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Author Topic: 🔮 Confessions of a Write-a-Holic - Share My Addiction? 🔮  (Read 2303 times)

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Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

🔮 Confessions of a Write-a-Holic - Share My Addiction? 🔮
« on: February 18, 2016, 11:44:09 AM »

This thread is best read starting from the other end.

« Last Edit: December 13, 2016, 11:56:23 AM by GypsyRose »

Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

🔮 Group Game Musings 🔮
« Reply #1 on: February 18, 2016, 11:46:38 AM »

This is a place for potential group game musings.

Hell's Belles - Daughters of Anarchy 
(a group game concept under discussion with Keira Jade)

The idea, an impossible idea, was born the same day Ripley Russell awoke to the knowledge that her father was dead.  The certainty was as implacable, as emotionless, as the ringing of the telephone that had heralded the news, as was the knowledge that she was going to find a way to bring her father's club back.

Her mother had done everything she could to disassociate Ripley from the biker lifestyle.  She'd been her father's high-school sweetheart, and the fascination of the bad-boy biker hadn't lasted through brushes with the law, rivalries, or the trials and tribulations of the biker code.  There'd been nothing between her parents but bitterness and anger, and by the time Ripley was a teenager, her mother had deeply regretted taking what she'd considered the 'high road' in not destroying her daughter's affection for her father.

It would have likely been pointless, in any event.  Ripley had gravitated toward her father, toward the bikes, toward the bikers and their intense loyalties, intense rivalries, from the start, even before teenage rebellion kicked in.   Of course, the teen years and her mother's demands only intensified those feelings, and the harder her Mom pushed, the more she pushed back.  By fifteen, she had simply refused to live with her mother anymore, and had left 'Rita' -- her given name -- far behind.  Her home was with the families of other bikers in her father's club, or with him when circumstances allowed.

She'd wanted to be part of the Hellions, and in some ways she was, but always in an unofficial capacity.  She knew a lot about the business, both the good and the bad, right and wrong, and she'd done things that she wasn't proud of in retrospect.  It had been the wife of her father's lieutenant who'd sat her down and opened her eyes, in the woman's typical hard-assed but straight forward fashion, who'd showed her that if she wasn't careful, she'd end up being nothing more than some dumb-ass biker's bitch.

Ripley didn't want to be someone's bitch.  If she wanted to be anything, it was her father, but the older she grew the more she started to see that it wasn't possible, at least not in his club or in any of the existing clubs.  They were too entrenched, and even the women who were solid support for their men were expected to put up with a lot of shit that Ripley'd sooner shove down their throat.

After a brief stint in jail for a bit of stupidity, Ripley started getting her act together, and with support from her father, she went to a vocational school, learning both mechanics and some principles of art and tattooing.  She's worked in garages, bike shops, and tattoo parlors, and while she still has views on personal property and responsibility, standing up for yourself and exactly what society should be able to tell others they couldn't do, she found she could get along better in the real world than she thought she could.

It was a good thing, too, as it was about the time she was finding herself that things went bad for the Hellions.  A feud with another gang heated up hot and heavy, dredging up a lot of old grudges from the past, and all the stops were pulled out.  People that never should have been pulled into gang business were, and they got hurt badly, and the police moved in hard and fast.

Even that didn't end it, though.  Her father had known he wouldn't last long in jail.  He'd been able to pass along some information to Ripley, but he urged her to get out while she could.  To let it go, and for a while after his death, she had.

But some old bones, some old longings, didn't stay buried.  They clawed their way out of the ground and started tearing into your skin, so when she got an unexpected offer of help to reinvent her father's old charter, to take the life she wanted and make it suit her instead of changing to suit it, she couldn't not try ... even if she knows there's more to the story, a reason why the chance got thrown at her out of the blue.

One way or another, she's going to find out why, and leave her mark.  Along the way, she'd met others with the same mindset, the same stubborn drive, the same need to cut against the grain.  The Hellions are gone, but that's not what she wanted, anyway.  She wanted something better ... something that took the best of the old and fused it with vision and hope for the future, with little bits of necessity thrown in for good measure.

The Hell's Belles could be a reality.  It wouldn't be easy, but easy was for pussies.  Better die trying than never try at all, and that was the good from what her father had taught her that she wanted to represent.

It was early evening, and the temperatures were just slightly on the chilly side for the season.  Ripley was glad for her leather jacket, and the comforting weight of the gun in her pocket.   It wasn't her only weapon, but it was the only one that was going to get her arrested if she was pulled over and searched, but there was no way she was going to this meeting unarmed.

Both Cabot James and Rodney Fielding had had a long association with the Hellions.  Her father had always liked and trusted James, as much as you could like anyone destined to be a politician.  The quote was her father's, and Ripley agreed with it.  Rodney was a different story.   His father was with the Black Pistons, but Rodney himself had remained on the fringes.  It was pretty easy to see why in retrospect.  Rodney was loyal to Rodney first and foremost, though he traded on his father's name enough to get himself an 'in'.  He and Gabrielle had been a 'thing' back when Gabby was young and stupid, though in truth, Gabby had never been stupid, just horny.

That was something that Ripley couldn't give her friend much grief over, though she hoped that ol' Rodney wouldn't try to use their potential business dealings to get back in Gabby's pants.  This time, he might be leaving his balls behind ... and, hell, Ripley might even help her play ping-pong with them, see if she still had the wrist action.

She shook her head and snorted, and rode on.  They were going to meet up on Joshua Tree, just past the Walking Box Ranch Road, and Ripley was running a little late, as usual.

Cabot James was older, the age her father would have been if he'd still been alive, but there was ab-so-fuckling-lutely nothing 'paternal' about Cabot.  He had been hot enough to melt rubber, and Ripley'd spent a summer getting herself off to juvenile fantasies of the older man.  There was a time or two when she still thought about him when she was in a day-dreaming mood, particularly when there was no steady fuck in her life.  Hell, he was still hot enough to melt rubber, but she was under no illusion that he'd called her up because he was hard up for someone to warm his bed on a cold desert night.  No, when he'd called, he'd been all business, despite the friendly reminiscences of the past, and condolences, asking her how and what she was doing.

Despite his questions, he'd been keeping up with her, and Gabby too.  She knew more or less what he was doing as well.  Bikers were close-lipped, but the little circle of friends, even distant friends, was something they took seriously.  Even without that resource, it seemed that Cabot's political ambitions had only grown, and it seemed like he was getting serious about becoming 'King of Vegas' as her father had once teased.  When he'd dangled the possibility of reviving the Hellions, orchestrating a little support so she and Gabrielle could pick up where their fathers left off, Ripley hadn't given in to her impulse to tell him he was fucking crazy and slam the phone down.

Had it been Rodney calling, she would have burnt his ear to a crisp, whether he was calling from some bar payphone, or one of those fancy bluetooth devices, with her reply, and done it with extra viciousness to make up for the fact that you couldn't slam phones down anymore without cracking the screen.

But Cabot James was somebody she knew to take seriously.  He had a lot of clout, a good bit of money, and a wad of influence big enough to choke a horse.  If he said that it could be done, then there was at least a chance.  Ripley would have rode through hell for a chance to be a full fledged biker -- not just some broad, somebody's old lady, some weekend warrior.   It didn't matter what the life had done to her dad, or that he'd likely been betrayed by someone he held closer than a brother to have died like he did.  It didn't even matter if she died the same way.  It wasn't how you died, it was how you lived, and Ripley had always wanted that life so bad that she'd have risked it all a hundred times over on a chance smaller than Cabot James' word.

That made it the kind of want that was dangerous.  She could see the warning in her Dad's eyes even through the haze of memory, but she also knew that he'd understood.  He'd lived, breathed, hoped, and dreamed the Hellions.  He'd given it everything he had, burnt bridges and every chance at any other kind of life.  "It's like telling a fish that they could have legs and walk on land.  That dumb-ass Disney crap story aside, a fish wouldn't even know what the hell you were talking about to want something so foreign to its nature.  When it comes right down to it, some of us got it so deep inside that there ain't no other way."

Her dad would've understood.

Hell, her dad was probably riding beside her, wondering why in the hell she wasn't giving it more gas.  "Move your ass, girl!"

Ripley's grin was wide as she tore off, no longer concerned that there'd be any cops out here to give a fuck how fast she was going.   Reviving the Hellions -- now THAT was a dream worth anything.






« Last Edit: December 13, 2016, 11:56:42 AM by GypsyRose »

Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

🔮 Ideas Under Development 🔮
« Reply #2 on: February 18, 2016, 11:51:53 AM »

This is a place for ideas that need more development and/or fleshing out.

