Hello, welcome. I have room for a few new games, and there are a few I've been wanting to start for a while. I only do solo RPs with female players, sorry guys. See my Roleplay Preferences and post history for a sense of what I like and how I write. With that aside, let's get down to what I'm looking for.
I have an abiding fondness for drow. Blame it on an adolescence playing Baldur's Gate II, but I like dark elves. Not the whole spider-cult matriarchal society baggage load that comes with them in DnD. Instead it's more an aesthetic: confident, headstrong, sensual women with black skin, pointed ears and a penchant for the arcane are a deep-seated proclivity of mine. Right now I'd like to start a new roleplay in which my partner plays a drow, or dark elf. With all that in mind, here are the plots I'm interested in pursuing.
-----The Price of Peace[Rough, Dom/Sub, Forced Marriage]
Summoning [NC, Rough, Bondage, Exotic]
The conquering host marched over the broken bodies of your homeland's defenders, unstoppable. The conqueror offered two choices to the land's embattled rulers: they could yield a royal lady in marriage to the foreign warlord, and live as subjects; or they could choose not to, and he would burn them in their own palaces. Your character is that lady, the token of her family and home's submission, yielded into the barbarian's hands.
The Black Ships [Rough to NC
I've tried variations on this plot here, but not in some time. I'd like to play a demon summoned to the mortal world by some sultry witch or sorceress who manages to slip his bindings and turn the tables on his summoner. The demon remains in the world, still linked to her, and may even pretend to serve her before others--but in secret, behind closed doors, there is no question who rules who. As with the other plots listed here the setting is eminently flexible.
Taken Before the Warchief [Rough to NC]
The masts appeared on the eastern horizon at sunset, hung with white sails striped bloody red. The ships they bore across the waters were agile as serpents, charging over the waves propelled by wind and oar-stroke. They crashed ashore, beaching themselves to disgorge fearsome foreign warriors. The houses, they looted and burned. Those who dared to fight back, they slew or subdued. The rest they rounded up, to separate from the dross those skilled or beautiful enough to be worth taking with them as living plunder. You are one of those, whose beauty or talent or ferocity in the fight were enough to catch the eye of the raiders' chief. Now you're borne away from all you knew, thrall to a lord among the foreigners.
This story can be twisted several ways, and I've left it deliberately vague to that end. The raiders could be based on vikings, the Argives of the Iliad, and other peoples besides; that's for us to decide on. The people raided are left similarly vague, also to leave that up to us together.
The Beast of the Arena [Rough to NC, Minotaur]
You might have been a woman-warrior defending her home against invasion, a thief hoping to make off with some plunder, an assassin pursuing glory or revenge. Perhaps you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. However it happened, you captured by the coarse, strong hands of marauding orcs. You were even deemed peculiar enough to be brought before the warchief himself, that he could decide your fate and reward your captors. From the heat behind the warchief's gaze as he looks over his lovely prisoner, it seems death is far from what he has in mind for you.
After the Battle [Light to NC]
A vicious city sprawls beneath the desert sun, its spires and palaces looming above squalid tenements and slave barracks. Its rulers are ancient and cruel, and their regime relies far more on fear and force than benefits bestowed. Yet even they must offer some amusements, to distract the mob from their miseries and and powerful from their intrigues: for this, and this alone, they maintain the great arena.
It is a pit, once a great quarry for the obsidian that is the city's greatest resource. Rows of seats overcast by sailcloth shades ring the chasm for hundreds of yards; the ring-side boxes of the wealthy are bunkers of black stone, kept cool by slaves waving palm-fronds and, reserved for the greatest, works of sorcery set to no greater purpose than air-conditioning while the mighty enjoy their blood-sport.
Their sport is very bloody. Slaves, convicted criminals, war captives and losers in the vicious games off intrigue played between the mighty all find their way into the black bowl of blood beneath the stands. It is a field of obsidian whose walls are razor, whose floor blasts the sun's heat back up at any unfortunates upon its surface, whose creases and cracks are gummed with long-dried blood.
The greatest draw to the arena these past months is a new champion, a captive taken in the wastes. Taller by head and shoulders than any fully mortal man, his black muzzle striped with white and his horns capped with gleaming bronze, the minotaur delights the crowds with his brute ferocity in battle. Fortunes are made and lost in his bouts, as the wealthy wager for and against the beast and the warriors sent against him. Though fresh scars part his dark fur, the Bull of the Black Pit remains undefeated.
Your character is thrown into contact with this furious being, by one of many routes. His masters reward his victories in battle by casting slave-women into his pen for a night, to do with as he will. Slaves in this city come from many sources--war, debt, abject defeat by some other power in the city. You could be anything from a city girl to a great noblewoman to a warrioress from far away, but you've fallen far to be thrown to the beast for a night.
You might also be another gladiator, intended to face the beast in his next bout. The state--that is, the king--owns all slaves in the arena, and it is not unheard-of to force gladiators to spar against each other for weeks before unleashing them against each other in the pit, to ensure a long and interesting fight.
Royal armies of the great western empire travel in style. Their camps are mobile cities, pavilions and pastures and even impromptu gardens raised for a week or a night by the Great King's magi, meant to house hosts numbered in the tens and hundreds of thousands. The Great King's officers ride in splendor, their armor fairly dripping with gold and jewels, and the sovereign himself shines like a second sun from his personal chariot, but even the meanest foot soldier of the host has a jeweled scabbard for his sword. The fighting men are only a fraction of the full population of such an army on the march, as slaves and hired hands guide the baggage animals, fetch water and food for the soldiers' mess. The nobles ride with whole retinues of servants, advisors and concubines--both male and female--in their tow, while the Great King attends his wars with even his close family in spectacularly luxurious tents the size of a splendid palace.
Often, the sheer glory of the marching army is enough to cow the Great King's foes. When that fails the storm of his archers' missiles and the spears of his shining, armor-sheathed cavaliers makes short work of even the most tenacious foes. When they fail, their commanders are executed for their obvious cowardice, and their heads paraded to encourage their replacements towards better results. When the royal army is led by the Great King himself, such force is mustered about the royal person that resistance crumbles like sandcastles before the rising tide. At least, until today.
Today, the Great King's army met a host out of the barbarian east with a fraction of its numbers, the mercenary vanguard of one of the empire's own rebellious satraps. The barbarians' armor shed arrows like inconvenient raindrops; their pikes slew both splendid cavaliers and the thoroughbreds beneath them. The Great King fled the field, abandoning his gilded chariot to the enemy's plunder, and with him fled the army's spirit. The royal host broke and ran before the barbarians, leaving the numberless servants and treasures of their camp to the tender mercies of the conquerors.
Your character was among those left behind. She might've been some high lord's lady, a concubine, a servant girl, one of the Great King's mage-priests, or even a rare woman-warrior from some far-flung outpost of empire. Whoever she was, she was captured in the royal army's rout and has fallen into the hands of a foreigner, maybe an officer, maybe a private soldier. She might welcome the change of circumstances, as a chance to be free from the cruel, haughty lords of the empire, or she might revile her captor. Regardless, she's become so much plunder in his keeping, to do with as he will.