Where the Wild Things Are.
The land of all the most curious of creations. Welcome to the request thread. Let's get started.
The Rules of EngagementHello! I am glad you have found your way here, through some twisted strand of fate, into my request thread! The ideas are sparse at the moment, but more will be added as new and improved cravings strike me. But first, let's go over some basics about the host of this thread!
1. What do I like in a roleplay? Especially one of the erotic nature?
- No, this is not some lame upheaval of my O/o's thread shot back at you in request thread form. I would just ask, that you make sure we seem compatible before contacting me! Because I certainly will! :)
2. Post Length.
- The black sheep of roleplay. While I do not require you match me paragraph for paragraph, I do ask that you provide thorough details, and at least give me a taste of what the scene is like, and the way the story is going....at least through the eyes of your character. This allows me to better write my own character, and keeps our overall telling of a fantastically entertaining story from being lessened, and turned to ...dare I say it? MUSH.
3. OOC Communication.
- While not generally a stickler for carrying on conversation, I have found that it greatly. GREATLY. Improves a roleplaying experience if you communicate with your partner before and during. This means working out a story BEFORE starting it. That way we both know the direction we want this to go, and have all involved kinks/O's/o's worked out beforehand. Helps keep everyone happy, and avoids disappointment.
Now accepting any ideas! My muse is firing on all cylinders, so please I implore any and all requests!
A Sampler of my writing!
Hoof beats on dry ground. Horse’s whinnying in the summer heat. The smell of sweat and no little amount of fear filling the live air. The sun was setting, the dying light casting a baleful red shadow across the land as though bathing it in blood.
Which might not be far from accurate if their mission failed.
Simon knew he was running behind, and he was never late. The thought bothered him to the point of his hand constantly fidgeting in his breast coat pocket, flicking open his plated pocket watch to check the time every thirty seconds.
28. 29. 30. Click.
It would be dark soon. The carriage beneath him rattles wildly, the horses in full tilt since the moment they had left the encampment. In all likelihood, the war for the kingdom had been won or lost by now. His king….his friend. Was either dead in a ditch or wading through a sea of blood, in search of whatever steel clad body he had to fell to win this war.
Altera was burning. But more importantly, Simon was running late.
He had never missed a dinner that he had promised he would attend. Not once in thirty years of marriage had he broken that sacred vow to his portly wife. Sweat beads upon his forehead as his wrists flick once more, encouraging the horses to greater heights of endurance as they whinny in protest.
The round man reseats himself, shifting his buttocks in search of a position that would provide more comfort to the cramping muscles. Tonight truly was a labor of love, the chance to prove that stewards were capable of more than mediocrity.
Tonight Simon became a hero.
Within his carriage, no doubt resting easy with her contingent of guards, sat the daughter of the man he had devoted so many years of loyal service to. She was like his own daughter, Simon had watched her grow up since she was a wee girl.
And now they fled a peaceful country side that was soon to be torn in half by the barbarians from Ducxiellion. He liked to imagine he could smell them. His round nose gives a twitch in the center of his round face, testing the air for treachery as though his sense of smell could detect what his eyes could not.
The rolls of his neck jiggle slightly, his remaining strands of grey hair flapping in the wind as though the man possessed antennae as well as an impeccable sense of time.
28. 29. Click.
Perhaps an hour of daylight left…he was late.
Simon never sees the arrow that claims his life. The thick shaft of wood pierces his throat from the quiet of the dusk with brutal efficiency, ending a life time of servitude as though some child’s cruel after thought had placed the arrow within the man’s path on this night in particular.
Never again would Simon take delight in a hearty bowl of his round wife’s soup. Enjoy the sight of his two little butterball children chasing each other about the castle grounds…no.
Violence took that from him.
Hector felt no remorse for such an action. The men around him chuckle darkly, prodding their horses with the heels of their iron shod boots to prompt the animals to begin a steady trot forwards. His thickly calloused hands flex within the steel carapace of his gauntlets, flexing the metal digits around the haft of his oak bow.
The mountain of a man slings the bow back into its positon on his saddle, then nudges his horse with his own booted feet. There was a hunt to be had tonight…and he could taste it in the air. He wore no helmet…why should he? He was the hunter…and the now stationary stage coach was his prey.