Name: The Wild Hunt

Content: Quasi NC / Rough Sex

Scenario: The invitation came in the form of a plain white envelope.  Inside was a white card, with only a web address --  The Wild Hunt is an exclusive website, only open to hunters who meet certain physical requirements and skills.  They offer the opportunity for a real, honest-to-god hunt, chase down your prey caveman style and drag her back to your camp and do whatever, for a price.  The catch -- the prey isn't some random girl, terrified out of her mind, but rather someone who's just as keen to pit her skills against yours.   

If you* don't catch her within the allotted time, the money paid is hers, along with bragging rights and a gold star against her name on the members only website that arranges the hunt.  If you do catch her, YOU get the bragging rights, and the sex.  The money is still hers, either way, and she's not going to make it easy.  You have to earn your good time, and your victory.  And, of course, the hunt is streamed live so that your peers will all see your prowess -- and your bumbles.  Whether or not they see the 'kill', which is what the victory sex is termed on site, is hunter's choice, assuming the prey doesn't get away.

*(you) used for convenience, but meaning 'your character'

Requirements: A good writer willing to post once a week, and who would enjoy a good build-up in tension, working with me to create the dynamics of the hunt as well as giving dimension to both the hunter and the setting.

Other Info: This would be a one shot, and degradation/humiliation and bathroom play is off the table.   Real world or supernatural characters, setting can be wilderness or urban, and can also incorporate sci-fi or virtual reality themes.  Character appearance is negotiable, other than she will be athletic and of a sufficient age to have some real world experience.

This is also a bit of a wild hair for me, so it's thrown together in spur of the moment fashion.  I've moved it here as discussion of the idea has shown me that I need to define and better clarify the feel that I'm looking for in this.

Celestine Haversham is the keeper of Baddesly Manor, a remote manorhouse in Soulard, or rather it is her keeper,  for it was obligation and duty, and punishment for her transgressions against the will of her father that had taken her from life at court to the middle of nowhere, to keep watch upon an ancient magic and a choked waterway that could be used only by the smallest and lightest of barges.  The likelihood of prophetic visions granted from the glass, crazed with tiny cracks and spots where the silvered amalgam flaked from the backing, seemed a foolish dream ... but King Alesender was a man who preferred dreams of the distant past to the progress made by science.

Magic, he was purportedly fond of saying, was something that depended up on the talent and will of a man, while science and its vaunted principles failed often as not for reasons that made even less sense.

However she might snort in private, Celestine had learned the value of discretion.

Baddesly Manor, for all its remoteness, was comfortable enough, and there was a village, a small allotment of soldiers, and servants enough to see that the main rooms were kept clean and in good repair.  However, there were few amongst these who could carry on an intelligent conversation, or who had an appreciation for art, music, or literary composition, or could hold forth upon astrology or even astronomy, and for whom the workings of alchemy were incomprehensible, much less to debate the principles of science, of biology or chemistry or engineering.

She was forbidden to leave the grounds of the manor between the hours of dusk and dawn, for between these the hours was when the mirror's fabled magic had manifested itself.  The soldiers, guards of her prison more than her protectors, saw to that, and while they might be swayed to sympathy, they would not disregard their orders.

As there seemed no help for her predicament save the softening of her father's anger, Celestine decided that the best use of her time was to use scientific principles to study the mirror's magic, and learn the workings of it.  After all, should it again produce visions, prophecies, or visitations as it was said to have once done, it would at least bring visitors and excitement to her all too mundane existence.

Christine sees nothing untoward about her faith in both science and magic.  She, in fact, considers it enlightened -- likely due to falling in with some of her brother's egalitarian friends from the university.   Her father, indulgent with his son and considering his beliefs as something he would grow out of -- correctly as it turned out -- was less with her, particularly when she disobeyed his command to stay away from her brother's most interesting, and controversial, friend, Lord Daniel Westcot, a libertine who courted all things scandalous.

She is intelligent, but rather naive and unwise, idealistic.  She is also impulsive, though this a trait that she is trying to improve, without much true success.

Her personality is far too trusting, particularly when she likes someone, though she tends NOT to extend that same courtesy to authority types.  She is a bit spoiled and indulged, even still, though she doesn't see it that way.  However, when interacting with her peers and those who aren't trying to 'corral her', it translates into a giving streak that has been (as wiser heads might put it) been exploited by those who are more worldly.

Celestine - full pic


The world is filled with fog; I welcome its embrace.  In it, I am hidden rather than invisible.  Its cool, enveloping arms give meaning to my pain, and I do not suffer it alone.  The fog is my servant, my master, my companion and my strength.  It is my reason.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this one yet, but fog makes for a wonderful backdrop, whether it is physical, mental, or spiritual.  I'd like to do a story with the theme, and the above images are all possibilities that could be incorporated into a marvelous story.

Stephen King with an Erotic Twist

Salem's Lot -- there's a new vampire in town
Needful Things - She KNOWS what you want
Duma Key - I'd love to have you pose for me

Good Sister / Bad Sister


Based on an observation made by Capone that these two images looked like they could be sisters (my avatar, Madame Professor's avatar).

WWII - husbands going over to fight Jerry, young wives left behind to hold down the fort, work factory jobs, do their bit for God & Country.

One sister does what she should, puts on a good face during the day, cries into her pillow at night.  The other sister doesn't -- resents being left alone, has no wish to do the Rosie Riveter thing, determines to enjoy her newfound freedom and let tomorrow take care of itself.  Why make plans for a future that may never happen, waiting until it's her turn to get the visit, the telegram, the letter?  She looks for trouble and finds it -- in spades.  The good sister gets drawn in ... at first to save her sister from herself, and later ... well ... life doesn't always follow the plan laid out for it.

Possibly the two sisters are one in the same (split personality or just a means of escapism) ... or not.

Beyond Oak Island

Everyone's heard the legends of Oak Island, the tiny little spot off the coast of Nova Scotia that was just far enough off the sea lanes to have been used by merchant vessels, pirate ships, and seagoing vessels of all kinds, sometimes as a port in a storm and sometimes to hide ill-gotten gains, legitimate cargo that -- for whatever reason -- couldn't be transported all the way to its final destination.

This story isn't about Oak Island.  It's about another little island, a fictional one, that can be appointed in any way the story requires, and the possibilities are many, just like the legends.

This story can be about pirates burying their treasure, constructing traps to thwart those who would take it from them, hold captives for ransom, tryst with their women while they waited for the navy's ships to pass them by.

This story can be about treasure hunters, modern day or historical, who hope to find their fortune and make a name for themselves in the annals of maritime history.

This story can be about a haunting, years later ... a woman who was cast aside by her pirate lover and now repeats the cycle of seduction and betrayal?  A shipwrecked noble who seeks to live out whatever dreams she can with a sailor, a treasure hunter, a scholar?

Or perhaps there are shades of Roanoke here, where a small group of people flee seeking refuge -- from what?  A zombie plague?  Unfriendly natives?  Raiders?

The Identity Thief

'Professional' Con-Woman buys a series of identities to use in her scams.    Thinking nothing of it, she uses them as she has need, and then ditches them before the cops move in ... leaving those who didn't safeguard their information to pick up the pieces and rebuild their credit.

This time, the identity she steals is going to bring her more trouble than she ever wanted.

-- a woman wanted by a drug lord, powerful politician or entrepreneur for reasons of espionage or corporate theft, or even someone who knows secrets that someone of a paranormal bent wants to make sure never surfaces.

The Body Thief

In a twist on the idea above ...

A woman in a bad situation finds/inherits/is given an amulet that allows her to 'displace' the spirit of another and replace it with her own, for a time. 

The longer she stays, the stronger the attachment ... and the more quickly her spirit anchors to the new body.

That means she has a very limited time to figure out how to put it to use, if at all.  And, of course, the life of the woman with the perfect body may not be all it's cracked up to be -- and there are things that stay with the body, it seems, rather than the mind.

In the short 'tryouts' as she figures out what's going on, the dispossessed does not seem to know what happened to them ... they awake to a period of 'blackout' that they can't explain ... but the longer she remains in the body, the more they seem to remember of her body, her life, her circumstances.

How can she use this to better her own life?  How can she use this without losing her soul?

« Last Edit: January 18, 2017, 09:25:09 AM by GypsyRose »

Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

🔮 Visual Inspirations 🔮
« Reply #3 on: February 18, 2016, 12:00:40 PM »

These are all images that spark my imagination in one way or another. 
There's a story there, or a character that I'd just love to play -- or play against.  If one of them sparks something in you, feel free to PM me with your thoughts, or use as you like.

