Started by Gypsy, February 07, 2014, 01:31:25 PM

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Generic Pairings / Story Inspirations / Taken or Retired Plots

My threads are set up to read newest post first, so if you're seeing this first, please start at the bottom. :-) 

I'm much more likely to be interested in one of the developed ideas I have listed in this thread than in any general pairing below.  If you contact me about one of these, please be prepared to tell me your interest/idea rather than asking me to develop a potential plot.  I'm willing to brainstorm if you have something in mind, but the ideas I have for others to pick through are already listed.   

Other Settings/General Pairings of Interest

Civil War
Dragon Age
Victorian-style Gothic
Prostitute / Client
Police Officer / Biker
Lady / Gladiator
Lady / Dragon-Slayer
Lady / Slave
Spellcaster / Demon
Southern Belle / Northern Army Officer
Conjure-Woman / Outdoorsman
Assassin / Target
Assassin / Agent     
Under-Cover Cop / Criminal 
Ares / ? (from Xena/Hercules series) -- I am not interested in any other pairing from the shows.  This is just here because, well, Ares.

Story Inspirations


Taken Plots

Contemporary / Modern / Futuristic

ENSNARLED - (Geraint)
(Rita, Nikki & Shelley find romance, demon style)

Ensnarled  TAKEN (Geraint)

Rita, Nikki & Shelly are three housemates who live in a city brownstone.  Rita owns the brownstone and a new age gift shop.  Nikki is an up and coming marketing executive at a company that makes lingerie and club wear, and Shelly is just starting her first year as a kindergarten teacher.

All three ladies have some baggage – Rita doesn’t fully realize it yet, but she’s in love with her business partner (who has serious issues that are keeping him away from the business).  Nikki’s climb to the top is encumbered by a boss who wants sexual favors in return for her advancement, and co-workers who will climb over anyone they need to in order to further their own careers.  Shelly was abused as a young teen, and is awkward and socially inept when it comes to men.

Everything changes when Rita’s new age experimentation / interest in the occult brings a supernatural force into their lives.

This is a story that I started with someone on Elliquiy, but unfortunately it never really got off the ground and posting ground to a halt.

I’d love for someone who wants to pick up this idea and run with it.  I was really enjoying incorporating the three different personalities into the situation.  The first story had them encounter a demonic force who had opened a shop, ala ‘Needful Things’.  The story could take this tactic, or we could use something along the lines of a cursed object, a failed séance or Ouija board session – anything that introduces a sinister presence into their lives that takes 3 basically nice women and lures them down a darker path, tempting them with the things they’ve always wanted but weren’t quite willing to do what it took to get.

If you’re interested in the story,  believe in using ‘spell-check’ and capitalization/punctuation, AND are willing to commit to at least a post a week, I’d love to discuss the details with you.

I've included a couple of sample posts from the defunct story.  The first is my initial post, and the second is a snippet of a later post, which gives a small sample of the three characters interacting.


"Did you see?  It's open!"

Patsy's excited voice was the first thing she heard as she opened the door to Witch Way Gifts.  The first thing that she saw is that the crystal chimes that had come in the day before hadn't been put up on display like they should have been, and the candles and incense still sat unopened in their box.  Her lips tightened, and her breath escaped in a small sigh before she caught it and forced as close an imitation to an interested smile as she could manage before her first cup of tea.  "See what's opened?"

Without waiting for an answer, she took off her jacket and hung it up on the antique coat rack near the door, then headed to the back room to put away her purse and sunglasses.  That Patsy had opened likely meant that her partner, John, wasn't coming in again.  It also meant that the bookwork they needed to get done for the bank probably wouldn't get done unless she did it herself -- which was just one tiny step better than asking Patsy to do it.  With the ease of long practice, she scooped out some of the strong, dark breakfast tea blend from her private sock and dumped it into her favorite acorn-shaped tea ball and got hot water from the water cooler  to start her tea brewing.

"The new store - Arkham Books.  Weird name, isn't it?  It looks really fancy -- too ritzy for this neighborhood, if you ask me, but I got a look at the owner.  Wow, what a hottie, if you like suits."

"That's nice.  I don't like having empty buildings on the street - it's a target for the bums and druggies.  And it's not good for business.  Did John call?"

"Last night.  He said Tracy was having a bad night, and he asked me to open for him this morning.  He'll be in when he can."

"Great.  Just great ..."  Rita swirled the tea ball inside her cup until the water darkened, and dumped in a pack of of Equal sweetener into it.  "Well, since you're here, can you finish putting the new product up and watch the shop for a little bit?  I'm going to put together a welcome basket to take over to the new shop."  She drank several swallows of the tea, and took the rest with her as she started moving about the shop, considering what someone who owned a fancy new bookstore might like. 

Patsy pouted, but once she decided Rita wasn't in the mood to gossip, she went off to attend to a few early customers and to start on the display.  Rita took a basket and lined it with some Greenwrap, and added a few choice items -- two varieties of tea, two small loaves of the sweet bread that she had baked and put out the day before, a small space clearing bell meant to be hung on the front door to keep any room free of negative vibrations, and two small chakra candles.  As she fussed over the arrangement, she caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors hanging on the wall.  Her blonde and black hair hung loose over her shoulders in ringlets, and the gray sleeveless gothic waistcoat she wore looked good on her trim figure, as did the tight black jeans that hugged all her curves just right.   She looked ... well, she looked like someone who would own a new age wiccan gift shop.  She wondered what her new neighbor would make of her -- if he'd named his shop 'Arhkham Books', perhaps he'd at least be sympathetic, suit or not.

A sudden influx of customers - tourists - and several phone calls delayed her plans, and it was after 11:00 before things were under control enough for her to leave.    The sun had warmed the air enough for her to leave off her jacket, and it felt good to leave the shop and her frustrations behind.  The new book store didn't look that much different from the other shops on the outside, but Rita stopped in awed admiration when she saw the inside.  Wow.

How long she might have stood there gawping, she thankfully didn't have the opportunity to find out.  The man approaching her was, indeed, a hottie -- though Rita herself might have chosen a slightly different adjective to describe him.  He was immaculately dressed,  and when he saw her, his smile lit the room, dispelling her first impression of something slightly unpleasant in the set of his lips and eyes.

"Hello.  I'm Rita Alworth, your neighbor across the way.  I wanted to drop by and bring you a little 'shop-warming' -- to welcome you to the neighborhood."  She held out her hand,  feeling foolishly glad that her nails were done in a simple French manicure rather than outlandishly painted like she sometimes wore them.

QuoteShe shook her head.  It was silly, and it would give John another reason to smile sadly and shake his head at her naievety.  She had almost decided it was too much trouble to go through with, and that the gorgeous Wil Wheatley probably had a wife, was gay, or had some other momentous baggage that would bring her nothing but trouble when the thought of her absent partner pushed her back in the opposite direction.  Like a whirlwind, she breezed through the shop, collecting the ingredients she needed.

She was, for once, the last one home.  Shelly was almost always there first, but Nikki usually ended up working late or going out for drinks or coffee with someone for the office.  Shelly had made dinner - spaghetti made with fresh basil and oregano from Rita's greenhouse herb garden and a heavenly loaf of garlic bread lavished with sweet cream butter.  Nikki provided the wine, and after they'd eaten and had a couple of glasses of wine, Rita found herself telling them about the bookshop and its magnetic owner.  She brought out the book, and confessed, with a bit of a defiant blush, that she'd gathered together the ingredients to try out the spell.

"Oh, Rita, I don't know," Shelly said hesitantly as she stared down at the book with something akin to distaste.  "Even if things like that DID work, wouldn't it just be cheating."

Nikki, who'd been all set to pooh-pooh the idea, immediately took the opposite stance.  "There's nothing wrong with giving yourself a little edge.  I say go for it -- if nothing else, there's a lot of power in positive thinking.  Why the hell not?  If you want to try it, Rita, count me in."

Shelly started to protest again, but Nikki's lips curved in a mocking, knowing smile.  The look on her face said all too clearly that she considered Shelly a coward, and worse, someone who didn't have it in her to support the one person who'd been behind her one hundred percent.  "I guess there's no harm in it, is there?  Sure, Rita, I'll be glad to help.  Just tell me what you want me to do."

(1980's - aspiring writer of adult fiction meets jewel thief)

The Perfect Set-Up TAKEN

Tina McKenzie wanted, above anything, to be a successful novelist.  By successful, of course, she meant rich -- but she also longed to have her fiction taken seriously.  She wanted to be interviewed on magazines and talk shows, and have people tell her that her books 'spoke' to them or kept them on the edge of their seats.  She'd had some luck with short stories and technical 'how to' articles for low end publications, and she'd written a few soft-core porn bits of fluff for women's magazines -- enough to supplement her salary as 'Gal Friday' for Galante Gems to afford a half-decent apartment and even a (used) car.  What she really wanted to write, though, was crime fiction -- gritty stuff with just enough sex to keep it interesting.  She'd been reading mysteries and detective fiction since she was a little girl, so she figured she'd have no problem writing the kind of stuff she loved to read.

She'd finished her first draft of her masterpiece and sent off copies to all the contacts she'd made in the business, plus the standard publishing houses, but all she'd gotten was rejection after rejection -- except for the offer to turn it into a serial if she changed the heroine's name and added a lot more handcuffs and leather.  "Not Realistic" was a repeated criticism for those who bothered responding with anything other than a 'file this in the trash form letter'.

After she'd made confetti after a few of the aforementioned communiques and flung them out over her balcony (fire escape), she started thinking ... and decided that maybe writing what you know wasn't such a bad idea after all.  She worked for a gem broker - what better place to have the robbery in her novel?  And she'd already found out that Mr. Galante, Sr. had written  the code for the alarm in the cover of the little black book he kept in his jacket.  That was a great place, she thought, to start ....

Tina has spent the last six months finding out everything she can about the boss' business -- not the stuff about invoicing or suppliers, but rather looking for weaknesses that might be exploited by an enterprising criminal.  She even flirted with the boss' son, flattering him outrageously and encouraging his ogling and pinches, to glean a few more details.  In the evenings, she 'cased' the joint and chatted up the regulars in the area, and revised her book with all the reality she could come up with, figuring to change the names and particulars later.

Little did she think that someone other than a would-be writer of fiction might agree with her that Galante Gems would be the perfect setup -- someone whose interest was anything BUT fictional.


Looking for someone to play the robber for this idea.  Ideally, this would be set in the 1980's (or a bit earlier) with a bad detective, noir-ish feel -- over the top, and not overly concerned with the minutia of how exactly the robbery is carried out.