His massive black stallion clops forward, leisurely strolling its way to the road, taking up a position at the forefront of the gathered men as was customary. Thirteen more months of this…pointless posturing. Then he would be free of his knighthood. Promoted to a minor lord and left alone for the rest of his days.
Hopefully with some backwater keep in the middle of a forest. He would like the quiet.
The men around him bay like hounds, yelling for blood and taunting the shadowy forms of the men still within the carriage. Hector admired their courage. Many would have abandoned their charge by now…perhaps the rumors were true. Perhaps their source was correct about WHO was in this carriage.
If it truly was the princess of Altera…well the world was about to become a much uglier place.
Hector’s face is split by a wide smile, his thick lips parting as his tongue wets the flesh. He swings his leg wide, then drops over the side of his horse, his men following suit as though an extension of his will alone.
He takes a deep breath, then booms out in his deep, resonant tone, “You face a choice tonight! Come out of the carriage, and surrender yourselves…or die inside.” His eyes fill with a menacing leer, his breath coming out in fast huffs of hotness against the flesh of his chin.
His men move forward, surging up in a clatter of armor as they grip the handle of the carriage, preparing to throw the door wide…
The carriage door flies open from within, the men inside having made their choice. They were valiant. That much to their credit. But they were also fools. Three men surge out of the chocked entrance, engaging the five Hector had accompanying him quickly and without hesitation.
They shout, “Altera!” And brandish their weapons in the low light before becoming lost to the sensation of battle….
One of them falls immediately. A prickly faced youth, barely out of boy hood. Shame. His companion roars in anger, striking down one Hector’s men with a fluid overhand that manages to separate his head from his shoulders.
The second of the three manages to disable another of the men, slashing his knee viciously in a parry that never should have connected…sloppy. Hector grunts his displeasure, then unslings his broadsword from his back.
He takes two steps forward, bulldozing the man waiting his chance to jump in to the side as he brings the massive iceberg of metal crashing into the center of mass of the silver plated knight before him.
The Altaran never sees the blow coming. His armor caves like a beetle crushed by a child, his blood chocked gurgle the only sound left to escape his throat as he slams against the wood of the carriage. Unfortunately, the kill pins him with Hector’s sword.
The mound of steel moves forward, lunging into the fray of the remaining knight’s desperate struggle against his combatant. Hector’s man sidesteps, backing away to join his two remaining comrades as his leader takes charge.
Fear. That was all he could see in the blonde haired, wild eyed man’s face. Hector doesn’t even bother to go for a weapon, striding into the man’s overhand swing with the confidence born of experience. He tenses his fist, closing his gauntlet, and punches.
The man’s face explodes in a plume of red. His nose broken in ten different places as he crashes back against the carriage. His hand remains steady on his sword, clutching the pommel as though it would restore his footing…but the man was done.
Hector takes two steps forward…the lantern inside the carriage illuminating his face and allowing him his first glance within….
And he freezes. To say her beauty was breathtaking was an understatement. Though she did take his breath. His frame shudders within his steel body, his eyes scanning her form for several long moments…his heart was beating.
That was the only sign that he was still alive. His face softens, taking on the look of one years younger as he bathes in her radiant beauty…she was marvelous.
A clanking of metal catches his eye, the man rising back to his feet. Hector growls, striding forward and griping the man by his gorget, smashing him back against the carriage before bringing his fist into his forehead twice.
A sickening crunch….Hector turns his head back to the woman within the carriage…and continues punching the man until he moves no more. After a space of a few moments he releases the gorget, allowing the lifeless form to slump against the carriage….
His eyes turn to his men. They were jeering, the lead one stepping forward to peer into the carriage.
“It was true! The little jewel’s in there! What do you say we….lose her for a few hours?” The man’s murderously cruel eyes shine within his head, enticed by the thought of taking something from Hector’s newly found shard of perfection.
Hector turns his head back to the woman within the carriage…because calling her a girl would be inappropriate in his mind….
“Close your eyes….don’t watch.” He states, his own grey orbs going cloudy with what he knew he must do. With a growl of anger, her snatches the fallen man’s sword, going to work upon his own men as he had her guards mere moments before.