It's night, and there's a storm rolling in. The crowds have all gone, perhaps for the season or perhaps only for the night.  There is silence, save for the waves rolling in to the nearby beach.  The fog is cool, thick, the perfect backdrop for secrets and clandestine activities that shun the light.  There is a soft creak, and a door opens, silhouetting a waiting figure against golden light that suggests warmth and comfort within, an allure that is almost irresistible as the darkness grows.

Is this a short story of two lonely souls who find comfort in each other's arms in the unlikeliest of places?

Or is it something more sinister - a watchman or caretaker who waits not for love, but to close a profitable ... or unholy ... bargain?

Or does a spirit linger here, waiting for the opportunity to say goodbye that she was denied in life?

Is she a stranger in a strange land, having left everything she knew behind, and perhaps a debt unpaid?  Will she find that there are some things that simply will not allow an escape until what was started has been finished?

Has she come here to this lonely place to meet a lover, to cast a spell, to heave a bottle into the waves and see where it might wash up.  Does she wish for the courage to wade out into the water, not knowing that someone watches behind the cover of boulders?

In the luxurious surroundings, she waits, outwardly patient.  Slowly, serene, her face untroubled by fear or anticipation, she turns the pages, though she does not see the words written there.   She is waiting, and her senses are focused upon her other senses, ears straining to hear footsteps coming down the hallway, her nose seeking the familiar scent of cologne, the musky residue of pipe smoke.

Is she a courtesan, awaiting her benefactor?

A spy or assassin, intent upon her mission and awaiting only the right time? 

A spoiled wife who plans to take advantage of her husband's absence?

Confident, assured, she bends her knee only to the king.  A force to be reckoned with, she writes her own rules, as the king allows.

Is she an assassin?

An unlikely general?

An emissary from a land where women who wield a blade are more deadly than the men?

A spy who has a way of getting in where others cannot?

Or perhaps she is the keeper of the king's secrets, or a blackguard who uses the king's gratitude to her own advantage?

« Last Edit: December 13, 2016, 11:56:05 AM by GypsyRose »

Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

🔮 Basic Pairings & Settings of Interest 🔮
« Reply #4 on: February 18, 2016, 12:15:17 PM »

If you contact me about one of these, please tell me your interest/idea rather than just saying you're interested in x/x.
I'm more than willing to brainstorm if you have something in mind -- but the more you give me, the more I will give back in terms of plotting and enthusiasm.  :-)

BDSM (Dom/?) - emotional implications and story stressed
Dragon Age
Civil War
Prostitute / Client
? / Biker
Lady / Gladiator
Victorian-style Gothic
Arranged Marriage
Political Candidate/Politically Unsuitable Partner
Lady / Slave
Vacation Romance
Spellcaster / Demon
Southern Belle / Northern Army Officer
Conjure-Woman / Outdoorsman
Assassin / ?   
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.

Glowing text indicates strongest cravings.  (last updated February 18, 2016)
« Last Edit: December 13, 2016, 11:55:47 AM by GypsyRose »

Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

🔮 Fandom / Canon Settings 🔮
« Reply #5 on: February 18, 2016, 12:18:37 PM »

None at this time.
« Last Edit: December 13, 2016, 11:55:35 AM by GypsyRose »

Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

🔮 One Shots 🔮
« Reply #6 on: February 18, 2016, 12:21:56 PM »

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--  @}->--            THE PRICE OF DISHONOR / I OWN YOU            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)

Historical/Alt History/Non-Con, BDSM, reluctant sex
Eleanor Waller will do almost anything to convince the magistrate to commute her brother's sentence

Eleanor Waller is twenty-four years old, a widow of eighteen months, and she had served as her younger brother, Patrick Grant's mother figure since her own mother had died when a winter cold took to her lungs and settled when she was fourteen, and Patrick only seven.  The loss of her mother had hit her hard, and she had made up for it as much as she could by mothering, and indulging, Patrick.  When their father looked to punish him for any indiscretion, Eleanor was there to intercede.  When her husband was called to duty, Patrick came to stay with her much of the time, and when the news came that he had been killed, Patrick had been there to console her.

However, as much as she loved her brother, her brother perhaps did not return her affections quite so much as she believed.  He grew up wild, rebellious, and given to mischief.  Had her father the will to ignore Eleanor's pleading and excuses, perhaps he might have fared better, but whether Patrick's behavior was that of a thoughtless young lad who would, in time, grow more serious-minded, or whether he was a 'bad seed' destined to come to a bad end was a moot point.  At eighteen, he killed a young man, a rival, in a duel where he had offered challenge.  Whether his nerve failed, or he simply had no care for honor when his own life was at stake, he turned and fired before the count had been completed, turning a point of honor to murder.


Eleanor was a comely woman, with gentle but not ungenerous curves.  Her skin was fine and clear, her eyes green and clear, possessing of long eyelashes that rested noticeably upon her cheeks when eyes were closed, and emphasized the pleasing shape of her face when open.  She had married at a suitable age, to a suitable young man who had both her father's and young Patrick's approval, and their marriage had been, if not joyous, at least happy.   Her voice was well-modulated, and she spoke not stridently, and save for those times when she stepped up to fight for her brother's welfare, she was judged a well-mannered young woman, if stubborn and perhaps a bit keener upon books and the reading of newspapers, discussion of current events than was seemly.

Still, had it not been for her brother's latest escapade, she surely would have not remained a widow long, being still of marriageable age and her regrettable lack of bearing her husband children excused by the demands of his duties.

Eleanor had sat through the proceedings as silently as she had been able.  Her brother's defender had cautioned her against an unseemly display, though it had hardly been needed.  She must be the voice of compassionate reason, not a woman who could not put her own emotions aside and weigh the facts.  That those in the courtroom, save perhaps the judge and the hard-eyed man dressed in a style that marked him a Tory, did feel sympathy for her, and she had done her best to utilize it in her brother's favor.

She had no pride where his life was concerned.  Let them weep for her, lean one toward the other and whisper of the heavy hand of fate that had fallen on her, first losing her mother so young, then taking on the responsibilities of a mother to her brother, a housekeeper for her father, and then losing her husband so shortly after she was wed.  Let them see her sitting with her back ramrod straight upon the uncomfortable wooden bench, her Bible clutched in one hand and her kerchiefs in the other, wiping away tears.

Of course she mourned for Alphonse Whittier, and his family.  Her heart went out to the poor woman who was in as sorry a shape as she, and who had been carried from the courtroom when she had fainted at the testimony given regarding the duel.  Yet sentencing Patrick to the hangman, the headsman's axe, would that bring Alphonse back?

She had looked them in the eyes, each and every one, and begged them to see that more pain would not repay the life.  Prison, if they must, the horror of exile, so long as he lived and there was hope.  She had been allowed to speak, to shoulder the blame for not teaching Patrick properly, for indulging him because of her own sorrow, and her father's absence, she felt, only bolstered the fact that Patrick was not fully to blame.  Surely, they could see that.  Rosary in hand, she prayed, her lips moving silently as she begged the Good Lord to lead the magistrate to mercy.


The lawyer had cautioned her that she should not allow herself to hope too strongly, after the magistrate had postponed the verdict until the next day.  She had spent time with Patrick, consoling him, reading to him from Gulliver's Travels, until the jailor had insisted she leave.  She had gone home, to her too quiet, too empty house full of memories, and all she could see were the faceless shadows of the people she had failed.

Her guilt, rather than her hope, had led her here.   For what, she did not know, but something in his manner, something in the way he had looked at her ...

Eleanor held her breath, knocked one, two, three times, quickly, before she lost her nerve.  This was improper, she knew, in more ways than one, and yet ... could she live if she did not at least try?

It was the judge's voice she heard through the thick polished wood.  At another time, she might have given thought to the weighty matters that had been debated in silence, or in voice, behind those doors.  She might have thought better of her actions, considered that it might do more harm than good, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Without thinking, she reached for the handle, and it turned in her gloved hand.  She could see the glimmer of lamplight, scent the smell of tobacco within, and even see the judge's form in a large backed chair, the shadow of leg and shoe as he sat cross-legged, attired as a man rather than an officer of the court.  That, somehow, gave her courage to enter quickly and close the door behind her.

"Magistrate?  I am sorry to interrupt without regard to courtesy owed, but please ... I beg you ... may we speak for just a moment?"

Her voice trembled, just a bit, but for the most part it held steady.  She had neatened her appearance, changed her clothing to something just a bit brighter than widows weeds, a dress had brought the light in men's eyes before.  It was slightly musty from its time in her closet, but the verbena water she had sprinkled on it would hide that, aided by the smoke from his pipe.

She did not smile -- no, that would be too much, but she sank down into a low curtsy and held it,  head bowed, so that he would get the full impact of her eyes when her head lifted ... if he were looking.

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--           CITTA DI PORTE            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)

Halloween / Paranormal Themed Setup
Suitable for Multiple Genres

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. 