The idea I had is that the real robber would wonder why Miss McKenzie is doing so much snooping and break in to her apartment where he finds her 'manuscript'.  She comes home early and catches him in the act, and he decides to blackmail her into both keeping quiet and helping with the heist by taking it with him and telling her that he'll use it to show the police that she planned the heist if she gets caught.

I also had in mind that the jewel broker shop was mostly a front for the mob, who won't take kindly to being robbed or in having one of their employees betraying them.

Despite the theme, I would not be looking for non-con with this - more a 'gentleman-rogue' type who would be ruthless in pursuit of riches but who takes no pleasure in hurting others ... unless they've hurt him first, at least.

(an assassin and an FBI agent become entangled when they both go after the same target)

A Last Kiss Good Night TAKEN

Calley Nikta wasn’t her name, but it worked well enough.  A play on the Greek, it summed up how she’d gotten her start in the business, and since her business was helping certain people find that great good night that everyone goes into eventually a little early it seemed apt enough.

It wasn’t as if she used it that much anyway.  Fake names, fake ids, fake stories – they were all her tools, and she used names as interchangeably as she did weapons.  Her real name was long gone, gone up in flames with her parents and the remnants of as much of a normal life as they could offer.  She heard it only in her dreams of those days,  and from those ghostly lips of memory it sounded far less real than any of the monikers she changed more frequently than her hairstyle.

She’d been fourteen when she called the number her father had given her as a last resort, the smell of gasoline and smoke still acrid in her nostrils and her clothes soaked through with icy rain, dirt, and stained with refuse from her escape.    Her parents’ bodies had still been in the county morgue when Andre Markov had agreed to take her in, and outlined the terms of what he expected to get in return.

Ten years later, she’d gone her own way, no hard feelings, no strings attached.    It had been business, and she’d gotten what she needed – and she supposed that he had as well.  Hell, she’d even worked for him a couple of times and delivered.    But like all rats, Andre hadn’t been content with leaving well enough alone.  Maybe he’d been in a spot where he needed a card to play, or maybe he’d just been pissed that she didn’t need him anymore – but whatever the reason,  he’d opened his mouth and started talking.  She’d always known one day that she’d get to kill him … and this was going to be one of the rare ones that she actually enjoyed.


It had taken the better part of three months to set up the scam, but considering that she was getting paid for something she would have otherwise been doing off the clock, Calley could hardly complain.  It was funny, she thought, how sex and money could make even a paranoid son-of-a-bitch like Andre ignore the little voice in the back of their head that whispered caution.

Luck had paid a part in it - she wouldn't deny that if she talked about her business, which she didn't.   When she was offered a contract on David McFaddan, an Armani-wearing lowlife who specialized in supplying 'exotic' and usually underage girls to the international prostitution market, she saw her chance.  Since she used to work for Markov, it hadn't been that hard - given his tastes, he'd done business with McFadden before, so she'd contacted them both in the guise of representing the other, and convinced them both that there was a deal on the table too profitable to refuse.  That made it easy to get herself invited to their meeting, and she'd been brought to the meeting in style, riding in the back of McFaddan's limousine, sipping a glass of Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux.

The first guard, the one driving the car, she'd taken out under the nose of McFaddan and his two bodyguards, by the simple expedient method of giving him her glass of wine, plus a little something extra, as she pointed out the warehouse's two exits.   A burst of gunfire and a carefully doctored recording (you could do wonders with digital these days) gave the guards the idea that Andre had double-crossed their boss, and she'd shot McFaddan and one of Andre's guards in the confusion.   Unfortunately, McFaddan's guards were a more enthusiastic in their aim than accurate, and Andre had only been hit in the arm.   This was messier than Calley liked, but when you try to take out two men who travel with armed guards who invariably know a thing or two about unarmed combat as well, AND try to arrange it so that they take the blame for killing each other, there was really no way to do it with finesse.  The authorities would be suspicious if there wasn't a blood bath, and fortunately they'd been willing enough to provide.

Now, all there was to do was to hunt Andre down and finish things.  All in all, it was almost the second-best outcome she had envisioned.  He'd try to talk to her, because even though he knew her reputation, he'd never quite gotten it into his head that just because she had enjoyed the sex didn't mean that she liked him.   He'd start feeling her out for a price, and waiting for the chance to grab the HK he favored as soon as he saw an opening.  He never could stand the silence, and it would be fitting if the love of the sound of his own voice was what killed him ... with a little help from a couple of hollow-points.

Calley heard a whisper of sound off to her left, and, pistol in hand, she slid off to investigate, using the rows of crates and boxes as cover.


Ideally looking for a policeman or similar agent of the law (or vigilante) who was after Andre Markov for his own reasons and gets curious about Markov's killer.

Calley is an assassin, but she chooses her targets and she has her own code.  She sleeps easier if the men and women she kills are 'in the game', her code for people who buy and sell and play with other people's lives in one way or another.

High Fantasy / Low Fantasy

(two souls brought together by their curses.  Will they carry out their dooms, or guide each other to salvation?)

Years ago, a practitioner of the arts sworn to heal dabbled in black magic to punish the woman who'd rejected him after he'd broken his vows for her.  His curse transformed her, trapped her in its grasp.  Now she lies in wait for the next man with forbidden desires to come, to take up the grimoire of spells and invite her forth once more to feed off the lusts he longed to give free expression.

She stirred, and there was a glimmer of light in the peaceful, velvet darkness.  The feeling was like the harsh scrape of fingernails across skin, gentling into an almost tender scratch that awoke a sense of dread, loss, and longing.  She did not wish to waken, if this was sleep, or to live if this was death, but even as her consciousness retreated from the light, the hunger flicked across it like the brush of a lover's tongue.

She had been barely more than a girl when she had sought him out, the healer who had come to Krinesthai to take up the old tradition.  Her family was scattered and gone, and her husband of just a few months had gone to sea for the promise of gold to secure their start.  The swell of her belly was not noticeable beneath her skirts, but it felt to her like a boulder of ice, and fear gnawed at her insides with cruel, jagged teeth.   The Order held life sacred, but he had understood, and his eyes were gentle when he handed her the scrap of cloth that held the herbs.

She wept alone in her tiny hut, her blanket stuffed into her mouth to muffle the cries as the healer's tea ripped the fear from her body.  In the morning, she washed away the blood and cleaned the soiled bedclothes and got on with the things that must be done.

A season passed, and then another.  The trees turned to fire and gold, and the coast where she watched was as barren as her womb.  A new fear took root, working its tiny tendrils inward slowly and leaving no trace upon her body, save for the hunger in her eyes.  It was then that the healer came to her and spoke of the hunger that lay within him as well, and he drew her down into the fallen leaves and warmed her with his hands and mouth.  But though he was as one starved, he could not sate his hunger, and he left there there, again lonely and unfulfilled.

Again and again he returned to her, ink upon his fingers and his eyes reddened from sleepless nights as he sought a cure for his own affliction in the great library, and his hunger grew red, and his hands turned cruel, and despite the secrets that lay between them, she turned him away, and he had gone.  He had gone, back to his gardens and his libraries, and the secrets that lay within, and eventually, when the winter had passed and her husband had not returned, the wife of the blacksmith in the next town had died birthing their child.

It seemed fate, and if she had not been overjoyed, she had been relieved and content enough.

And yet, without her will, she had left her new husband's bed, his child sleeping fitfully in its crib beside the fire, and had somehow crossed the miles to climb the hills to where he waited, in his buildings of empty, hungering stone, with his books, and his plants, and his desires and his angers.

Though she had not died, the hunger he had sown within her had consumed him, consumed them both, and she had descended into the peaceful darkness ... until another came and his hungers called to hers until she stirred once more.

Now another had come, and the desires that he had sought to bury deep within called to her, whispered her name, and breathed kisses over her skin until she writhed free from sleep, and eyes as hungry as the roiling seas opened, and a moist, rosy tongue emerged to flick across ruby lips.  The whisper of his name was like the taste of summer wine.

(the king decrees that his daughter must wed - a man of her choosing or of his)

By Royal Edict TAKEN     

The Elishae Barony was the final outpost of the kingdom.  North of the farmlands, to the mountains that lay beyond, savage tribes of goblins, orcs, and other monsters roamed freely, and the wilderness proved a refuge for outlaws and thieves, providing they were resourceful enough and strong to carve out their territory and defend it.  The King would likely have let this northernmost outpost of civilization revert back to the wilds, except that he felt it hurt his pride to relinquish any territory, so instead he granted land title to the most stubborn and resourceful of his knights, and wed him to the most stubborn and willful of his daughters, and sent them to take charge of the keep and keep the King's Road open through the mountain pass into the neighboring kingdom beyond the wilderness.

Now, thirteen years later, the Baron is dead, and Kayelle, the Baroness, is without heir.  Kayelle believes herself perfectly capable of maintaining the barony alone, but her father, the king, does not agree.  It is his command that she must choose a suitable man or he will choose for her.  The man who will become the next baron must be strong enough, ruthless enough, or clever enough to hold the kingdom's land against all threats - including those from within, and pledge his loyalty to the King.

The candidate for the next Baron could be a noble, a soldier, perhaps a clan leader from one of the primitive but strong nomadic peoples to the north, or even one of the brigand leaders who decides that possession is 9/10ths of the law.


Kayelle is 30 years old, and her marriage to the first Baron was decidedly unsatisfactory.  Her first husband's taste did not run to women, and they kept this secret through ten uneasy years of blackmail and manipulation, and it is (very quietly) rumored that her husband's death might not have been accidental.   The people of the barony, however, seem to be sympathetic to her more than resentful, and their only concern over the baron's death is that it leaves them vulnerable. 

Kayelle intends to make certain that her new husband, and her people's new leader, has both the ability to rule and appetites as strong as her own -- and what the king doesn't know (until it's too late) about how she makes her choice won't hurt him. 

SINS OF THE FATHERS - (Sir Wolfgang)
(a young warrior & her guardian return home to find her father dead)

Sins of the Fathers          
(*with thanks to marauder13 for providing the plot bunny)

It had been over five years since since she'd seen her father.  Two messages, painstaking lettered, had reached her the first two years, one arriving just before her seventeenth birthday, and the other just after her eighteenth.  He had not been a man of words, her father, and Eiledon had known that it pained him to have another, even a trusted friend, set his thoughts to paper.  She treasured them all the more for the love that was in the doing, even if the sentences were little more than the chronicles of a rural village elder who worked alongside his neighbors and friends to keep them fed, and fought at their head when danger threatened.