Moments pass. Perhaps half an hour. Hector stands with his head bowed, listening to his own breathing as he presses his forehead against the metal. It almost looked as though he prayed. If only he could bring himself to believe in such things anymore.
After a while he raises his head, set upon his next course of action. He strides over to his saddle bag, unwinding a spare length of cord as he then moves to the carriage opening.
“It’s….done. Please come out…” The man’s voice assaults the air with its deep reverberation, penetrating the quiet with necessity. He knew his course of action. Stay with this….woman. His heart tugging at him even now, his mind lost to the sensations of….
What was this?
He was instantly obsessed with her. He wanted her. He wanted her safe, and he wanted her far from here. The Ducxiellion army had advanced by stealth in the night…he had to get her clear. And the only way to do so…was to ransom her back to her father.
The price: His service.
He would make the man an offer he could not refuse…for her.
That was how it always began. The utter silence of night, grasshoppers chirping into the night air with reckless abandon, wolves stalking the grass covered dales of the South Reach. Hunters in search of prey…how it always began.
The old grey wolf, leader of his pack for the last six seasons crests the top of the knoll ahead, peering into the darkness with his cataract glazed eyes, searching for sustenance for the young. He wouldn’t remain alpha long. His son, a pure black pelt with steely eyes chaffed under his leadership…this was likely his last season. While some would be disturbed by such a though, the canine’s mind saw the reasoning behind the young replacing the old…and tonight was a hunt.
He tosses back his shaggy grey maul, howling into the darkness, giving voice to the life throbbing silently all around him. Other howls join his own. They were getting too close to the hills…there were men in the hills. Dangerous, smelly men. They painted themselves in some form of thick ash, smelling of fire and despair and other things only men felt. The grey fang hated men.
The pack begins to close around their alpha, some clutching rabbits, jackalopes, and other small game in blood soaked jaws. His ears lay flat to his head, listening for sounds of disturbance…and finding none. There was the rushing of the wind…as always in this mountainous plain…and the sounds of his pack, jittery tonight, as they pace around the dusty hillock he had called stop at.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
The wind whipped about the valley, strong tonight…as though some angry wind beast was howling it’s displeasure at the grey fangs pack. The force of the gale displaced all of his scent markers, turning the valley dark…save for his rheumy eyes. He brings his maw to the neck of a rabbit, tearing out the fur of its throat before tossing the meat back.
For a moment he felt young again.
Whoosh. Whoosh. WHOOOSH.
The winds around his pack stirred even harder, dust devils visibly whipping into existence, raging at the disturbance of the earth. Tonight could be a storm night. They would feast, then return to the den. His old nose twitches constantly, smelling the blood filling the air as the pack feasted….and brimstone.
His head snaps up, the milky black eyes clouding with primal fear. This was not man. This was…
The sound of exhaling gas followed a second later by the spark of a fire gland brings light to the absolute black of the valley. A gushing river of flame having appeared seemingly out of midair as it flows into the caves men had taken. Ash. Brimstone. Death. The old wolf howls, not his deep resonating beat, but the panicked shrill of a creature in terror.
His sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, betas and omegas scatter to the winds, each leaving a stinking trail of fear as they slink off into the darkness, baying out their terror for the other animals to hear…
The old wolf’s legs quake in their sockets, his eyes turning back to the blindingly bright flash of fire. The caves were awash with sound, men screaming and running about as they burned. He could smell the sickening scent of roasted meat. And the beasts themselves….
There were two of them., scales glittering weakly in the firelight. One breathed fire while the other strode about the ground, twenty feet in height, claws soaked in the blood of the men it was striking down in their attempts to flee the death trap of the cave. Some men tried to face the inferno to avoid the claws…their deaths were slow.
His entire pelt quivers in terror, watching as the fire finally dies out, the creature giving birth to it suddenly gone…replaced by men, striding about with swords the size of some matured deer he had seen near the northern hills. The men themselves the size plus a half of the men they slayed so easily…gods among their kind. The animalistic brain finally cracks under the pressure, sending the old grey fang fleeing in fear…heart pounding out it’s last in sheer terror.