Content: M/F, anything from Vanilla to Dub-Con, ideally, but open to consider non-con if the story calls for it.

Scenario: It's that time of year again when the nights start to chill and leaves start to turn.  For those of us lovers of Halloween, its costumes, its tricks and treats, its ghosties & long-leggedy beasties, thoughts invariably turn to Halloween stories that we'd love to do.

I'm not going to propose a specific idea, but rather something more broad -- I'm less concerned with what the story is than having a one-shot Halloween theme that will fit with my love of the season.  From costume parties, a planned 'trick or treat' rendezvous, corn mazes, or Halloween dares to haunted houses or monsters out on the prowl, I'm open to discuss.  If you like the idea, but don't have a specific plot to suppose, shoot me a PM anyway and we can brainstorm. 

Setting: Modern, Historical, Supernatural, or Fantasy -- and, of course, Halloween.

Requirements: Decent grammar, capitalization & punctuation is a must, as is a decent writing chemistry.   I'm also good with shorter-than-my-norm posts for this one, though I'd still like at least a couple-three paragraphs per post.

Other Info: Details negotiable. PM for discussion.  For this, I'm not looking for anything in depth or a long term-story, just something thematic and fun to write.

« Last Edit: January 18, 2017, 09:23:09 AM by GypsyRose »

Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

🔮 Current Cravings 🔮
« Reply #7 on: February 18, 2016, 12:24:56 PM »

None at this time
« Last Edit: January 18, 2017, 09:18:11 AM by GypsyRose »

Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

🔮 Modern / Contemporary Plots 🔮
« Reply #8 on: February 18, 2016, 12:27:32 PM »

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--            ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)
A modern day continuation of Rumplestiltskin
Martine Anninck, a fashion designer who can't catch a break, is offered the chance of a lifetime, at a bargain price
by an old 'friend of the family'.   Some things never change ... or do they?
Martine Annick had known what she wanted to be, what she wanted to do, for as long as she could remember.  Her dolls had been of no interest to her, but the clothes!  The clothes captured her imagination and she had learned how to combine outfits, and later to take them apart and put them back together in ways that seemed more right, and finally she had made her own.

Fashion design was not an easy world to break into when you came from a working class family with no connections.  There was a silk ceiling and it was hard as stone.  Pursuing her dream … or rather, the single-minded way she had gone about pursuing it … had cost her everything.  She had been so certain that her talent, her ambition, and her drive.

“They’ve decided to go with the Velvet Vixen line instead, Martine.  I’m sorry.”

Jeffrey Russell was a good actor.  He almost sounded sorry, but real sincerity in this place was as rare as virginity, perhaps even rarer.

“The official announcement will be made tomorrow, but I thought you deserved to know.”

No, he’d come by to rub it in.  She’d been a little too candid, as she sometimes was, when she’d let her hair down with a couple of her co-workers and compared his lovemaking to the wearing of linsey-woolsey.  Secrets were rarer than both virginity and sincerity – save for those most valuable of secrets, of fabric and design, but gossip about who was fucking who was always fair game.

“Thank you, Jeffrey. I appreciate the heads-up.”
Her voice was level, and she even managed a smile.  What she wanted to do was to grab up something heavy or sharp and use it to remove the little smirk lingering beneath his fashionable mustache.  She used the image to keep her face carefully neutral, and to mute her sigh as she turned to look out the glass over the cityscape below.  She could also see the image of the sepia-toned framed print of the Cheruit Salon, the one she had hung there when she’d first gotten this office, and the promotion that went with it.  Her reflection told her she had succeeded, and the reflection of the lights on the tops of the taller buildings nearby gave her the illusion of color, made her carefully done hair sparkle and shimmer. “There’s always next time.  I’ll make sure to congratulate Erika … after it’s official, of course.”

She had been so sure … her designs had been better, they WERE better.  But Erika’s grandfather was Roland Mayse and word was that she and Mayse’s favorite grandson were an item.

“Want to get a drink, Marty?”
Jeffrey moved forward and laid a hand on her arm, his hip angling to press against hers.  Did he really think he qualified as a consolation prize?  It was a shame these glass walls and self-contained environments precluded windows.  She would have loved to shove him out one, and lean out to watch him fall.  Of course, if her line hadn’t been selected, there was a good chance her next place of employment would have actual windows … and that wonderful sweatshop smell.  The last time the place had had an award-winning line had probably been about the time that the Salon closed down.

“No, not tonight.  It’s been a long day.  I think I’ll go home and get some sleep.”

Of course, she hadn’t.  After Jeffrey had given up on getting any further amusement out of her, he’d left, and Martine had made her way over to the ornamental bottles on the credenza, and poured herself a shot of brandy and downed it.  She could go home, but the only way she was going to sleep was if she drunk herself insensible.  Even though it was empty, Martine swirled the glass in her palm, watching the lights catch on the glass.  If she gave in, even for a night, it would be too much like admitting defeat.  They might beat her, but she was still going down swinging.  Fuck them.  Fuck them all.

Her design table was waiting.  Her personal portfolio that the house had no idea about, and no claim to, was still a little thin.  Before long, the scratch-scritch of graphite on paper began its work, taking the edge off even better than the brandy.

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--            THE DEVIL INSIDE            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)

A Midwestern Cowgirl with a Belly Full of Demons
Lacy Dolan is a prickly, plucky gal working double duty on the family ranch
She's also got succubus blood in her veins, and a chip on her shoulder the size of a tractor
What she needs is someone who can bring out the devil inside, one way or another

A Little Background

Lacy Dolan always knew she was different.  How she was different, why she was different, she didn't know.  A late bloomer, she got a clue when she spied on her older sister and her boyfriend, who had snuck out to the barn one Sunday after church.  Lacy hadn't really intended to catch them 'in the act'.  At the time, she was mostly focused on being a pest, getting a little payback because her sister wouldn't let her borrow a shirt she liked.   Things didn't go quite as she planned, though, because when she saw what they were doing, she was struck into silent immobility by the rush of feelings that she didn't quite understand.

When her sister looked up and saw her and started yelling, Lacy was released from the paralysis, and she ran ... straight to the paddock where her horse was ... and without waiting to try to saddle the animal, she climbed up on Murphy's back and off they went with Lacy clinging to the horse's mane and a precarious seat.

It wasn't long before disaster struck, as mount had picked up on his rider's turmoil of emotions.  A sudden sound, and he shied and bucked, and Lacy was thrown.   A bit of deadfall probably saved her from a broken bone or two, but jagged edges left her with a scar on her cheek and another on her thigh.  The one on her face eventually healed into a thin, pale line, but the self-consciousness over the ugliness of those first days of healing was imprinted on her psyche, as was her jumbled feelings of guilt and blame.

Claire Evans was Lacy's best friend in school, though the two of them couldn't have been more different.   Lacy was smart enough to figure out that a good part of her appeal to Claire was the contrast.  Lacy's tomboyish looks, her prickly, suspicious demeanor, made Claire's 'girl next door' looks and behavior all the more striking, and the contrast almost never showed Lacy in favorable comparison.   Claire was an early bloomer, filling out early and well, the quintessential barbie doll measurements while Lacy remained lithe, a tomboy.  Claire's efforts to 'help' only solidified Lacy's feelings of inadequacy.   She found some measure of triumph, guilty triumph, when one of Claire's boyfriends came on to her after a party.  That encounter, Lacy's first, led to another and another, until most of Claire's boyfriends had at least gotten to 'second base' or hit a home run with Lacy, until Lacy, sickened by her own behavior, determined to stop.

Which she had ... even though she'd had a crush on Brad Underwood for two years before he asked Claire out.  Lacy had been the maid of honor at their wedding, and Lacy had burned in silence, never confessing the dreams that  haunted her at night, or how her fingers had, in her fantasy, become Brad's in the darkness.  She'd avoided him as much as she could, until he and Claire had had a fight and he'd ridden off to cool off.   When his path crossed Lacy's, the old pattern had established itself again ... but once her itch had been scratched, the desire for her best friend's husband was gone, burnt up in that one moment of stolen passion ... but the guilt remained.

Lacy didn't know, didn't even suspect, that she had succubus blood in her veins.  Perhaps if her mother had lived, the knowledge might have been passed on, but she'd died shortly after Lacy was born.  Lacy didn't even know that there were such things as succubi - to her, the term was just a word she'd heard a time or two in horror movies.  All she knew is that the feelings she had both lured her and repelled her ... and rather than seeking to understand them, she buried them.

They just wouldn't stay buried.  Her dreams made sure of that.