She had wanted to come when half a year had passed from her nineteenth name day, but when her twentieth birthday had come and gone, she accepted that her journey would serve no purpose.  Cadeyrn of Arthfall trod the familiar stone paths of their homeland no more, and the world was a colder place for his passing.  The proof of this is that no word reached her of his death, and though the vows she had taken to learn the art of the blade from the Scathachans required a withdrawal from the world, they demanded neither secrecy or the severing of ties.

She had last embraced Cadeyrn at fifteen, when he sent her off in the company of the man who was to be her guardian until her training was complete.  At sixteen, she had entered the training hall, and except for sanctioned training exercises in the company of her teachers, she had not left it until she had received the Scathachan mark upon her shoulder at twenty-one.  Her training was complete, and she was free to pursue her own course into the world, either forward or back.

There was no choice.  With her guardian at her side, though he was no longer bound to her by oath with the completion of her training, she had come back to Arthfall to discover her father's fate.  Midway thru Caegan Pass, she had found it - a simple stone marker bearing his rune mark and the season and year of his passing.  By rights, he should have been laid to rest in a cairn of stone, a place of honor to mark his years of leadership and his deeds in battle.  The tiny, insignificant marker was, at best, an insult.  Eiledon's eyes blazed almost as brightly as her hair as she stood there in the snow, overlooking the lands that Cadeyrn had protected from threat and guided to as much prosperity as the winters would permit, and she hefted the blade in her hand.

She knew there were things that her father had not told her, such as why he sent her to the Scathachans when he disapproved of women devoting their lives to the blade in the manner that the Sisters demanded.  She had seen the secrets in his eyes, felt it in his arms as he had embraced her, in the gentle press of his lips upon her forehead when she had left.

Now she was home, and the keeping of secrets was done.  She would have the truth, and unless there was good reason for this outrage, she would see the insult washed away in blood.


Looking for someone to play Eiledon's guardian, a warrior in his late 30's or early 40's, who had agreed to become her guardian in Cadeyrn's stead while she trained with the Scathachans, an order of warrior women who forswear the raising of a family for the blade.  Those who survive the training generally go on to become warriors of note, either as mercenaries, in armies, or become protectors of some village or area of their choice.

He would not have had much unsupervised contact with Eiledon during her training, and would have seen her grow from a young lass into a determined woman, skilled with her blade but with little practical experience being on her own.  His reasons for accepting the task are his own -- either tied into the backstory of secrets that I'm envisioning or not.

The story itself is negotiable, but I'm thinking that Eiledon is not Cadeyrn's daughter at all, but maybe his granddaughter instead, the child of his daughter and some evil practitioner of the dark arts.  He hid her away far to the north, and sent her to learn the blade in an effort to give her the skills to resist her true father should he ever find her, as well as to ward off her developing any tainted magic of her own.

The relationship between the two is also negotiable - preferably it would be one that would generate some sexual tension and such which is always fun.  That leaves room for a whole lot of dynamics in most any direction.

(An unusual gift draws a strong-willed general into the realm of a succubus with a lesson to impart)

That Collar Suits You, My Dear      TAKEN (arkhos)

Alaric Bregard (or choose any name that fits your fancy) has been the king's most trusted bodyguard for fifteen years.  He has killed, he has trained dozens of men in the skills of a warrior, and in the field and in matters of security and war, his word is second only to the king's.  He is respected, and he is feared.  Women come to his bed almost at the snap of his fingers, and he has aided more damsels in varying levels of distress than he can remember.

For his 38th birthday, the king presented him with two gifts -- one, a fine stallion of remarkable lines and fire, and another that the king had given him in private - a wooden box locked with a key of black iron.  The king had seemed somewhat amused by the gift,  but had refused to say more -- only that he should open it in private that night, and not a moment before.  It was, the king said, the key to unlocking his greatest desires.

In the celebrations of the day, he had wondered what the king had given him.  He was known to be the giver of excellent gifts to his friends, and Alaric was sure that his gift was something special. Finally, Alaric was able to leave his comrades behind and return to his quarters.  He used the key to open the box, and found that it contained ... a leather collar attached to a long chain of silver links.  Alaric had been around things of a magical nature long enough to recognize the hum of power.

It was, to say the least, a most unusual gift.  Why, then, did he feel so drawn to fasten the collar around his neck and to stand before the full length mirror to see how well it fit?


The hero in the story should be a strong man used to making decisions and giving orders.  Sexually, he has taken his pleasures where he wished, but ultimately as his lovers looked to him to take charge and fulfill their needs. He is used to the dominant role, but over the years it seems that he has turned to dominance as a way to keep his lovers distant and disposable.

When he dons the collar and stands before the full-length mirror, it will open a portal into a magical realm where the collar's owner, Sabeth, a powerful succubus, waits to instruct her new slave.  The magic of the collar is such that once donned, it will compel the wearer to do what his mistress commands, no matter how much he struggles against it.  From the moment he dons the collar and stands before a mirror to the cock's crow the following morning, he will be her slave.

Will he flee back to his responsibilities and command, or will he crave the taste of submission's wine, returning to sip from its glass in stolen moments, or lose himself in heady surrender?  Will his desires lead him to doom, or freedom such as he has never known?


Details of the two characters are negotiable, but this is probably best suited for someone who wants to dabble in a bit of guilty pleasure dominance and bondage.  The succubus will be firm, but rarely cruel, and she has no desire to break the collar's wearer, but rather to introduce him to the pleasure of surrendering control.

(a devotee of the Morninglord and a medium in a haunted house)

Ravenloft: A Laying of Spirits TAKEN (TheBlackRider)

Stamford House stood for many years just outside the small hamlet of Idlethorp, home to a minor but distinguished branch of the Godefroy family.  The family made their wealth in trade and investments, but preferred to remain away from the temptations and dangers of the larger cities.  The local Godefroys became known for their hospitality and lavish parties, attracting gentry from the surrounding areas.  The last Godefroy to live in the house was Albert Godefroy, a widower with two beautiful twin daughters, Lene and Alys.
The two girls were inseparable, and as like in some things as two peas in a pod even though as they grew, their ordinary brown locks of both girls gradually changed in color until one was as dark as night, while the other's was light as the dawn.  Lene, the dark-haired child, was said to be smarter and more impetuous and temperamental than her sister.  Alys was slower of wit but possessed of a more gentle and generous nature.  Both were well liked in the community.  It was agreed that both girls were likely to make a fine match, and perhaps return this branch of the Godefroy family to a more prominent position.

The stories aren't quite clear on exactly what or who came between the two girls - a silly disagreement blown out of proportion or possibly jealousies over a man.  Shortly before the Tragedy, something had caused a rivalry between the two to form.   The discord between them quickly escalated, much to the dismay of their father. He determined that the best course of action might be to separate the two as quickly as possible until time and wisdom had cooled their tempers.  The girls were, after all, somewhat past the age most girls of their station married, and many advised against indulging them for too long.  To that end, he organized a house party.  The guests included a few ladies of respected families and eligible gentlemen who he thought would make suitable matches.  Unfortunately, he was called away to the city on urgent business, and left his daughters to entertain the guests with his trusted butler and housemaid acting as chaperons.

When Albert Godefroy returned, he found a horrifying sight.  His daughters and guests were seated at the dining room table in the great hall, still dressed in their finery and all quite dead.  Of the servants, there was no sign at all ... and no explanation for what had happened, though some who had assisted in funeral preparations whispered 'poison' because of the twisted expressions of agony upon the poor unfortunates' faces.

He buried his daughters in the family crypt,  and made arrangements to transport the bodies of the dead back to their families,  save for the body of one lone gentleman whose origins remained a mystery.  Albert assumed that this man, as he was dressed in noble clothes and appeared in all respects a gentleman, was a friend of one of the other guests.  His body was interred in the family crypt, in the spot nearest the door so that once identified his body could be reclaimed by his family once he was identified.

Albert then locked up the house with all its contents and departed.  For a while, he hired locals to keep up the place, but eventually the funds stopped coming, and Stamford House was deserted.  The mysterious man remained (or so it was supposed) in the Godefroy family crypt.  The locals gave it a wide berth, and legends and stories about ghosts and demons kept all but the most curious at arms length. 

And so it stood, until a suited, official little barrister appeared at the home of Hilda Godefroy, a foundling whose surname was merely a courtesy given because of the locket she had been wearing when she was found upon the doorstep of Heinrich and Freda Darling.  The childless couple, who were fervent practitioners of spiritualism, took her in despite the odd circumstances, convinced that the spirits had sent her to them for a reason.

Hilda Godefroy has recently come to the village of Idlethorpe to claim her inheritance, Stamford House, a small estate not far from the village that has been left abandoned for more than a generation.  The villagers believe the house to be haunted, but Hilda is not deterred.  She claims to be a medium, and has impressed some of the locals with her talents.  She has implored the mayor of the village, who claims some influence in the surrounding lands, to spread word amongst his contacts for a suitable adventurer to accompany her to Stamford House so that she may attempt to rid the house of disturbing spirits.  Her partner would be responsible for guarding her physically while she attempts to free the trapped spirits, and/or possibly have a more active role.

A budding divine exorcist, a paladin, or other fighting type would be an ideal pairing.   The storyline would involve some NC, as the feminine spirit(s) of the house have been without male companionship for some time.   It would also be good if my writing partner were willing to take on the role of one or more of the male spirits who were originally guests at the fateful house party.

I do have a Ravenloftian twist in mind regarding Hilda, but it's flexible.

(an inexperienced ranger makes a bargain with an ancient guardian in exchange for her life)

Birth of The Huntress  (Taken - Kyrsa)

Needed: a creative partner to take on the part of the powerful denizen in the below tale, who will first teach and then accompany River on her First Hunt (a series of 3 individual hunts spaced out throughout a year)

Requirements for the denizen are:

  • Humanoid, or capable of taking human shape
  • Lawful Neutral or Lawful Evil
  • Thrills to the Hunt
  • Enjoys Bargaining

Details to be worked out with potential partner:

  • Creature Type & Nature
  • Details of the Bargain

The Blackhills Mountains were a place of fearsome reputation.  On the edge of the frontier where human cities and settlements were few and far between and at the mercy of both fierce winters and the wild denizens and abberations left over from the collapse of the empire during the magic wars of eight generations previously. Amongst the favorite stories of the Blackhills were those involving The Huntress, a dark and mysterious ranger who punished those who thought to hide their evils in her Wilds.  There were those who whispered that they had seen her, weaving like a shadow through the trees, lurking at the edge of towns, and even drinking alone in dark corners of disreputable inns.  These sightings were often accompanied by the disappearance of some monster in human skin, much to the jubilation of those who had lived in fear for their lives and loves.