The hulking wingbeats of the approaching dragons grew closer and closer as the huge, scaled beasts of war circled low over the rocky crags of . The capital city of the Draco-shifters…strangely populated by more humans as of late.
Common folk went about their tasks among the clouds with seemingly no care for the return of the hulking beasts…it was just another day among the crags. The same could not have been said in the last century, before the arrival of the world’s fire-breathing overlords. Few of the farmers even bothered to cast their eyes skyward, fearing the ire of their masters…it was easy to be smashed. Easier still to be roasted.
Both of the massive forms circled the spire of Har-Dracon. The only spire that stood to it’s own…the ancestral home of house Novik. They were a clan of strong repute, in favor of the king…and his most trusted warriors. The two heavily armored dragons smash into the landing platform, scaled legs flexing as the massive lizards scramble into the inner caverns, to be swarmed by servants and men of all size and stature as they bathe the creatures of the nights work…the ash of men.
A great rolling tower of robes emerges from one of the many entry ways his brow topped with a crown of the purest gold…the soft metal reflecting the sheens of light in miraculous ways as it reflects every known color of the spectrum about the room. Even more grand was his fingers, the thick, heavily calloused sausages were covered in strange mesh like rings, designed to shift with his form as he….changed.
The dragons in the chamber began to shimmer, one roaring in discomfort, sending a man flying across the landing platform to crash against the hard stone wall, slinking to the floor with a sickening crunch. A small wooden joint, pinned to the dragon’s wing as some form of brace falls to the ground immediately after, to be replaced with the form of a panting man, eyes still darting to and fro from battle.
The hands that were visible from the arm holes in the robes tug at the collar of the robe, freeing one of the many layers to reveal a thin man, who was as tall and spindly as ornately dressed.
“Welcome home my sons! And happy day of birth Hector! I do hope your wing has faired miraculously on this day of exal-“ The man is interrupted by the heavy growl imitating from the six foot six man hulking near the wooden brace, the servants who had been attending him scattering.
“Enough father. The ash men have returned to their roots…the caves of the South Reach are safe once more…” His cold grey eyes kindle from within, as though set alight by the dragon lurking beneath the surface. Without waiting for a reply he strides out of the room, headed in the direction of his rooms…naked as the day he was birthed of course. His kind paid little heed for clothes outside battle…trivial things.
As the hulking man passes, servants instinctually cower to the sides of the stone hallways, ducking into shadows and cover of darkness as though vermin scurrying away from the barn cat. Who wouldn’t move? Not an ounce of the man was not covered by flexing skeins of muscle, his form constantly rippling with tension….an avatar of war among men.
He arrives in his rooms, dressing himself in brown trousers, with a loose cotton shirt. The breathable material allowed the excess body heat he built up to flow outwards…the side effects of breathing fire. As he fastens the ties on the shirt, he appraises himself in the mirror. He needed to shave…and the bathing in the hangers was barely adequate…perhaps it was time he took on a human after all.
With the thought in mind, he sets off to find his father, in search of his prize money from the Ash men raid. Today was after all his day of birth…a time for celebration indeed.
Simeon's eyes narrow at the words. Jotun? Here? He knew the beasts were supposed to stalk the high roads of the realm, but the open crater? Something had drawn it here. And that something had so recently been giving him pleasure. How could he allow something that would draw giants to stay with his army?
And she was planning on fighting it! He had heard the soft yawn slip through the material of the hood, her body showing no other signs of fatigue out of the corner of his eye. Her kind? What was she talking about? Exactly what had they brought him to lead them out of these damned mountains!
Then the vibrations began. Rumbling through the loosely packed gravel hard enough to sake his stallion’s iron shod feet. The horse’s nostrils twitch constantly, the portholes sucking in air tipping the beast off to what was coming long before he could see it. Fearless the animal may be, in most situations, but whatever was coming made the beast whinny, stomping it’s feet as it turns sideways.
“Straight beast!” Simeon shouts, spurring the horse repeatedly as the whatever was coming seems to be getting closer. And then his eyes spot the tops of the massive oak tress inhabiting the valley. Tree’s that had stood for millennium…were falling. The low rumble of deep laughter make the limbs of the bright green leaves rock and shake along their thick brown branches, sending some of the thick trunks smashing to the earth with ground shattering force.