It was a perfect day.  The sky was the perfect shade of blue, a hair darker than a robin's egg, and the clouds that were strewn along the horizon were the white, fluffy variety with only a shadow of grey.  The air was warm, but clean and light, like sheets fresh out of the dryer.  In a week, maybe less, it would be time for the first haying, a time that Lacy looked forward to without quite knowing why.

It didn't feel perfect, however.  Lacy paused in her self-appointed task, that of hunting down the nest of a stupid hen that always seemed to get it into her head that laying her eggs in the high grass was better than in the chicken coop, with its wire fence and door that closed at night to keep out the predators who thought eggs for breakfast, or a midnight snack, was the perfect gourmet treat.  Intelligence seemed to be a characteristic that had been bred out of the stock, though the hen possessed just enough shrewd animal cunning to have led Lacy on a less than merry game of hide and go seek.

The sound of a high performance car roaring by at reckless speed attracted her attention, and Lacy straightened, and used the opportunity to take off her hat and wipe away the thin sheen of perspiration gathering under her bangs as she frowned at the light cloud of dust left in the vehicle's wake.  Some city slicker, lost on his way from point A to point B, a tourist looking for a bit of relief from urban sprawl?  It didn't much matter, she told herself as she shook her head, but the faint surge of excitement mixed with dread tickled at her nerve endings like teasing fingertips belied her assurance.  The image of herself in that car, foot pressing the gas to the floor, knuckles clenched and an eager, devil-may-care grin on her face was just below the surface, just below conscious thought.

Her head dropped on an exhalation, a shiver sending gooseflesh across her skin in a manner that was familiarly pleasant and unpleasant all at once.  She swallowed, her hands slipping up to hug her arms, the feel of her own touch imparting just a hint of an ache ...

The cackle of the hen broke her from the half-formed reverie of longing.  "There you are, you ..." she muttered, and returned to her task.  The genie was, for now, back in its bottle.  It could damn well stay there ... but she knew the lie, deep down, even as the silent mantra bought her a brief reprieve.

"What are you doing here?"
Lacy's voice wasn't friendly in the slightest, and neither were her eyes as she held the hose pointed down toward the flowerbed, the one planted by her mother.  The irises, vibrant purple and white and kinder pastels of peach and cream, were in full bloom.  She was tempted to turn the hose on Brad, and would have if not for the twist of guilt in her stomach as he smiled at her, cocksure as ever.

"You used to be glad to see me," he returned, his handsome face going sullen, petulant as some of the flash faded out of his smile.

"Yeah, well ... my Pa always says I need to have my head examined.  Guess he's right." 
In her mind's eye, she could see the two of them, melded together, lips to lips, skin against skin, their clothes wrenched up, down, anyway, just enough, the constraint making the fill of his thrust all the tighter, pleasure and pain combined.   The sound of their grunts, ragged breath, a silent beat that she could have danced to, a heat that had dissipated and left nothing but ice in its wake.

"Look, Lacy, I don't want to fight with you.  Things are .. not so good.  Claire, she's not adjusting so well." 
He dropped the charm, and the petulance, opting for a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  "She could really use a friend right now.  I was wondering if you might come over for dinner, cheer her up.  All the talk in town, you know how people are."

You know, his voice suggested, rightly, because they talk about you too.  Don't think they don't know.

They knew some, but not all, and if Lacy had any say in the matter, they'd never know it all.  It was that thought more than any that made her bite down on her refusal.  She nodded, closing her eyes against the shame.

"Yeah, I expect having your husband lose the family farm to pay a fucking gambling debt does reflect on your status in the community."

When she looked up again, her lips pressed in a mutinous expression, the glint of anger in Brad's eyes was sweet, even heady, in an unfathomable way.  It was her own reaction to it more than any fear that had her saying, "No.  I'm sorry.  Ain't got much room to cast stones.  I'll come."

It wasn't a hair shirt, and there were no scars that you could see, not from this.  Maybe this time, she'd finally learned her lesson.

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--            ANY PR IS GOOD PR?            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)

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.
« Last Edit: December 13, 2016, 11:54:48 AM by GypsyRose »

Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

🔮 Fantasy Plots 🔮
« Reply #9 on: February 18, 2016, 12:29:25 PM »

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--       THAT COLLAR SUITS YOU, MY DEAR        --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)

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

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.

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--            BEST LAID PLANS            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)

the dragon has come demanding tribute, and as luck would have it, there is a dragon slayer close at hand
a scheming maiden throws caution to the wind, seeking a way to escape the deathly boring life laid out for her

Best Laid Plans    

The oldsters in town talked of the time when the dragon came and laid waste to the countryside, demanding tribute of treasure, cattle, and a beautiful maiden.   The stories were all different, really, as most of the old men had been barely old enough to escape their mother's apron strings at the time, but all agreed that it had been a time of exciting chaos.  Taxes had been levied to raise the demanded were-gild, maidens had suddenly lost the reluctance to yield their maidenhood to their sweethearts, and a lottery had been organized.  The maid had been made much of, praised for her beauty, purity, and sacrifice ... and a local hero, hearing of the town's plight, had ridden in upon his magnificent stallion and killed or driven off the dragon, taking the maid ... and half the treasure demanded by the dragon ... as his reward.

Andella was the daughter of the town's mayor, and had been promised in marriage to a well-off merchant two town's over.  She was beautiful, confident in her beauty and rather spoiled, and he was ... unremarkable, save for his wealth and position, and she found neither even remotely exciting. 

When the dragon returned ... or another dragon came in his stead ... the scenario repeated itself, but Andella was determined that SHE would be the lucky maid this this time.  As luck would have it, there was a hero in the vicinity, who had been bragging in the tavern, the commons, and whereever else he might be heard of how he had slain a dragon, not once, but twice.

He was handsome, suave, foreign, exciting ... everything Andella's 'betrothed' was not.

Andella never considered that stories are often gross misrepresentation of the facts as she went about fixing the lottery so that she would be the sacrifice.  Surely the hero would come to her rescue?

  • What if the dragon and the dragon slayer were working an extortion con, and Andella finds out about it and demands a cut to play her part?

    What if the dragon and the dragon slayer are one in the same?

    What if the stories were true, and the dragon defeats the slayer and claims his prize?

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--            BY ROYAL EDICT            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)

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

By Royal Edict    

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. 

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--            UNFORGIVEN            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)

a cursed soul, doomed to seduce and drain the men who are drawn to the place where she met her death, seeks redemption

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.

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--            HAVEN: TO PROTECT & SERVE            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)

a pair of city guards in Haven, the grittiest, deadliest, most unforgiving city in the Low Kingdoms -- inspired by Simon R. Green's Hawk & Fisher series


Being a city guard wasn't all it was cracked up to be.  The pay was lousy, half the time you got yelled at for doing your job when the wrong people were involved, and the other half, the victims of the criminals that you brought in developed a sudden case of amnesia.  Zee Pusey had been a corporal in the guard for 5 years, and, newly arisen to captain and assigned a new partner, she thought she'd seen everything.  She was wrong.

Another fan of the setting would be ideal, but anyone who would enjoy taking part in writing a 'tough cop, high fantasy' adventure with the possibility of romance or simple physical pleasures in a corrupt, crime-riddled metropolitan city where magic is common would work.  There are no elves, no other races - just humans that have been living with magic for so long that it is part of their everyday lives, especially for the rich and powerful, in an atmosphere where all too often, might makes right.

The Setting: Haven

"When you are tired of life, come to Haven.  And someone will kill you.

The city port of Haven was a bad place to be after dark.  It wasn't much better during the day.  If there was a viler, more corrupt and crime-ridden city in the whole of the Low Kingdoms, its existence must have been kept secret to avoid depressing the general populace.  If Haven hadn't been settle squarely on the main trade routes, and made itself such a vital part of the Low Kingdoms' economy, it would have undoubtedly have been forcibly evacuated and burnt to the ground long ago, like any other plague spot.  As it was, the city thrived and prospered, brimming with crime, intrigue, and general decadence.

It also made a lot of money from tourism.

Such a dangerous city needed dangerous men and women to keep it under something like control.  So from Devil's Hook to the Street of Gods, from the Docks to High Tory, the city Guard patrolled the streets of Haven with cold steel always to hand, and did the best they could under impossible conditions.  Apart from the murderers, muggers, rapists, and everyday scum, they were also up against organized crime, institutionalized brutality and rogue sorcerers; not to mention rampant corruption within their own ranks.  They did the best they could, and for the most part learned to be content with little victories.