This is the story of how it all began ... the betrayal and bargain that turned the Huntress from simple ranger to the voice of vengeance in the Black Hills.

When River Ashland overheard the men discussing their need for a guide to the ruined castle in the mountains, it sounded like the perfect way to earn enough gold to see her through the coming winter, when paired with her skills at hunting.  She had been on her own for only a couple of years since her Ranger father had died, and though she loved the wilderness and her independence, it had been a difficult struggle.  Aside from many good memories and the things he had taught her, the only things she had left of her parents was the small house they had built, good memories, the bow her father had made for her, and the small silver amulet that her mother had given her shortly before her death.

Her father had said that she had the making of a good ranger, but unfortunately he had been killed before her training had progressed very far.  Still, she could track, she could hunt, and she was getting better with her bow every day -- and, in this case best of all, she knew the forest and the mountains themselves. She had never approached the old ruins any farther than to study the crumbled outer walls, but she knew where it was and she knew the pitfalls between there and town.

Thinking of her limply dangling purse, she approached the men and asked if they needed a guide.  Though she hadn't liked the look one of them gave her, but the other two had reined him in quickly.  As it turned out, she should have followed her first instinct.

They'd been on the trail for only two days when Boris made his move, cornering her against a tree when she'd gone from camp to get water.  River refused him, first politely and then with a right cross against his jaw.  He was furious, but Jared and Bram both told him to knock it off when she'd explained what had happened.  Neither one of them had been especially solicitous, and had subtly mocked her lack of friendliness -- but at least it stopped.  When they got to the castle and started exploring, the small group of adventurers found out that the castle might be in ruins, but it wasn't empty.

When the group encountered the castle's master, a powerful creature who was obviously beyond their power to stand against, the necklace given to River protected her, but the protection didn't extend to her three companions. The three men offered River to the creature in exchange for being allowed to leave with their lives, and one of the thief's drugged darts sealed the deal.  "We'll give you the girl if you let us leave alive."  This was the last thing River heard as her legs gave way and her vision dimmed, and the last thing that she saw was the creature's gaze following her fall, and the sound of his agreement.

When she woke again, the men were gone.  She was wrapped in rich cloth, and in a small luxuriously furnished chamber that she judged to lie within the heart of the fortress ruins.  A fire burned in the fireplace, taking the edge of the chill.  The skin beneath the amulet she wore tingled painfully. Slowly, she raised herself and pushed aside the thick, dusty tapestry that enclosed her.  A soft sound of movement let her know that she was not alone.  With dread, she turned, and stared into the face of her captor.

She licked her lips, noting the hesitation in the creature's movement, as well as the intelligence and hunger in it's ... his ... eyes.  "You don't like this, do you?" she asked softly, reaching up to touch the amulet.  "That's why you wrapped me up to bring me here."

That didn't make her safe.  She could see her own death in the monster's eyes, and suddenly she was angry.  She was not angry at the one who would kill her, but rather the ones who had bargained for their lives with hers.

"You like bargains?  Well, I'll make a bargain with you ..."

HELD FOR RANSOM (marauder13)
(a bitter rebel gets her hands on the kingdom's prince)

Held for Ransom   (TAKEN - marauder13)

For forty years,  the coastal kingdom of Suneth has been ruled by Gareth the Black, a king whose rule began as just, if harsh, and has slowly deteriorated into despotic tyranny.  Rebellion has been growing slowly, despite the harsh penalty, with the Jomandar – fighters for justice in the old tongue – adding to their ranks as it is now impossible for a Sunethite to wake up in the morning without violating some law or other, and the application of laws now depends on the king’s desires and whims.

The king’s greatest source of discontent is the fact that all his wives and all his mistresses have produced only one son, and only two daughters who have been married off to secure alliances with neighboring kingdoms.  As Gareth is now in his 60’s, the likelihood of him producing another is faint indeed.  The hope of his immortality lies in his son.

And now, through happenstance, accident, fate, or something else entirely, the prince has fallen into the hands of the Jomandar.  It falls to Viveca Rouge, specifically, the leader of a particularly troublesome band of rebels, to make the most of this unlikely circumstance and perhaps win freedom for some of those languishing in Suneth’s prisons awaiting execution in exchange for the prince’s return – or perhaps  eventually forge new alliances that will bring a new and better day to all of Suneth as Gareth’s reign is brought to an end.

This story has more potential to be darker than my usual fantasy story, but it does not have to be.  I have left the premise purposely vague, as it can be modified to fit the preferences of the prince’s player, if anyone is interested.

Viveca has seen a lot of cruelty – senseless imprisonments, floggings, barbaric punishments, and women used as chattel, and I imagine she has some history of being used herself.  She is not going to be pleasant to the imprisoned prince at first, and she is very aware that she has the upper hand for the moment.   Arrogance and threats would be met with her fist or boot, or possibly being chained hand and foot until he learns some manners. 

The relationship between the two characters is also left open – the sexual element might begin with antagonistic desire, or maybe Viveca giving in to her desire to teach the prince a lesson, maybe showing him what it’s like to be totally under someone else’s power, even if it’s a much gentler version of what some of the king’s nobles practice.  It might also be that the prince is a much nicer man than his father and the relationship takes another form.

In any event, this will not be a story about torturing or breaking the captive prince, and nor is it a good fit for someone wanting to play a very submissive character.  Such a character would probably have been killed by his father long before falling into Viveca’s hands.  Any submissive tendencies would have needed to have been sublimated – and while I would be open to having them come out in the story, I want it to fit with the backstory.

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Fandoms / Pseudo-Fandoms

Old Plots - not actively seeking, provided for writing sample only

Dragon Age: From the Ashes of Betrayal - OC/Alistair
From the Ashes of Betrayal  [Siobhan Cousland / Alistair after leaving Ferelden & the Gray Wardens

Siobhan Cousland stood on the deck of the Broken-Beak Gull, heedless of the salty spray that stung her face and eyes.  In the distance, the looming cliffs of Kirkwall, half hidden by roiling fog and the misty rain that fell, broke the vision of gray waves against gray sky that had been before the vessel on its journey upon the Waking Sea.

The first two days, her stomach had clenched in knots as the waves had, or so it had seemed, hurled the ship from one breaker to the next, and she had been able to do little other than drag her body from the railing to the narrow bunk with the taste of bitter bile in her mouth and little sense of which way was up.

It had almost been better that way.  The sickness had driven memory and thought from her, save for bits and pieces of dreams of the path she had traveled, from the sight of her father's blood painting the storeroom floor of the Cousland ancestral home, to seeing Daveth lying at her feet with Duncan's empty condolences pouring out like a dark mist even before his body had stopped twitching, to looking into the face of evil and hearing its song cojoling her to come to it, to join its beautiful darkness, to the glimpse she'd had of Loghain mac Tir's contorted, determined face as he shoved past her and drove his blade into the archdemon, to seeing the ugliness that lay beneath the illusion of beauty as the tainted power surged into him and bore him to the Maker's final judgment. The dreams had been with her since the Joining, in one form or another, but the new knowledge she possessed had stirred them like a stick taken to a hornet's nest.

She had not dreamed of him at all since he had departed, and each time her thoughts had strayed in that direction, she had found something to occupy herself into exhaustion.  Since becoming a Gray Warden, she had learned discipline, and it had served her well.  Since Ignacio's 'friendly warning' had been delivered to Soldier's Peak, it had been a struggle to keep her thoughts from straying, and now she could no longer allow herself the luxury of remaining behind fortified walls now that the moment of confrontation approached.

"I don't want anything do do with this place or any of you people ... ever.  I swear it!"

Though the entire event had taken only minutes, it had seemed like a lifetime.  She could hear the pounding of her heart, and feel the empty knot in her stomach, much in the same way she had when her father had given her to the Gray Wardens to save her life and to make justice possible.   The echoes of other conversations swirled in her head, words of duty and responsibility that she had taken into herself and believed, made part of herself as surely as she had made him part of her in the woodsmoke scented shadows at the edge of her camp.  She didn't remember what she had said, some protest as meaningless as a traitor's plea for mercy, but at his reply she felt something inside herself shatter and flutter away on the winds of the coming war.

"I had these dreams ... they don't matter now.  Take care of yourself."

Anger burned away the pain, and she had embraced it.  Through the battles, many a darkspawn had worn his face. She had sliced through the memories a hundred times, and she had thought it might have been enough.


When the letter had been delivered, she had gone first to Zevran.  He had an instinct for people that she'd never quite mastered, and above all, he'd been the one who hadn't left when the blight was over.  Wynne had departed with Shale, on some foolish request for the dwarven golem to become flesh again, Leliana had gone back chasing some cloud-fluffy vision of flowers without thorns and people who didn't use and kill each other over trivialities.  Sten had no doubt delivered his answer to the Arishok, probably before he handed the best of Nan's cookie recipes to the Qunari bakers.  Morrigan was probably off looking to start another blight so she could get a second chance at having her very own darkspawn-godling, and Oghren and Felsi were about to get married (if they didn't kill each other first).  Zevran had stayed, and though he often went off on business of his own, he always seemed to make sure she knew where to find him should she need him.

Alistair's name had not passed between them in the intervening time between the Landsmeet and when she sought him out.  He'd almost asked once, as they'd traveled to Denerim with their rag-tag army marching behind, but when she'd regarded him steadily over the glint of her sword in the firelight, he'd changed the conversation to an inquiry about her childhood.  There had been other times that she'd seen the questions in his eyes, but they had never traveled to his lips.  That was one of the good things about having Zevran as a friend.  He understood that some questions were better left unasked.

"Are you sure, my Gray Warden?  I had thought you had decided to let sleeping dogs lie, no?  The Crows have given their pledge to you, and I do not think Ferelden's treasury has yet recovered enough from the deprivations of the Blight to tempt them away from it.  The queen will not openly openly betray the Hero of Ferelden, surely."

It hadn't come as a shock to her that Anora's gravest concern was securing her power - she'd always thought Ferelden's queen was at heart as common as one of the Pearl's cheapest whores.  Loghain, as mad and twisted as he'd been, had been driven by a purpose greater than wearing a crown.  Anora's sleep was probably no more peaceful than her own, but instead of archdemons, darkspawn, and betrayal, she dreamed of rightful kings coming snatch the crown from atop her head.  Siobhan wondered if that was because, deep down, Anora saw beneath the mask she wore.   