Then came the animals. Deer, elk, all manner of forest creatures. Fleeing the coming storm. The crazed look in their eyes nearly more terrifying than the fact that they paid an army of man no heed, dashing between horses as they bucked and swerved to dodge the fleeing beasts…before fleeing themselves. It was as though a tidal wave was coming, preparing to sweep away all the was Simeon’s.
And then it broke the treeline. The beast was thousands of times more horrifying than the imagination would even allow one to believe, bones sticking from between it’s boulder sized teeth as it’s moon sized eyes scan the collection of men. This…this was thing nightmares were made of. It had arms the size of the tree’s it felled, and it’s torso was as wide around as one of the mountains themselves.
Truly, it was horrifying. Simeon’s horse releases the most feral sound of fear to ever grace the prince’s ears, matched only by the sound of his men’s screams as they began to flee, scattering like Spook had said…seeking the shelter of the low lying caves and holes. Like rats. The prince himself begins to obey, allowing the careening path his horse took to carry him further and further away from the creature…
But Spook was nowhere to be seen. The visor slit of his plated steel helmet was too thin for his eyes to spy her form. He could do nothing….but he knew at that same moment, that there was only one thing to do. “HA HA!” He roars, his heart thundering in his chest. It was the single most terrifying moment of his life…but it was all he knew how to do.
The lance would do nothing to something with limbs like that. Stabbing through that skin? Impossible! And that meant only one thing…he would have to hit the beast somewhere soft. Evil intelligence sits in it’s eyes, the beast gloating over it’s own invulnerability. More than anything, the prince wanted to kill this thing. To rid the world of it’s presence once and for all….and prove to his men just what kind of man he was.
He crotched the lance, locking it into place against his stirrup as the horse begins to gallop faster and faster, the wind rushing through the slit in his helmet. He needed to see for this…his gauntleted hand releases the reins, trusting the horse to keep its nerve as the well trained beast took it’s own lead, overcoming it’s fear as it faced down the one thing it feared more than it’s owners disapproval.
Simeon pulls his helmet from his head, just in time to spot one of the heavy arms climbing skyward, only to come thundering down to earth. He digs his left knee into the stallion, causing the creature to jerk clear of the new crater that smashed the earth apart mere feet to the right.
That would have been him…he could see the exact spot where he would have been smeared into the ground. The thought pushes him over the edge, encouraging him as he stands in his saddle. With one giant roar the prince truly looks like a king of old as he reaches the base of the giant’s feet. Growing closer and closer to the massive toes.
Both hands grip the haft of the lance, tensing as he strains beneath all of his armor. His muscular frame screams its protest, some cords of the built up sinew tearing inside his shoulder as he throws the lance. It was the heaviest thing he had ever lifted. The silver lance weighed over one hundred and fifteen pounds…and throwing it? Unlikely. Silver, shining spear lances through the air, smashing it’s way home in the Jotuns right eye.
The beast roars, the displaced wind strong as a small hurricane. From the gale alone, Simeon struggles to maintain his grip…but then the horse finally had all it could take. With one last sound of feral terror, the creature drops to the side, dying where it ran…and sending the prince smashing into the dirt.
His form tumbles, the heavy armor beating his body to a pulp within it’s thick carapace as though a rotten fruit. Simeon’s mouth fills with blood, his lip busting in multiple places as he stares up…at the raising left foot. One malignant eye fixed upon him…
This was it. He was going to fall in front of his men and the mysterious Spook…and his one regret was that he had not acted on his desire. All he wanted was her…and he had denied himself. The foot promised to end him quickly…he couldn’t rise on his own if he wanted to.
*Spinoff Ideas WELCOME.*
THE FEELS OF THE MOMENT : Seeking single partner to explore a medieval land riddled with war and perhaps even the unravelling of the world itself. Dark characters, where no "good guy" truly exists. How deep will the depths of depravity go and in what state will the characters lives be left in...if they continue to live.