They should have been the best of the best: men and women with iron nerves, high morals, and implacable wills - unstoppable heroes ready to take on any odds to overthrow injustice.  But given the low pay, appalling work conditions and high mortality rate, the Guard settled for what it could get." - Simon R. Green, Guards of Haven

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--            DARK PASSIONS            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

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a vampire hunter who secretly longs to fail in her hunt


Concept: Siobhan (description & background follows) has dedicated her life to hunting down and destroying the undead, and pursues her aim with single-minded intensity.  Her relationships are often passionate and intense, but never lasting, for Siobhan's dark, hidden desire is for the kind of unholy ecstasy that she experienced in the arms of the vampire who set her upon the path of vengeance.  She has tracked a vampire lord to a remote, tiny kingdom, and prepares herself for the eventual confrontation, her two sides at war, determined to destroy the fiend but weakened from within by the suppressed memories of lust.

Whether she triumphs against her darker urges, or succumbs, is left open to be determined by the story's direction.

I'm looking for someone to play a vampire, a fellow hunter, or other character type that might find themselves involved with a slayer's hunt.  The story is

Background:  Siobhan was born into an ordinary life, and planned to die from it as well. This daughter of a cleric and a farm girl was stable and steady, and prized practicality and contentment over excitement. The very idea that she might one day adventure away from her home was laughable.

At an early age, Siobhan married. Patrick was her husband's name, and he'd been her only sweetheart. Perhaps he did not make Siobhan's heart flutter or her knees weak like she heard the other, silly, girls confess, but he was a good man and a hard worker, and she was content with their life together, facing the small challenges of setting up a home, planning for a family. She expected a long, gods willing, life there in the village with her husband, a respected part of the community, an extended family, and all was content. The niggling worry that somewhere, somehow, she was missing something she ignored as best she could, except in the darkest hours when she was alone, or tired. She baked and sold the goods, and had some small skill with basic healing and growing and dispensing herbs, and her talents as a midwife were valued. She was part and parcel of the community, and it was part of her.

Yet fate seems to be no great respecter of duty and complacency, and fate had other plans for Siobhan and her simple village, her simple life.

It all started with the girl. Fanny, her name was, and she was a special child. Her mother had had a difficult childbirth, dying as her infant was pulled screaming into the world, and perhaps this left its mark on Fanny. Though she had lived 15 summers, she was in more like a child of 5, perhaps, in mind if not in body. The villagers all knew, and all looked out for her, for her father, the village smithy, could not keep her safe on his own, and work too.

Though none would know it, a butterfly, fluttering bravely through the spring air played Fate's hand in the drama. Fanny wandered off, chasing the butterfly even as it flew from field to meadow to wood. It was a busy time, planting season, but in the afternoon when she was missed, the village mobilized to search. Siobhan was among them, and fate, or something more sinister, led her in the right direction. Darkness had fallen, but Siobhan knew the area from her own walks and explanations, so she clutched her cloak about her and continued on, buoyed by both annoyance and the discovery of the girl's shawl discarded on the path - lantern clutched in one hand as she peered into the darkness and called, "Fanny!"

In retrospect, it always seemed to her that there should have been some warning - a cold fist clutching at her heart or some other foreshadowing of the doom that awaited, but in truth, all she felt was annoyance. Fanny had wandered off before, and would again, chasing shadows or butterflies. Perhaps it was that very lack of concern that turned the tables against her, but she could not truly apologize for it. The shadows had not yet come into her life -they were as unreal to her as stories of the boogeyman might be.

As she pushed her way through a copse of bushes, she spied the girl's dress, and arms about her shoulders, holding her. Siobhan's first reaction was relief - she had been found, and they could all go back to the village and the plethora of things that must be done. Then, the chill - was that blood leaking down the girl's shoulder? And what was he doing to ...

The questions disappeared as the thing, for no man it was but a fiend, sent to tempt and beguile the innocent, raised its head and looked at her. Siobhan was lost in the red-tinged gaze, seeing a thousand things about herself that she had never known, seeing her pride, envy, her complacency, the shadows of unfulfillment that smoldered beneath the surface. She didn't even notice as Fanny crumpled to the ground, discarded, and the black-cloaked vampire came to her, enfolding her in his dark embrace, whispering that she was the one he had come for ... Her eyes closed at the touch of his cold lips upon her neck, the lantern falling to the ground, the clatter of glass and the scent of lamp oil unnoticed as darkness took her.

The hours, or minutes, that followed, Siobhan remembered only in the black silence of her dreams, or in the heated prickle of her flesh at the caress of a cold breeze. Pleasure that she had never known in the arms of her husband wracked her body, over and over, as her undead lover claimed her, and when she arose from his embrace, she was his, body and soul, enthralled.

Under his command, she lured her neighbors out to sate the vampire's appetite, glowing under his approval, the caress of his bloodless-white hand upon her hair, her skin worth any price. One after the other, his victims came to him at her behest as the search for Fanny and Siobhan continued, with the half-wit girl rising to commit her own atrocities. Siobhan cared nothing for that, though her soul burned with jealousy at the vampire's approval at his feral prodigy's excess. Finally, her husband led a group of the villagers to the vampire lord's lair deep within the forest, and pulled him from his rest while the sun yet rode the sky. It was Siobhan, breaking free from the man who held her struggling body, who drove the sharpened stake through her husband's heart as he fought with the vampire, pitiless and heedless of the memories and feelings she had once thought she held, and delayed their efforts long enough for the vampire to awake in the dusk of his crypt, and the hunters were slaughtered to a man.

In the carnage, the vampire held Siobhan one last time, kissed her, pleasured her ... and then cast her from him, releasing her from the enchantment of his will as he swept out, his evil laughter echoing in that foul place of death. Siobhan knelt there on the bare, blood-soaked stone, weeping, until the morning, praying for him to return - to kill her or to reclaim her, but the vampire's plan for her was far more torturous. He let her live, left her with the memories of her horrible crimes, and with the knowledge of his touch.

How long she stayed there, until the villagers finally marshaled another search party and found her, she did not know. She remembered nothing of the mourning, of the funerals that followed, but when she awoke from her stupor, she led the men on one more search, and it was Siobhan's blade that struck the head from Fanny and her hand that cast it into the bonfire. That action brought the first peace, the first ease, she had known since experiencing the vampire's kiss.

Though the villagers accepted that she had not controlled her own will, the dark, suspicious looks cast her way, intensified by her own knowledge of her failing, made it impossible to stay in the place that was once her home. She thought, long and hard .... then sought out the priests of Amanutaur and declared her calling. She would dedicate her life to the destruction of the undead, wherever they laired, heedless of her own comfort or safety.

There, Siobhan slowly came to terms with her deeds, never blessed with the forgetting of them, but driven by her vow to pay for the blood spilled. It was only in the darkness of sleep that her body burned, and she ached anew - and it was a secret she never told, never truly allowed herself to acknowledge, that each time she faced a vampire, ending their foul, perverse existence, that part of her prayed to fail.

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If they want her help, she stands ready to give it ... for a price


"She was always a strange one.  Pretty enough, in a dark sort of way, but one look into those coal-hued eyes and most people backed off right smartly, unless they needed some of her witchery.  She was good at her doin’s, that was certain.  Cows that went dry got their milk back, and when the rains didn’t come, she’d go out into the fields and dance to that music of hers, and the rains would come.

A’course, it wasn’t no decent dancing, if you get my meaning.  Under them heavy robes she favored was white skin that’d make a highborn lady green with envy, and the shape that skin covered.  Somethin’ to see,  though you be damn sure she wanted you lookin’ before you tried to see.  You didn’t, then something more than rain would come, and it made her displeasure felt.

Wasn’t comfortable, though, not knowin’ what she might do, even against what she could do.   Then she went and enchanted Garreth Higgens’ sweetheart  - he was the blacksmith then, shame what happened to him.  He died, but she was long gone by then.  See, she wanted the blacksmith for herself.  Folks say he wanted her too, but then he wanted a lot of the village girls – got ‘em too.  But he didn’t see no sense in buyin’ a cow when he could get the milk for free, if you take my meanin’ again, and he wed the one that wouldn’t settle for nothin’ less.

The witch, that Malinda – her name means ‘black serpent’ in one-a-them furren tongues, ya ken – she was in a rage.  Cursed him, cursed his bride, hell, cursed the whole town.  Shook things up, I reckon, and the village was gatherin’ up those brave enough to run her out when the damnedst storm ever seen hit.  Wind, rain, lightnin’ like the furies of the hells outta the sky.  Struck her little house there on the edge of th’ forest, burnt it clear to the ground, rain or no.  Nothin’ left but some black bricks and rain-soaked ash.  Too late for poor old Garreth ‘n’ his bride, though.  She died screamin’ in childbirth, an’ old Garreth didn’t last too long after that.  Drunk himself half to death, then cut himself on one of the tools he was makin’ and the wound turned green on’im.   Folks said that Malinda was the last name on his lips.  Don’t know if that meant he was sorry for her loss, or blamin’ her curse for all his bad luck.