Whatever the reason, it was not in Siobhan to find a convenient distraction to occupy herself.  She'd avenged Howe's betrayal -- and she wouldn't sit idly by while the remainders of Maric's family were hustled off to oblivion.  Good king though he might have been, he certainly hadn't made any effort to keep his trousers buttoned, nor had he stepped up to accept responsibility for his pleasures.  Family deserved better, and she wasn't about to sit by and see one destroyed by another's ambition ... whether the Gray Wardens, the Queen, or anyone else liked it or not.

Dragon Age: Chains that Break - OC/Fenris
Chains that Break

The first letter had arrived shortly after the war began.   It had been delivered by one of Varric's sources, the same one who had seen to the delivery of his letters to Varania when he had hoped that discovering his past would fill something of the void inside.  It went, unopened and unread, into the fireplace, and Fenris watched it curl and melt away almost without blinking.   It was oddly silent, but he thought he could feel the burgeoning tides of war spreading throughout the land, a war he had helped start out of friendship.

The second letter caught up to him in Amaranthine, where he and Bethany had traveled upon Isabella's ship.  He wasn't sure why he had offered to make the journey with Hawke's sister, but the things that had made him regard Kirkwall as a potential home were gone, burnt and blown away like ash.  This letter, he had held in his hands, turning it over and over a dozen times before surrendering it, unread, into the flames.

He'd thought that would be the end of it ...

"You're Fenris, aren't you?  Leto?"

The woman had been staring at him, despite the fact that she'd turned away each time he looked in her direction.  He'd thought it was the lyrium markings, which he refused to cover, or simply the fact that the sword he bore was remarkable even for such turbulent times.  The name pierced through him, though aside from a slight stiffening, he didn't show it.    He half turned on the wooden bench, his face like stone.   He was tired of running.

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Historical / Alternate History Plots

Current Plots Available


Prohibition era -- love, lust, betrayal

The Gangster's Moll          RESERVED FOR FUTURE PLAY

Patrice Riley never had a choice.  When Johnny Poniske, aka 'The Banker' came to collect on her father's debt, he decided to take her in lieu of some of the interest.  He also had his his mug break some of her father's teeth and a couple of ribs, just so that everybody knew where they stood and didn't have any ideas that he was getting soft.

That was fifteen years ago, and Patrice has been with Johnny ever since.  She's not his only girl, not by a long shot, but she's his constant, his confidant.  She's made herself useful in a few tight spots, steered him in the right direction and proven more than once that she understands the angles in the world he lives in.  He provides a swell apartment for her, and an allowance that keeps her looking like he likes her to look.  It's a life, and in some ways it's better than she would've likely had.

The problem is that she doesn't like Johnny, and never has.  She's never pretended to like him, and maybe that's part of the fascination.  Despite his sophisticated airs, Johnny didn't come from any better place than Patrice did.  He just likes to put on a show.  He keeps tabs on Patrice, but that has waned somewhat during the years.  What hasn't changed is that Johnny doesn't let anyone walk out on him, and he also doesn't let anyone take what's his, either.  And, until he says different, Patrice is his.

What she does like and want ... she doesn't really know.  She can't see much sense in dreaming, and she does what she can both to prepare for the future and make sure that she comes out as close to the top as she can.   If she ever has the chance to get out from Johnny's thumb, so long as it doesn't involve shoving her back down into the world of living hand to mouth, she's probably going to weigh the odds, long and hard, against taking it.


I'm looking for someone to join up with Patrice to take Johnny down.  There are a lot of ways this could go, from a darker tale of treachery and vengeance to a more romantic tale, with a handsome stand up guy who wants to rescue Patrice from the clutches of a ruthless gangster. Patrice herself is in her early 30's, tough, smart, and a bit jaded ... but with a softer side if someone breaks through that shell.

Some potential images to represent Patrice:



a spoiled, rich debutant seizes an opportunity to get the man she's always wanted
an indiscretion leads to blackmail

Les Liaisons Dangereuses          Available

Masquerades were always fun.  Of course, since everyone just wore a domino and everyone knew everyone worth knowing, any mischief one got up to 'in costume' was only secret when everybody agreed to keep it so -- otherwise, it was just more grist for the entertainment of those in the know and those fortunate enough to be in their good graces.

Evelyn Montague was a popular debutante, the daughter of a widowed nobleman who thought the sun rose and set in his daughter's eyes.  She wanted for nothing that his wealth could buy - dresses, shoes, jewelry, horses, a fine carriage, servants, parasols, stoles.  In truth, he bought her friends as well, indulging her entertainments, assisting the families whose daughters were her favorites.

He was determined that she would have the best possible match, not only marrying for wealth, but to suit her own affections.  Yet when she was of marriageable age, there was only one that she wanted, and he had been promised to another and neither her charms nor her plots (and of those there were many) could affect him to break his vow.

She'd never failed to get what she wanted before - and even though there were others who were more handsome, more connected, more wealthy, and certainly more eager for her company - she wanted what she could not have all the more.

A desperate, overheard confession at a masked ball on All Hallows Eve might be the path to her desired destination - and if not, then vengeance will still taste sweet.


Fantasy, Historical, Alt. Historical, Serenity settings all possible.  In fact a Serenity setting might be fun for this story.

The mischief level of Evelyn's machinations could run from the irritatingly smug to refined heartlessness of the original Isabelle, but a slap would be the most physical manifestation of her anger.


two scoundrels team up to track down the man who betrayed them both
From the Mississippi River to Old West destinations west
Pre US Civil War

Swindled                AVAILABLE (again)

Emilie Hulet was the eldest daughter of a French military attaché who spent a number of years in Washington and the surrounding areas, particularly in the Southern United States.  Emilie, along with her two younger sisters, spent many of their formative years either waiting on his return or traveling with him while he attended to businesses and parties.  Older than her siblings by several years, she entered her rebellious teen years without much in the way of guidance and supervision, and it was not long until she had learned how to run rings around the 'stand-ins' her father employed to look after and teach his girls.  Though not particularly 'bad', Emilie was quite good in getting herself in questionable situations and making socially compromising decisions.

Her father, once persuaded that his eldest daughter's actions were having an adverse affect on the younger girls, started looking around for a nice young man to take her off his hands, either from a reputable family in the States or back in France.  Given the girl's lack of judgement and her father's less than stellar prospects, given that he was somewhat of a roue himself, it was not as easy as he had hoped.  Emilie was a very pretty girl, but she had developed a reputation for being both headstrong and too familiar and friendly with the wrong kind of people, particularly men.  However, a suitable match was arranged and she was to be sent back to France to her father's relatives to be handed over to her new husband.

She was outraged, and determined not to return to a place that she barely remembered to spend the rest of her life with a bunch of snooty Frenchmen who would look down on her for her upbringing and her independence.  Instead, she ran off with a charming rogue much like her father, a former soldier and gambler whose promises were always in the future and whose present ran the gamut of rags to riches on the turn of the card, the roll of the dice, or the nose of a horse.  Emilie learned to play whatever part was required, from wife to sister to cousin, and truth be told she reveled in the game almost as much as her beau did -- though the romance aspect quickly palled.  She had an ear for accents, and could change hers to suit the purpose, though she preferred the French of her youth or the liquid drawl of Southern society, and she held tight to the jewels, gifts, and gowns that the charming rogue gave her in the good times.  They were her props, her hooks, and they allowed her to play in the exciting games as they traveled from place to place, often leaving just ahead of trouble.

Despite her disappointment in her 'partner', life was good ... until they booked passage on a Mississippi Riverboat, and her lover made a bet he couldn't cover.  Rather than pay it, he jumped ship ... taking with him Emilie's jewels, her security, and leaving her facing the man he owed a considerable amount of money to ... along with the damnable marker 'handing' Emilie over to cover part of his debt.

The one thing they could agree on is that hunting down that rat and getting back what was owed to them both was top priority ... everything else, including who got the honor of slicing off her former lover's cojones, was up for negotiation.

Sample Post from the previous incarnation:

QuoteGetting dressed in the cramped quarters of the riverboat was always a challenge, particularly with all the trunks.  It took a lot of clothes to carry off the roles of a scoundrel and a scoundrel's ... whatever.  To be fair, Emilie had brought a fair amount of clothes with her when she ran away, but Wyatt preferred seeing her in attire designed to draw attention and distract and when things were going good or he could con a tailor or dressmaker into giving him credit, he was adept at acquiring more ... and tucking away extras in safe spots along the way in case they had to leave things behind.

The sun was high in the sky, and its light streamed into the cabin from the window, and Emilie hadn't bothered pulling the drapes as she struggled with the corset that let her fit into the afternoon dress' tight bodice.  Wyatt, already dressed as he had less in the way of fastenings, came up behind her and took over the job of pulling tight the lacings, his fingers traveling familiarly over the bare skin of her shoulders as his mustache tickled at her neck where his lips trailed kisses.  Emilie was impatient with the contact, his kiss and his touch having lost at least some of their former thrill, but she didn't flinch away.  He would lose interest soon enough when he found someone who aroused his gambler's instincts upon the deck, and it was easier than trying to deal with the fastenings of her dress alone.

She was tired of the riverboat.  Pickings were good, and it had been a lot of fun at first to do her part, flirting with the men, distracting their attention, accepting their often outrageous flattery.  It had begun to pall, though, and she was sick of the damp, sick of the mosquitos, sick of the continual noise of the paddle and engines that ran the boat, and tired of never having even a minute to herself.  "Just the trip up and then back down halfway.  By then, I'll have saved up enough that we'll head for Californy ... a man can make his fortune there in gold alone.  We'll live like kings, Emilie."

Wyatt was, of course, referring to the gold he would bilk from the gold miners and railroad and cattle barons in games of chance.  He was smart, but he got bored too easy to ever really accomplish anything that took real work or complex planning.  He was like her father, and it had taken Emilie some time to see that ... and some time to wonder if this was how she wanted to keep spending her life.  But she'd made her bed, and there was little left to do now but lie in it - at least until she spotted a way out.  And this time, she'd be a little more careful about where that way led.

Since they were there, however, there was simply nothing for it but to enjoy herself as much as she could.  It was certain that if Wyatt wasn't winning, the chances of enjoyment were non-existent, so she'd have to do her part to make sure he won.

Wyatt stepped back and looked at her approvingly as she adjusted the shoulders of her bodice, and cinched in the waist a little more to emphasize her curves.  Her hair was dark as a raven's and didn't frizz out in all the humidity like so many poor unfortunate ladies, and she pulled it back and tied it with a green ribbon so that it framed her face and emphasized her bright green eyes and narrow cheekbones and she applied a little daub of tinted gloss to her lips before spritzing herself with a little dash of violet water.  A gold chain with a heart-shaped locket completed her preparation, and she added only a green parasol before taking Wyatt's arm.

