (i.e. not planning a lot of it ahead of time) as I transition my style of writing into something more in-line with E (quicker post turnaround, still layered in detail) for all my stories.

[Tyrus]

Bump.

[Tyrus]

Bump. I am tentatively looking for one more new story at this time, as a long planning session with a writer has unfortunately fallen through.

[Tyrus]

Bump. It's been a while, but looking to get back into it, with new partners and old alike. Am looking to write shorter-form stories with a more rapid pace, if anyone is interested.