Below are some examples of my writing as taken from various other roleplays that I have participated in, if you wanted to take a look into what you might be getting into if you begin a roleplay with me.
Wil went through the first class pretty smoothly, but he expected as much, given that all he had to do was explain the curriculum for the rest of the year. He introduced himself to his new students, and then spent most of the remainder of class finding out what the students liked to read so that he could better plan some of the side projects. He took time while asking and answering questions to mentally mark students, noting friendships, contributors, slackers, potential problem students, and playing a silent game of matching names to faces, and the students to characters. He selected a snarky-looking boy sitting towards the back of the room as Mercutio, pegged a girl and what might have been her boyfriend towards the door as Legolas and Gimli, then scanned the room for other obvious connections. Banquo, Becky Thatcher, a few others- then her.
He couldn't place a character squarely on her, and as the class went on, he noticed that she went out of her way to keep a low profile; she would participate when needed, but not when it could be avoided. It didn't seem like slacking though, more like she chose what to answer to remain undetected. She's pretty, he thought, then regretted thinking. Pretty enough that she should have the attention of the boys. Maybe that was why she was so quiet? She seemed, at the very least, to be sharp and pleasant when she chose to speak. Finally, the bell rang for the end of first period, and most of the students left right away, while some of the students straggled behind to introduce themselves as Drama Club members. Wil stood up and walked around to the front of his desk and sat on top of it, trying to come off as casual, but likely appearing a bit awkward more than anything, and slid back down to just stand in front of the desk instead.
"Hi there, Mr. Snow, and welcome to Elliot High," chimed an overly peppy redhead guy in a brightly colored blazer, extending his hand fora shake. "I'm Tom Warton, I'm one of the set designers for Drama, and I'm also on Student Council! I really look forward to working with you for the school play." Wil couldn't help but grin at the exuberance Tom showed, so he shook his hand in earnest.
"Pleasure to meet you, Tom. I'm sure we'll do great work together," Wil replied, working his way though the handfull of kids introducing themselves, until only the girl he'd spotted earlier remained.
"It's Sasha, right?" he intoned. "A bit hard to place twenty-four names and faces after just an hour. Are you in Drama?"
Dunan and his men arrived outside of Southdell on the last day of Summer, when the leaves had begun to change, and the weather had grown colder. There were thirty-one of them; he led the men, a ragtag bunch of malicious archers, vile warriors, sadistic cutthroats, and dark mages. They watched the town from the forest for the night, planning their attack. Dunan had sent one of the men in earlier that day, posing as a travelling trader, to gather information about the town, and he had received the full report earlier that evening. As they surveyed their latest target, they took careful note; with so few of them, one mistake could ruin the entire plan, and Dunan would have to flee and recruit more madmen to join him. The men watched, from the cover of the trees, and located the homes of those who looked to be more powerful mages, or more experienced soldiers, and marked them as the first targets. The men however, did not simply look for threats, they looked for opportunities. A large scaffolding stood next to a building, a decrepit warehouse on the outskirts, and any number of other seemingly trivial things that the men could use to their advantage. They watched for the houses that seemed most embellished, prime targets for looting and stealing. Dunan however, kept his eye open for a different kind of treasure.
Slaves were a great luxury in his so-called palace, Briar Keep, and he had a bad habit of wearing through them. Each time he would set forth with his men, he'd take any living survivors back to his castle in the marsh as prisoners, to do his bidding and perform the labor he was unwilling to do himself. It was how Briar Keep had been built, and it was how he had kept the palace running for so long. Strong men, strong women, and occasionally, a child or two, to raise as servants.
The next night, while the Festival of Autumn was in full swing, Dunan's men crept in from the outskirts, sneaking into the houses of those they could, and silently dispatching of them that way. Dunan stood at the outskirts of town, near the old warehouse, with a burning lamp in one hand, and his longbow in the other, his black hair flapping slightly in the breeze. A malicious grin spread across his face, and his lips parted slightly in a sneer, revealing teeth that flashed like daggers.
Alden Crawford was what most folk would call a rake; heir to the fortune of his father, a wealthy surgeon, instead of using the years of medical college his father had paid for in a hospital or practice, he sought to outrage his parents and forsake their wishes. In his gambling and general roustabouting, he met some unsavory individuals, a group of street toughs who went by the name of The Portside Princes, and was soon helping them on odd jobs; buglary, muggings, even a ransom or two. If anyone got hurt, it was Alden's job to patch them back up.
Alden was a lucky sort of hellraiser, well-dressed and well-spoken enough to win over the minds of most who approached him in regards to his dealings, he evaded many an arrest with a careful word or dropped name. He tended to have similar luck with women; his black hair was a kept cleanly in a short, waved fashion, and his pale blue eyes could look innocent enough to fool even the most worldly of whores. His face was clean and angular, with high cheekbones, a striking chin and ever-so-slightly aquiline nose. He was lean, almost bordering on rangy, but his clothes were always tailored immaculately, in a way which enhanced his appearance despite his physically lithe form. He tended towards rich blues and reds in his clothes, and walked with a distinctive silver-tipped cane. His vanity even earned him a nickname among some - the Portside Peacock, but even with a name like that, he still had a propensity for wickedness that would oft show when intoxicated- which he found himself now.
It was nearing dawn, something in the back of his liquor-addled mind told him, and he needed to sleep. Earlier that particular night, he found himself occupying a seat in a booth at the Bash, a dimly lit bar owned by the Princes. He'd spent his night carousing and celebrating with his mates, commemorating a new member of the Princes. Pockets were emptied and glasses were full that night, but in the drunken haze, Alden found himself distracted. Though she wasn't serving his table, he couldn't help but stare at her- a lovely new serving girl, with a face that was equal parts sorrow and determination. He watched her, nearly all night, or at least until he was too drunk to keep track of who was who, and quietly hoped he'd get to speak to her some day soon. Until then, though, he suddenly recalled an urgent appointment with the railing, and rushed outside as quickly as he could to empty his stomach into the East River. After a few minutes of agony, he stumbled back inside, paid the barkeep a bit extra, and promptly fell asleep in the nearest booth.