"Let's go check out the bar, get something to eat, and see if we picked up any pigeons at the last stop."  Wyatt flashed her his roguish smile, and she couldn't help but respond to it as the excitement of the game once again lifted her in its swell.

"All right, cherie ..." Emilie agreed, letting her voice slide back into the faint accent of her father's household if only for the one word.  "But remember that the captain is watching you and not me.  You should not have won so much from the Georgia banker - I told you he was the captain's friend.  It will do neither of us any good if we are put ashore in some god-forsaken place miles from nowhere."


US Civil War era, set in the Northern US
a woman with mistakes in her past marries a stranger in a marriage of convenience
(moving into a haunted house after the wedding is optional)

A Hint of Scandal (previously titled 'A Haunting in New England') 

This was first tried as a ghost story, with Lydia and her new husband moving into a haunted house.  The ghost story element, and the location, are negotiable, but I love the character of Lydia and the basic idea.


Lydia Barrons was born and raised just outside of Charleston, South Carolina.  Her ancestors imigrated to America from Italy and England, and had attained both wealth and status in banking and imports by the time her grandfather married, late in life, and by the time Lydia was introduced to Charleston society in her debut party, had achieved comfortable and respectable status.  Of course, it was rumored that they held some abolitionist tendencies and Lydia's mother Annalise claimed to be a Transcendentalist, but aside for the odd discussion or two most of their neighbors were willing to forgive them these eccentricities so long as they did not stray too far from conventional wisdom and maintained their wealth.

Lydia, like most young girls, did not worry too much about such things.  She enjoyed the parties for their gaiety, and the company of other girls her age, and, of course, the charming men and music and dancing.  Even so, she had been influenced more than she realized by her mother's interest in the Transcendalist movement, and had read the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and even Edgar Allan Poe.  For the most part, she did not discuss these peculiarities with her friends, but eventually she found herself in the company of Phillipe Russo, a wealthy young man who had come to the United States both to see the world and check into certain business matters for his family.

It was not long before the gentleman, with his sophisticated airs of mystery, had captured Lydia's imagination and 'heart'.  Her family attempted to intervene, to forbid her to see him, but that only made rebellion flare hotter.  In due course, things progressed as such things usually do.  When it was discovered, Lydia revealed that she was with child - a foolish and desperate act, made with as much fear as truth, in the hopes that he would do do the honorable thing and that her parents would support her.

It did not happen that way.  Phillipe, whose fiance awaited him back in Florence, quickly found family business calling him away - the burned bridges of little moment.  Lydia was given the option of being sent abroad to hide her shame, or accepting whatever marriage her family could arrange quickly, with a respectable man who was willing to forgive her mistakes in return for whatever consideration seemed appropriate.

Lydia chose the second option.  However, by the time the marriage was arranged, Lydia fell ill, and if there was a child conceived in her trysts with her exotic beau, it was taken from her in her feverish dreams.  Even so, her family insisted that the agreement with her husband to be be honored, and at least it was a better alternative than staying in Charleston where the memory of her foolishness to have given herself to a lying scoundrel did not haunt her in every movement and conversation.  And in the period of her recovery, she had had much time to read and to think ...

Before her illness, Lydia had been flighty and and prone to selfishness.  After Phillipe walked away with an 'It's for the best for everyone, you'll see' and her illness, she has become more introspective and less inclined to seek out the society of other people.  The love of books and reading that she had had as a child has returned.  She is still, however, more than a little stubborn.

QuoteDespite her worries, the voyage hadn't been bad.  The storms that sometimes rolled up the coastline in late summer had been thankfully absent and this far North, North with a capital 'N', a touch of autumn was already in the air.  The nights had been chilly, though the sun still warmed the air beautifully.  The captain had said they would be arriving at the port nearest her new home this morning, so Lydia rose early and dressed with the assistance of Nula, her impromptu traveling companion.  Nula, still thin and wan from the journey that had led her to the Barrons family, had not taken to sailing but had preservered to maintain her role with a grim determination that Lydia admired and hoped that she could emulate.  Lydia had insisted that she rest after pressing tea and dry toast on her, hoping that the illness that had swept through her and then most of the household was not now to be inflicted upon her fellow passengers and the ship's crew.

Nathaniel, the only one of her siblings not to have fallen ill, sauntered over to her as she stood at the railing, hands in his pockets.

"I'm going to miss you, you know," he said mildly.  Like her father, Nate had been angry with her when he'd found out, and the harsh words from him had stung more than any of the others.  Even so, he had also been angry FOR her as well, and that, she thought, was what she would remember longest.

"I know.  I'll miss you, too."

"I'm glad you're going, though." 

Lydia turned her head to look at him sharply, her inquiring expression tinged with hurt.

"Don't be a goose, Liddie.  It's just that I think things are going to get worse ... a lot worse.  Rabblerousers in the capital, in the streets and public houses, all of them stirring up righteous indignation and the worst kind of fearmongering.  South Carolina is going to be right in the thick of it.  At least you'll be spared that -- and I've made some enquiries.   Dad did good by you - this Eli fellow is a good man, by all accounts."

Lydia looked around, ensuring that none of the other early risers were close enough to overhear.  If it were only her to consider, it would almost be a relief to have it known and take whatever slings and arrows would be cast and have it done.  If any good had come of this, though, it was perhaps that she understood that it was not just about her.   

"A good enough man to marry a stranger and raise another man's child as his own? Or a desperate man?"

Nate's face was sober, and not without concern, but he spoke gently and with conviction.  "A responsible and caring man.  He's doing what's best to take care of his family and the people who depend on him in a rough spot - and honorably.  And there is no child - I think we can all be thankful for that under the circumstances.  I'd think you'd know a thing or two about doing the right thing in a rough spot after all you've been through.  Eli Connolly may not know it yet, but the best of the bargain he's getting is you.  Just don't go getting your feathers all ruffled and picking out all the worst in the details.  It's a new start, a hand up and a hand out for both of you.  I just want you to be happy, little sister."

Nathaniel, in addition to helping her father, was also a reporter for one of Charleston's two newspapers, The Courier, and it was through his contacts that the arrangement between the two families, and, she supposed, Eli and herself, had been reached.  Her father and mother had been scheduled to come with her on the voyage, along with Nate, but the fever that had delayed them had made that impossible - the infuenza-like illness, though it was the wrong season for it, had not been life threatening for any save perhaps their butler, the oldest of their staff, but it had been dibilitating.  The Connelly family had been courteous and understanding of the delay, but it had been Nathaniel who had pointed out that any further delay would only exacerbate their difficulties and would not be a good start to a new life.  Lydia had found, somewhat to her surprise, that she agreed.

And so there they were,  And after they made port, a carriage ride would bring her to the Connelly's home where she would meet in person the man who would be her husband and his family.  The next day would be the wedding, and then on to Cavendish House, where she and Eli would make their home, and their new life.

She swallowed, forced a smile past the nerves, and nodded.  "Thank you, Nate.  I will be." She wasn't exactly confident of that, but she was determined that she would try.  Something of that must have shown in her face, for Nate smiled himself and reached out to catch her in a one-armed hug as they looked out toward the coastline where her new life awaited.


fantasy setting with a 'Salem Witch Trials' feel
a pagan witch must seduce a stranger who has witnessed the coven's rituals

In the Darkest Night               
The town of Falmouth barely rated a speck of ink on the Northern Kingdom maps.  It was off the main trade routes, the harbor was too small to admit anything larger than the smallest seagoing vessels, and there was nothing that could be found there that couldn't be found bigger and better somewhere closer to civilization.  That's just the way the residents seemed to prefer it.  They raised crops, grew wheat, and sent cattle and dried and salted fish southward during the season.  The people did well enough -- no one was rich, but residents seldom went hungry.  The people took care of their own, and guarded their simple way of life and privacy with jealous care.  They wanted no part of the cities, of workhouses and fledgling factories that were springing up in the more heavily populated south, and no part of the new ideas that civilization seemed determined to cultivate.

Life moved along in Falmouth just as it had done for two centuries.  Everyone knows everyone, it seems, and the corruption of secrets, of anonymity, was a thing unknown.  After life in the city, Falmouth seemed a paradise to one who had fled the city, seeking the purity and simplicity of country life.

Like all things that seem too good to be true, this idyllic port village was no exception.  While Falmouth wanted no part of the corruption of the city, the residents were no strangers to darkness.  In the forest glades and along the cliff tops and beaches, a coven of witches had come to call this little haven a home, and in the mid of night, they practiced their rites in secret, and slowly, the townsfolk found themselves seduced and won away from the light into the darkness.


A midnight walk led the newcomer into the forest, and in the darkness, he lost both his light and his way.  After a time, he came upon a clearing deep within the wood.  There, a sabbat was in progress - and to his horror, he recognized several of the elders and villagers, both male and female, engaged in carnal and blasphemous activities in celebration of some black rite.  There were others who were masked, and clothed in such a way to fire the imagination but not provide a certain identification.

Before he could decide what to do, a blow on the back of the head rendered him unconscious, and he woke at home, though with unmistakable signs of having been out, and a knot rising beneath his hair.


Accusation of witchcraft is a very serious thing, and the town has obviously been corrupted enough that it could be dangerous for him to address the problem forthrightly.  He could flee, but that would condemn the innocents that might yet be saved (or so says one part of his mind).  A part of the man is curious and, despite himself, tempted by what he saw and has since imagined.  Meanwhile, he begins to see glimpses of the darker side of the townsfolk, of the passions and angers and hatreds that simmer beneath the simple exterior ... as well as discovering them within himself.


This is a sample post, assuming that the man in the above scenario was a priest of The One.  (Generic deity used for convenience)

QuoteIsobel walked up the packed earth street, carefully lifting her skirts to keep the drying mud churned up by the passage of wagons from clinging to the cloth.  Her boots, black leather that rose just over her ankles, were already spotted with it, but that was easy enough to clean, and it didn't quite carry the same feel of carelessness and inattention that arriving at the mercantile with muddied skirts brought.  Besides, the air of late spring was already heated, and she welcomed the chance to feel the breeze beneath the dark weave and the ruffled petticoats.  Her forehead was damp with perspiration, and the few tendrils of ash blonde hair that escaped from the pins that held it in a modest bun beneath her hat had already curled with the damp, and she smoothed it back as she swept up onto the wooden boardwalk that lined the small shops.