Medieval settings - I am interested in, and have always been interested in Medieval settings! Unfortunately they have been played to death(literally), and as such a particular medieval idea will have to be very interesting to get a (bite) from me! :)
Modern Settings - IN love with modern settings. But the blandness of everyday life must be avoided, there needs to be some form of conflict! Something to drive our characters and give them they push they so desperately deserve to become more developed! Throw anything you have in mind my way, and I'll bounce it back with input!
Fantasty Settings - I like fantasy. So, lets do fantasy together.
- Legend speaks of the old mill. That once it was a place of life, that children played in the grass near the ever churning waters as the men labored inside. There was a time when the townsfolk looked upon the sturdy wood of the building with eyes of admiration, their hands still sore from the construction. But then time passed. The deaths began. Voices spoke in the minds of those entering the mill. Few people would work the tiller, and those with the strength of mind to push the grind became rarer and rarer still. The rumors draw the notice of a team of paranormal investigators, eager to make a name for themselves as they explore the "Haunted" confines of the mill...and the town itself. But is a darker secret at work in Heatherton? Are the murders in the mill truly spoken for...or does the killer still walk among them? (A journey into the darker side of ghost stories.)
- The lands quake from the thundering boom of war. Men die by the thousands in the name of false god kings, who have taken to calling themselves Deathlords. Tamariel, a kingdom that has stood united for two-thousand years stands upon the brink of destruction...something must change. In a desperate bid for the throne, Prince Hermirian Vauss calls his mightiest champions, one male, one female to lead the last army forth into battle. Will the two legendary warriors be able to keep their focus through their rivalry? Or will old fashioned competition bring out something...else...between the two?(A tale of two generals)
- The darkest of fantasy. Exploring the cultures of people who live in the brutal confines of the Bloodpine forest. A place where no set path exists, and every single piece of flora/fauna is looking for its next meal. The creatures within are brutal, bloodthirsty monsters much like the men and women who call the forest home. Open to all manner of beasts, though I would prefer the characters to be human or humanlike if there is to be romantic interaction.The Winds of Winter
- A medieval style roleplay, my thought process for this one would be exploring the dynamic relationship that could develop between two rulers, or a ruler and a competitor's daughter in a world made barren by constant snowfall. The people living in this world would be hard people. Tough folk made tougher by their living conditions. Warlords emerge all the time seeking to take the easy way around claiming things that are not rightfully their own. A violent world, filled with strife and suffering. What could be more appealing?An Office Affair
- My character would be thirty-five year old Dominic Blair, a executive of a highly lucrative law firm specializing in defending those wrongfully accused of criminal acts. Dominic has it all, the body, the trophy wife, the fancy cars, and the cute kids...but what his life lacks is excitement. Which is exactly what he finds within a hot young lawyer freshly promoted to his office. The affair would start off simple, little touches, unnecessary bends and flirting. Seduction; the key to it all. Yet it would gradually advance. Driving by each other's houses, seeing each other in public when one...or perhaps both families are about. This would focus on the heat of an affair, as well as the cost's associated with it.
UPDATED AS OF 8/18/2016 :
Any Ideas concerning a more brutal form of magic that creates tyrants, and godlike figures that shape fate around their very beings.The Big Bad Wolf
- What would the world think if they knew that the tales of the wolf...had been true? All fables are rooted in truth...this story would explore the dark truth behind Red Riding Hood, and her Big Bad Wolf. What was he? Certainly not a wolf all the time. In fact, most of the time he would walk about on two legs...everything perfectly human except his piercing yellow gaze. The beast within Connor Lupchik was only awakened on full moons...and time's of extreme stress. Which is exactly what he found in World War I. Connor, being of supernatural descent, did not age. Eventually this drew the attention of the French Military, who deployed the man as a special unit all to his own in times of desperation...because the wolf had a way of turning on any being with fresh blood surrounding him. Who was in charge of such a beast on the battlefield? A woman dressed in red, as to be easily distinguished. Some would call her Red Riding Hood, other's would call her the handler. But either way, she was there every step of the way as the legend was forged. (Thinking this would involve intense situations, bunches of blood and warfare, Possible Non-con, with a dark romance between the Big Bad Wolf and Red.)