Bad luck, curse or no, wish we had her back.  She could fix things for the village.   Dark magic or no, there’s many that’d be glad to bargain with her for her aid.    Ain’t been her like around since I was a lad, so I reckon we’re on our own."

The clouds rolled in, dark and dim, and swallowed up the sky.  On the road, a figure dressed in dark robes strode toward the village, a tall and crooked staff in her pale, deceptively fragile seeming hand.  Black eyes glittered beneath the hood as she looked up, reflecting the sharp streaks of lighting, and Malinda smiled with ravenous anticipation.

She’d been cheated once.  Now she was here to finish the bargain once struck and broken.  She’d saved the village once, at a considerable cost to herself, and her price had been agreed upon but not been met.  This time, they’d pay up … or they would not have to worry about the advancing horde.  There’d be nothing but soot and ashes beneath the invaders’ bootheels when they strode through what used to be the village main.

inspired by an image found by King Serperior, and posted in Finders & Seekers, with his kind permission

My idea for this is a darker story, with Malinda returning to the village
and promising to save it once again.
This time she intends to take what she wants ...
and keep it as long as she wants.

And what she wants
is a man of the village
who catches her eye,
much like Garreth did long ago.
What he wants ...
is irrelevant.

The details of the character would be negotiable, but if the character is submissive or has submissive tendencies,
I'd like that to be very much a dark little secret that is brought out in the roleplay.
« Last Edit: January 18, 2017, 09:20:12 AM by GypsyRose »

Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

🔮 Historical / Alternate History Plots 🔮
« Reply #10 on: February 18, 2016, 12:32:23 PM »

    @}->--  @}->--  @}->--  @}->--            BY HALVES            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

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    Old West
    A woman ventures into Indian Territory, seeking her twin sister who has been missing, presumed dead, for fourteen years with a hired gun & a prayer

    Charlotte and Tabitha Ooten were ten years old when their father brought them west. Their father was a captain in the army, assigned to Fort Phil Kearny on the Bozeman trail, a young fort set up to protect miners and their gold claims in Montana. It was a controversial move by the government, and one that inflamed tensions with the local Indians. Charlotte didn't really know any of this -- she and Tabitha only knew that they were headed west in the adventure of a lifetime, as far away from Virginia as could be without crossing the ocean.

    With the tensions of the time, their father determined to send his family to San Francisco to stay with his brother's family until the Indians were defeated, but the wagon train they traveled with was attacked some twenty miles from the Fort. Charlotte's mother, Rachel, was killed, as was most of the rest of the train. When Charlotte was found, unconscious under the half-collapsed supply wagon the next day, there was no sign of Tabitha at all.

    Charlotte had taken a hard blow to her head, and lingered near death due to both the injury and exposure for nearly two weeks. The soldiers extracted a terrible vengeance upon the Indians, and her father returned with the blood-stained dress twin to the one Charlotte had won, and a headstone was erected for mother and daughter off the trail. Charlotte recuperated , and was sent on with a more heavily guarded train to her aunt and uncle while her father returned to Fort Kearny. He too, was lost when Indians burned down Fort Kearney, leaving Charlotte an orphan.

    Her aunt and uncle were good people, and raised her as their own daughter. Charlotte recovered, and went to school, and was married to a well-respected man with a comfortable living. What she never lost, however, was the certainty that her twin was still alive. She felt it when Tabitha fell and broke her arm when they were 13, and again when Tabitha knew her first man, and the bittersweet agony that was childbirth when they had reached their 20th year.

    Now, at 25, Tabitha was a widow, and her husband's estate had left her set up well enough that she could afford to defy her uncle and her husband's family, and hire a former Pinkerton man to make inquiries. When he came back with a report that a white woman with hair the same color as Charlotte's, the same description, Charlotte settled her affairs and traveled northeast, back to Wyoming where her life had been torn asunder.

    One way or another, she had to know.


    In the privacy of her hotel room, Charlotte carefully folded her traveling dress into the almost empty portmanteau, along with the remainders of her second lives.  Most people didn't get a second chance, and yet here she was trying to chase down the first one again.  Everybody had said she'd lost her mind, that it was grief.  A weaker woman would've likely been packed off east in the care of some watchful guardian to await the return of sense, but Charlotte had got right up into the face of those who thought they had some God-given right to tell her what to do by the virtue of being men and had told them all too plainly what they could do with their opinions, and their concerns.

    The bridges, she thought, were still burning.

    She'd ordered her gear carefully, after engaging the advice of Jeb Hamilton, Charles' lawyer's clerk.  He'd spent several years in Laramie before finding his way to San Francisco, and he'd been surprisingly helpful in refreshing her memory and giving her helpful and quite practical advice on what she'd need if she was determined to carry out her wild scheme.  Perhaps he'd hoped that she would grow to return his interest, and perhaps she would give it some thought when she returned to the city.  Right now, she had half a lifetime of questions that needed answering, and she'd be damned if she was going back with her tail tucked betwixt her legs until she'd exhausted every avenue she could think of to get them answered.

    The britches she'd purchased fit quite well, and they were certainly nowhere near as binding as stays.  Her shape was a bit curvier than most men's, but, frankly, she couldn't see that wearing pants should draw the eyes to her bottom any more than those ridiculous bustles.  With her flat-brimmed hat and braided hair worn loose down her back, she did not look like a man to her own eyes, and nor did she want to.  Strangest of all was the belt and holster she wore around her waist now, and the heaviness of the pistol.  It was not the tiny derringer that the man in the shop had recommended, but Jeb had recommended instead a Lefaucheux Pin Fire Revolver.  Its weight felt good in her hand, solid, and she'd taken to learning how to shoot it quite well, though Jeb had cautioned her that shooting a milk can or piece of stove wood was quite different from shooting a man or even an animal.

    For all her bravado, Charlotte wasn't in much hurry to find out.

    She debated leaving the pistol in the room, but the man she was going to to see would already be not inclined to take her seriously.  Convincing him that she could ... how did they put it ... ride the river ... might be the difference between setting her mind to rest and living with these doubts the rest of her life.

    She locked the door behind her, and headed over to the Palace Saloon, which looked as far removed from a palace as her fur muff did from a hound, but that was where the Sheriff had said that she would find Billy Compton, the man likeliest to both be persuaded to accompany her on her fool's errand, and not get her killed in the doing.  The Sheriff hadn't seemed confident that he could manage either, but perhaps that had just been his way of discouraging her from not even trying.

    She wasn't the only woman walking around in man's garb, but she was damn closed to it, and she certainly got some stares as she crossed the street and strode through the swinging doors of the saloon as if she owned the place, but she ignored them, even as she cringed a little inside.  Being timid was a waste of a life, and it was a luxury she could  not afford, since she had thought for the longest time she was living for two.

    Maybe that hadn't been the case after all, but until she knew for sure, she was going to keep right on the way she had been.

    The barkeep's nodded at her, and called her Ma'am, and she stood tall and answered him just as if she'd been standing there in her widow's weeds.

    "Pardon me, but if you would be so kind to direct me to Billy .... that is, William ... William Compton?  The Sheriff told me I might find him here."

    Her speech seemed to convince him that she was something of a lady, regardless of her dress, but his look was still doubtful as he gestured with a jerk of his head to a table near the corner ...

    "That's him, Ma'am."

    He didn't ask her business, and Charlotte didn't offer.  She'd already learned that sympathy for her cause was a double-edged sword.

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    (click for details)

    Old West
    a feisty woman running a saloon in the Old West - just waiting for trouble to walk through the swinging doors

    When she'd come west on the train, Sarah Louise Whittcomb hadn't had much of a plan at all.  In fact, all she'd thought about was getting far, far away from everyone who'd ever known her, the tight collar of her traveling dress carrying with it the nightmare of the hangman's noose.  It had been on the train that she'd taken the name 'Angela', and chopped off the biggest part of her surname, courtesy of the man seated beside her who had flirtatiously remarked that she looked like an angel, waking from an uneasy sleep on the rocking seat to realize that she'd used his shoulder as a pillow.

    A whole lot of luck, good for her, and bad for a couple of others, had landed her in Black Jack, a town that had been established mainly on the plans for a new railway that would bring cattle from Texas and the surround environs northward for butchering.  Unfortunately, with the War of Northern Aggression, the War of Southern Rebellion, or the War Between the States (take your pick as to what you called it) and the news that Texas cattle were like to be infested with ticks carrying herd-debilitatng disease had put those plans on hold, leaving the town caught in a kind of limbo.