She smiled and nodded pleasantly to those she passed, her eyes lingering just a bit longer than was proper when she recognized others who had been exalted, but not enough to earn her a scolding.  It was, in some ways expected.  Her husband had gone to The One ... or another destination ... almost two years previously, and even those who did not follow the old ways did not approve of widows of childbearing age remaining single.  Already, she had found herself the target of attention, some of it welcome and some decidedly not.

She paused for a few words of conversation with Sadie Brewster, one that showed much promise and who was already under consideration to join the select.  They discussed the weather, the success of the spring planting, and several other inconsequential matters, before the conversation turned to gossip of the most genteel sort.  Isobel was only half paying attention as she thought back to the rites of the Spring Equinox, which she had only observed, and to the coming Beltane.  A small, secret smile lit her eyes and softened the curve of her lips, and she returned to the present as Sadie, seeing the smile but misinterpreting the reason for it, had flushed beet red and was stammering.

Isobel quietly took her hand in an earnest grasp, speaking gently as she smoothed things over, absorbing what she had heard.  Sadie had been talking about the new priest of The One, Father Lancaster, and Isobel's smile had, or so the other woman had thought, seen into the other woman's interest and caused embarrassment and consternation. "My dear, not all priests forswear taking a wife, but I confess I do not know which sect our new spiritual adviser follows.  I had not given thought  ... so soon after Gerald's passing ...  The elder ladies of the congregation will no doubt know - they always do, for they can get away with asking, since none will assume they have a personal motive for doing so."

She patted Sadie's hand, assuring her that she thought none the worse for the other woman's healthy interest, then excused herself.  She had neglected attending the ceremonies since the new priest's arrival, with the best of excuses - tending the Jasper's children while the new mother recovered from a most difficult birth, and then the second year mark after Gerald's passing, but for appearance's sake she should not allow that practice to continue.  She did enjoy the socializing, and the opportunities it brought, and the old father was an extremely amusing and clever man, though half of what he said passed over the head of those who did not share the secrets of Falmouth.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Father Solomon, and quietly whispered, "Father Solomon approaches, my dear.  Compose yourself - you blush quite charmingly and I am certain he will remember ..." Actually, she thought, the other woman should avoid blushing whenever possible - her eyes were a little too washed out already and they tended to water when she was upset, and her nose turned redder than her cheeks.  Still, she'd no doubt make someone a decent wife, though she thought her expectations would come closer to being fulfilled if she set her sights on the farmer Macon, a widower with three children.  Perhaps she should take a hand in that.

She left Sadie to straighten her spine and face the object of her instinctive fantasies, or to flee like a startled deer, and continued into the Mercantile, lifting her skirts just a bit higher than necessary, exposing the fine knitted stockings that hugged the curve of her lower calf for just a moment.  If he noticed, she would, no doubt, have more of an indication of where he would fit in with the others in town.

Taken Plots

High Plains Moon (arkhos)
sheriffs, deputies, werewolves, a missing rancher, his stubborn daughter, & a woman
with a jealous husband and a wandering eye are a sure recipe for trouble in the Old West

High Plains Moon                TAKEN
This is a story that that I was writing with Prince Dirk -- it had its challenges, but I REALLY liked the dynamic going on with Cass and her friend Eva Leighton and the potential friendship/rivalry that was underway. 

The details of the Sheriff and his sons are negotiable -- except, of course, that they are lycanthropes who are preying on cattle and the occasional troublesome rancher, drifter, or townsfolk while the sheriff works on becoming the area's newest land baron.

This LINK leads to the story as it progressed.  I'm not expecting that anyone will want to take it over, but I'm more than happy to re-work it to meet the interests of a good writing partner for a new beginning.

Cassandra Clayton

Cass is no-nonsense, head strong woman with her own ideas about love, life and everything in an era when strength is valued -- except when a woman starts thinking she doesn't need a man to do a man's job.

Eva Leighton

Eva is a woman trapped in an abusive marriage with a man she has come to despise, and she's ready to do almost anything to grab some happiness for herself, even if it means pushing Cass toward a man she doesn't want.


Cassandra Clayton has been doing her best to hold down the Diamond Bar ranch after her father disappeared.  After all, she'd lived on the ranch all her life and worked alongside him and learned everything he had to teach about being a good rancher at his knee.  Despite her best efforts, it was a hard trail to ride, and circumstances and her own ranch hands seemed to slowly be turning against her.  If she couldn't manage the men, there was no way she could hold on to her father's herds.  Without the herds, everything that they'd worked so hard for would slowly turn to dust and blow away.   She couldn't let that happen to his ranch or his legacy, but she was running short on ideas as to how to make it work.

The Sheriff had his own plans as to how to go about getting control of the Diamond Bar, since Cass was too stubborn to sell.  His son would convince her that the ranch needed a man running it, and if he couldn't, there was more than one way to rope a horse.  And all the cattle killings in the area and disappearances of folk who didn't come around to the sheriff's way of thinking would only work to his advantage.
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High Fantasy / Low Fantasy Plots

None at this time.

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🌹🔥🌹   on 'no writing' hiatus    🌹🔥🌹    not available    🌹🔥🌹    formerly 'Briar Rose' & 'GypsyRose'    🌹🔥🌹


Contemporary / Modern / Futuristic Plots


a tongue-in-cheek contemporary fantasy with Randi, an overworked goddess of marketing

Any PR is Good PR?          

Randi wasn't THE god of marketing -- the job had grown so much over the last few decades that there was just too much work for one minor deity -- but she was A goddess of marketing, and one thing you better learn real fast if you work anywhere in the industry is that you don't mess with even 'A' goddess of marketing when she's dead on her three-inch-heel-pinched-toed-blistered feet on the week before Superbowl.

Uh, uh, Sister.

So when she just happened to be resting her tired tootsies in a park fountain and overheard some arrogant, dismissive, cubical rat with too much college and not enough life experience under his belt bragging about his recent cushy promotion in the marketing department and how he was going to 'coast on up' up and have his boss' cushy job before year end, she was just a bit perturbed.

Which meant to say that she hadn't been this riled up since Gilbert Godfrey mistook his godawful nails over a chalkboard voice for actual talent and made her have to miss the vacation she'd been dreaming about through many a cold winter night just to clean up his mess.

Let's just see what he thought after she gave his life a little 'commercial' appeal.  Oh, he'd be pleased as punch when the beautiful, busty blonde in the tight short skirt gave him her phone number because he ordered 'Dos Equis', but just wait until he found himself 'That Guy' who didn't have DirecTV.


Looking for something a little light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek here.  I think even choosing the commercials would be a hoot, and we could even re-visit some of the classic retro commercials.
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🌹🔥🌹   on 'no writing' hiatus    🌹🔥🌹    not available    🌹🔥🌹    formerly 'Briar Rose' & 'GypsyRose'    🌹🔥🌹


Open Characters & Misc. Plots


witch or conjure woman
historical, fantasy, or contemporary setting

Constance Barrons

Constance Barrons was a witch.  She didn't look exactly like what most folk expected a witch to look like, but then again,most people weren't too surprised when the found out she was one.  Maybe it was the hair, that never seemed to be tamed, and braidin' it up proper made her head hurt like imps had a hold of it pullin' it tight like a hangman's noose.  Maybe it was her eyes, which were the green of moss, speckled with bits of gold like some hand had scattered out temptation on water hyacinth leaves to tempt the unwary.  Maybe it was her body, which even under her brown and black dresses defied any spread of age.  Maybe it was Leonidas, her familiar -- a cat as black as polished coal, with eyes that same shade of his mistress' -- or maybe it was something less tangible than any of that, a way she had of lookin' at people like she could see them stripped bare to the bone, beyond what any lack of clothes might reveal.

Most of the time she wasn't a bad witch.   She didn't much care for hurting people, but there were times when somebody needed hurting.  Most of the people around in her neck of the woods didn't mess with her too much -- they came to her when they wanted someone to love them, when they wanted their boss to notice something they'd done, when their wife or husband started steppin' out or a son or a daughter was gettin' in with the wrong kind.  They came to her when they needed some bit of good news for the future to keep 'em goin' when the present wasn't nothin' to write home about.

Some of the things she did were kind of in between helping -- things like contacting the spirit of the departed to find out something that someone thought they couldn't live without knowing, or say something that probably would have been best left unsaid.  Sometimes she gave warnin' of the bad things that she saw comin', even though she knew it was likely useless or just made things that much worse one way or another.

And every now and then, when she felt it was worth the doing, Constance got out the things that she kept locked away, locked up tight enough to resist all but the most pressin' of reasons, and she called up things that put a hurtin' on folks what deserved it ... for those willin' to accept the price.

For those bad things she did, she didn't charge anything for herself, and she paid a price herself in the doin', but that didn't stop her none.  There was a price, though, and it wasn't want she could set.  The things she called up had their own wants, their own needs, and usually ... they didn't give nothin' away for free.  If they claimed it was without a cost, then that was when she advised the needy to hold on tight to their souls with both hands.

Constance would be at home in in most time periods and in fantasy settings as well.   I'm looking for someone in need of a witch to help me tell this story -- starting out with something small at first and potentially growing into a larger plot with a more complex task and villain and likely not starting out with anything too dark at first -- though that could definitely be a long term goal.

If set in a historical or current time period, the location would be the Southern US, Appalachia, Ozarks, Louisiana Bayou preferred.


US Viet Nam era character
a woman looking for something, anything, to ignite her spark
in search of a story with a 'Something Wicked This Way Comes' vibe
Polly Wilkes

  • Backdrop is Southern US small town during the Viet Nam war.   
  • Raised in a heavily religious background centered on fear and 'Thou Shalt Nots' rather than love, but never really felt it, went along because she didn't know any other way. 
  • Smart enough to know that being smart would be another mark of disfavor, unremarkable in school.
  • Vaguely pretty and could be prettier if she applies herself, but that too would be a sin in her father's eyes. 
  • Small acts of rebellion, nothing major, until she gets asked out by someone who normally didn't notice girls like her and coaxed into his backseat.   
  • Pregnant, shotgun wedding, left behind for their families to take care of, miscarries -- no baby.  Isolation.
  • 'Dear Joan' letter.
All the insulation she's used to keep herself from caring, from standing out, from anything, starts to feel stifling, unbearable.   She's ripe for anything that will break the shell, show her an escape, let her feel all the things she's kept damped down.  There's a storm coming, and she wants to walk out into it - and it may pick her up and crash her down, broke and bleeding, or it may set her free.  It doesn't really matter which.


August was always the hottest month, hot and miserable with water hanging in the air so thick that it sometimes felt as if it could choke her on the way down her throat.  The skies offered no hint of forthcoming relief.  They were a dirty, muddy gray that obscured the sun, but only dimly, and heat lightning flickered grimly, almost ominously, as if reminding her storms carried things other than a cooling wind when they came.

Her given name was Polendra Armes, her married name Polendra A. Wilkes.  Only her father used her full name, and his voice imbued it with the weight of his disapproval.  Everyone else called her Polly, when they called her anything at all.  Most of the time, if they were talking to her, they just didn't say any name at all, or referred to her with a pronoun that sounded more anonymous to her ears than personal.

Sweat ran down from her hair, matting the wayward strands to the skin.  The drops trickled like tears, another reminder that she was inadequate.  She should be crying like any normal person, shedding tears, feeling her nose get stuffy and red like a Christmas doll she had once gotten in the Church exchange.  Her father had hated it, called it a false idol, but for some reason she hadn't understood at the time he had let her keep it.  Her hands were sweaty, too, smearing and smudging the ink on the envelope's address.  She'd crumpled it a little, both the envelope and the letter inside.   Part of her had thought about tearing it up, tossing the pieces in the round, dented waste basket by the door, but it hadn't seemed worth the effort.

There were only a couple of paragraphs on the lined notebook paper, written in Andy's neat penmanship.  The letter had traveled half-way around the world, possibly making its way from the paper mill just outside town to some government warehouse located in Shreveport or Atlanta or even San Francisco before being loaded on a boat or plane for places that she couldn't even pronounce --  Quảng Tín -- where Andy'd got it.   Then it had been carried out, amidst gunfire and bombs and who knows what else, making its long, meandering way back to her.  Had he written more than one letter, she wondered, tearing up the first few drafts until he'd gotten it all condensed into the concise formula of repudiation that she'd read? 

The thought made Polly smile, a twisted little thing that held a faint glimmer of humor.  No, not Andy.  He'd made up his mind and then done it, not wasting time on worrying about what might happen afterward.  She envied him that.

He probably hadn't given a thought to what the letter meant to her.  Her father would disown her, no doubt about that, and drag her mother across the street to avoid passing.  But maybe that was one of the great blessings in disguise that he was always talking about in his sermons.  Maybe it was.

Polly didn't really care about the divorce.  He hadn't wanted to marry her, and she guessed that she hadn't really wanted to marry him either.  Her father and his had insisted on it, when it became plain that the busted condom he'd used on the last of their two times in the back seat of his Ford wasn't going to let their sin be hidden under a bushel.   He'd been chosen in the draft, and the entirity of their marriage was a hasty wedding, and three awkward days of sullen resentment.  There had been one more bitter coupling that had tasted more of anger and fear than 'love and cherish' before he'd taken the bus for Fort Gordon.  There hadn't even been a kiss farewell, only a moment of stilted and only vaguely sincere well-wishes under the eyes of family and friends.

He'd gotten out, and he wasn't ever coming back. 

The most she wished was that he'd taken her with him.   Not so she could be with him, not really, but just so he could have left her behind someplace else, someplace new, anyplace but here.​

Halloween Themed One Shot -- Citta di Porte
It's after Labor Day and the first kiss of Fall is in the air.  That means that my roleplaying cravings turn to all things Halloween - masquerades, masks, tricks & treats, harvest festivals, ghoulies & ghosties & long leggity beasties.

I'm looking for a one-shot Halloween themed roleplay that incorporates something of the above ideas, along with some hot & steamy hijinks in the dark.

Now, just because there is no all-encompassing plot doesn't mean that there's no story or character development.   I strive to make all my characters 3-dimensional, whether they are around for an hour in game time or hip-deep in an epic, world-spanning plot.  They have goals, plans, history & personality, whether those things are developed at the outset or in the course of writing.

  • Halloween One Shot - Citta di Porte        

    Legends say that Citta di Porte took its name from the summer palace that a barely-remembered monarch had constructed when he wished to have a place on the edge of his kingdom to hunt.  For some unknown reason, the king ordered that his palace have three doors for every room and that each door must be different.   Craftsmen were brought in from the four corners of the kingdom and beyond, the most skilled carpenters and metalsmiths.   A city grew up around the palace, and every room possessed at least one extra door.

    Eventually, the king who loved doors died and was succeeded by another.  This king did not care for doors, and first one unnecessary door and then another was taken down and the wall filled in, first in the palace and then others followed suit.

    What happened to the doors that were removed is not known, but as time passed, inhabitants and especially visitors to the cities began to whisper about doors, doors that were not there a day or even a moment before.  Some said that these doors led to strange, wonderful, and sometimes terrifying places.  Some passed through these doors, and returned with their fortunes forever changed for good or ill.  Still others simply disappeared.  Certainly some of these disappearances had their roots in the mundane - murders, runaways, victims of mischance - but there were far too many to be explained away.

    And for whatever reason, perhaps because the first door was put up upon the longest day of the year and the first door taken down upon the shortest, the stories say that the mystical doors are most likely to appear upon these two days each year.  Not all stories come from the city itself, but most do.  It has become a tradition that all inner doors are left open in the city on these days, and each year travelers from the farthest corner come, some to chase their dreams, some seeking peace or redemption, and still others seek to trade their nightmare for the unknown.

    It is All Hallow's Eve, the night of the Autumn Festival, and there it is - a closed door where none should be.    There's only one way to find where it leads.


    Unless you're the type of writer who thrives in being dumped in the middle of a story and having to deal with whatever someone else's imagination throws at you, obviously where the story leads should be decided ahead of time.

    This is meant to be a one shot fantasy fulfillment sort of thing, so pretty much anything goes as long as it's in keeping with my ons/offs. 
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🌹🔥🌹   on 'no writing' hiatus    🌹🔥🌹    not available    🌹🔥🌹    formerly 'Briar Rose' & 'GypsyRose'    🌹🔥🌹


About Me, My Writing & My Characters

I mostly play female characters with strong heterosexual leanings.  Occasionally I will play male heterosexual characters, or bi/bi-curious for the right story / writing partner.   Gender of the player is irrelevant to the story -- lord, lady, liege -- it makes no nevermind to me so long as the story holds interest.

Additionally, my post rate generally varies from a couple of paragraphs to multiple paragraphs.  If I have a general length, it's probably 4-6 paragraph range.    However, I'm perfectly fine with responses from 2 paragraphs to whatever it takes to convey the gist of what my partner wants to say.  I'm pretty adaptive when it comes to pace and length within those parameters, and certainly don't need or demand a wall of text -- and I don't always promise one.  :-)

My posting rate varies based on what's going on in my life at the time, but I rarely let a reply go more than a week, and usually only for those stories where my partner has a slower posting rate.  For most stories, it's every 2-3 days, and sometimes quicker.  I'm also pretty good about changing my signature to reflect delays or changes.

I do forum roleplay only – while I’m happy to chit-chat, or brainstorm,  over PMs, I need the ability to edit my posts.  Also, I generally take a peek at prospective writing partners past posts to get an idea if styles will match, and I can't do that when someone writes exclusively in PMs.

Regarding PMs ...  I write some pretty steamy content in the context of my stories/games here.  I enjoy erotic content, both reading and writing, but that content takes place only in the context of those games and stories.  PMs are between 'me' and 'another player', not between fictional entities.  'Briar Rose' is me.  So while I may flirt a little with people I've gotten to know a bit, or greet friends with a virtual hug or smooch, that's where my comfort zone ends.

The Plot Categories listed below are generalizations only, and plots can often be modified for another setting if desired.

Contemporary / Modern / Futuristic
These plots are set (more or less) in the present day or future.  Supernatural elements may or may not be present in the suggested stories.

High Fantasy / Low Fantasy
These plots are set in fictional fantasy-type settings with varying degrees of magic , and bear only passing resemblance to any historical setting.

Historical / Alternate History
These plots are set (more or less) in historical Earth settings, and keep to the general theme of the setting, though historical accuracy is not guaranteed.
In some cases, the setting has been heavily and intentionally modified.  Supernatural elements may feature in some of the story ideas.

Fandoms - Pseudo Fandoms
These plots are based on TV, movies, video games, and generally concern canon characters of some sort.

Generic Pairings / Story Inspirations / Taken or Retired Plots
These are pictorial inspirations, or ideas that have not fully risen to the status of full-fledged plot,
and also a small list of pairings of interest that is neither detailed nor all-inclusive. 
I've also included here plots that have been taken (currently in progress) or retired (stories I'm not interested in taking up at the current time).

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🌹🔥🌹   on 'no writing' hiatus    🌹🔥🌹    not available    🌹🔥🌹    formerly 'Briar Rose' & 'GypsyRose'    🌹🔥🌹


Please do not reply in this thread.
   If you are interested in any of the ideas in the categories below, or would like to contact me for any other reason, please use PM. :-)


Changed Status: to Available for New Roleplay Discussion 3/16/2015

Bumping: Particularly seeking A Hint of Scandal, or story development for Polly Wilkes or Constance Barrons 3/2/2015   (also did some reformatting)

Added: Unforgiven in the High Fantasy / Low Fantasy category 1/27/2015

Added: Constance Barrons & Polly Wilkes in the Open Characters & Misc. Plots category 1/27/2015

Changed: Gangster's Moll in the Historical/Historical fiction category  to Reserved for Future Play 11/07/2014

Changed: A Long Kiss Goodnight in the Contemporary Plots category  to Taken 11/07/2014

Added: Story Inspiration Section in the Generic Pairings / Story Inspirations category 10/29/2014

Changed: By Royal Edict in the High Fantasy / Low Fantasy Plots category  to Taken 10/13/2014

Changed: High Plains Moon in the Historical / Alternate History Plots category  to TAKEN 08/11/2014

Added: The Gangster's Moll in the Historical / Alternate History Plots category  07/25/2014

Player Status:     Not Available for New Roleplay / Story Discussion at the moment  
                                 (preference given to one of the ideas below, or to a similarly fleshed out idea as opposed to suggestions based on just a particular pairing)

Please read my Ons/Offs if you think you might be interested in writing with me on one of these ideas, or suggesting your own.
<a href="https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=286451.0"></a>      <a href="https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=244545.0"></a>      <a href="https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=279617.0"></a>      <a href="https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=245953.0"></a>     

🌹🔥🌹   on 'no writing' hiatus    🌹🔥🌹    not available    🌹🔥🌹    formerly 'Briar Rose' & 'GypsyRose'    🌹🔥🌹