    A lot of men lost fortunes on their speculations, but it was ripe time for a woman with a goodly sum of questionably-obtained funds, equally questionably-obtained six shooters and a trusty shotgun, and a bellyful of tired of being pushed around to buy up the town's hotel/saloon and run it herself.  The first thing she did was put the local cat-house out of business, but not in a way that endeared her to the god-fearing sin-calling, tea-totaling population.   Mostly, she did it by offering the brothel's best girls a better deal, and by recruiting a couple from places both east, west and beyond.  The girls all helped out to serve drinks, and when a group of cattlemen, outlaws, banditos, businessmen or what-have-you filled up the hotel, then the regular serving girls were free to make a few extra coin lifting their skirts if they wanted, and some did.  Some didn't, but that was okay too.

    Angela Whit, as she was known in town, had a set of rules that she enforced with her rifle, a fireplace poker with a wicked sharp hook, or a little lady's gun that she wore on a little holster on her thigh instead of the now-tucked-away six-shooters.  The rules were simple - wipe your feet before you come in, pay your tab, take the fights outside, and stick your dick in any hole the girl you paid was willing but no other, and keep your goddamn fists off the girls.  Story was that one asshole come up from Texarcana who punched one of Angie's girls left cupping the bleeding, ragged remains of what had been his cattle prod courtesy of Miss Angie's little bitty gun.  The story had grown to local legend in the telling.  Whatever the truth, the one thing that the folks around Black Jack knew for certain is that the town's Sheriff always came down on Angie's side when there was trouble, and if she'd seen the inside of the town's jail, it wasn't as an official guest.

    It was about as uneasy a peace over the Lady Luck Saloon as it was about those who supported the Union and them that supported the Rebs, but it was a peace all the same.

    It generally didn't take long when the Lady Luck opened for business for people to start filtering in, whether to get themselves a drink, a girl, or just a place to play cards or checkers out of the chill Autumn wind.  Angela, dressed in her preferred garb of a low off the shoulder top and skirt split up high to keep her little gun accessible, was enjoying a cup of coffee at 'her' table, and lazily laying out a game of Sol as she kept her ears open for any bit of gossip or news that was of interest.  While there was some truth in the whisper of 'whore' that the town Bible-thumpers hissed in her direction, she didn't lead anyone up the stairs to her private room 'less she wanted to (though she was honest enough to admit that a little present was as good as foreplay for gettin' her in the mood to those brave enough to endure a little straight talk that wasn't precisely ladylike).  That didn't mean, though, that she didn't take some sort of delight in findin' out a bit of dirt to dish right back, and a saloon was a good place for that.  Funny that the truth seemed to hurt more than any lie ever could, and it was often Angie's favorite weapon.

    Come sundown, she reckoned that they'd have a decent crowd, enough to make the expense of the Mex troubadour .... as he called himself ... worth it in what the house'd draw in.

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    (click for details)

    Historical/Alt History/BDSM Themes
    a young octoroon woman of color seeks to become a plaçée of a wealthy landowner in 1830's Louisiana

    Chains that Bind          Available

    It is the Autumn of 1833, in New Orleans.  Bronze Jack, yellow fever, had swept through the city during the summer, and many died.  Wealthy landowners had left the city, seeking cooler, healthier climes away from the heat and the scent of death, but at last the air has cooled, and the fever has run its course, leaving with as little ceremony as it came.

    Musette is eighteen years old, the daughter of Dominique Lalaurie, a quadroon plaçée, and though her skin is fair, her ancestor was a slave, and her place in society was determined not by appearance but by social convention.  To the white slave traders, if she was found without the papers that proved her a free woman, she was property to be bought and sold.  To the wealthy, she was something else - a symbol of wealth, a mistress to be privately displayed and enjoyed like one might possess a rare painting or book.

    Had she been plain, her future would have been bleak - a bare existence, perhaps, of domestic servitude, dodging the slavers and perhaps finding some sort of security in marriage with another freeman.

    Musette, however, was not plain, and her coloring chained her to a future as surely as the loss of papers.  Her skin was fair, and side by side to the wealthy wives and daughters of the elite, there was little to suggest she could not move among them - but to get caught in such a masquerade meant punishment worse than death.

    There was but one path for Musette - to become, like her aunt, a plaçée - the mistress of a wealthy man, who would provide a house, gifts, and an income ... in return for all the pleasures, and the status, that keeping such a woman could give.  Displease the man who provided her existence, and Musette - educated, mannered, and unused to manual labor - could well find herself locked into a dismal future - the most likely, prostituted in much less gentile a manner.

    Looking for someone interested in exploring an odd relationship - not master and slave, but a more subtle kind of mastery whose control is no less for being wrapped in a gentile package.  Aside from the sexual and/or romantic portion of the story, there is plenty of room for plot:

    Some suggestions:

    • Political intrigue - possibly involving an assassination attempt on a French diplomat.  Relations were somewhat tense as President Andrew Jackson was soon to demand repayment for the destruction of property in the Napoleonic wars, causing France to sever diplomatic ties in 1834.
    • Voodoo - Musette's mother is a follower of Marie Laveau, and the Voodooeine has plans for the land owned by the man who purchases Musette's contract, possibly involving a feud with a rival practitioner.
    • Vampires -  If you've ever read 'Interview with the Vampire', you can likely see some of the possibilities.
    • Family Quarrels - There's a dispute over the plantation deed, and the cousins are willing to do anything to make sure they get what's coming to them.


    @}->--  @}->--  @}->--            THE GANGSTER'S MOLL            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

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    Prohibition era -- love, lust, betrayal

    The Gangster's Moll          

    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:


    @}->--  @}->--  @}->--            SWINDLED            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

    (click for details)

    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:

    Getting 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."

    @}->--  @}->--  @}->--            A HINT OF SCANDAL             --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

    (click for details)

    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.

    Despite 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 debilitating.  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.

    @}->--  @}->--  @}->--            LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

    (click for details)

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

    Les Liaisons Dangereuses        

    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.
    « Last Edit: December 13, 2016, 11:54:22 AM by GypsyRose »

    Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

    🔮 Characters in Search of a Story 🔮
    « Reply #11 on: February 18, 2016, 12:34:14 PM »

    Jaelle Zingari had always been told that her curiosity and her inability to heed the warning wisdom of her elders would be her downfall.  She was bold, perhaps too bold, and confident in her dukkering, her gift of telling fortunes.  What no-one had ever told her was that gift rarely runs true on the teller's own future.

    When her band of rovers camped on the outskirts of a forest that their captain had declared 'interzis' or 'forbidden', Jaelle had paid little heed.  When one of the handsome giorgios had come to the camp, giving her silver for telling his fortune and bidding her meet him later in the shadow of the trees, she had slipped away.

    Her would-be lover had not kept faith, however, but in the shadows and rising mists, she had somehow lost her way, and it was not long until she found herself hunted, pursued ... driven ever further from the safety of her people and their blades and magic ... straight into the wolves' jaws.

    Her beauty, and her skill with fortune-telling and certain healing herbs and mixtures made her valuable, too valuable to break or kill so long as her gifts run true, though she is still the property of the wolves and under doom of death should she attempt to escape.

    (concept created for a werewolf group game)

    Just Cass - TAKEN - Wanted: Dead or (un)Dead with ClockworkSoul
    Just Cass --

               (still mulling picture choice)     

    She'd been around for a few years, the scarred bounty hunter who had a reputation of always bringing back her man on any job she accepted.  Sometimes she hunted right off the wanted posters that were put and posted.  Sometimes a Marshall or Sheriff would call her in, or see her ride by, or holed up in the local saloon where she often drank with a purpose (even if she never quite seemed to get drunk) and enlist her services.

    Sometimes the bounties were 'Dead or Alive'.  When that was the case, almost invariably, they were brought back dead, on a ramshackle travois or flopping belly-down over the back of her pack-horse, an animal that was almost more unfriendly than its owner, and one who seemed not to mind the smell of blood.  "Less trouble all 'round," she'd respond if someone grumbled, fixing them with a black-eyed stare that said plain as day that she didn't give a rat's ass whether they approved or didn't.  "Doin' my civic duty and savin' the town some coin."

    Her name was almost as much a mystery as her origins.  When she was asked if 'Just' was her first name, maybe short for something sweet and feminine like 'Justine', or if 'Cass' was her name and she was just declining to provide a family name, she never did more than shrug.  "Pick one.  Don't matter to me."  And, seemingly, it didn't.  She answered to either, and to 'Bounty Hunter', 'Lady', or 'Hey you' and even 'Bitch' when the mood suited her, and if it didn't, she just returned a flat stare that said if the speaker didn't get out of her face, then it was comin' down to fists, knives, broken bottles, or guns.  That didn't much matter neither.

    At first, people had thought a woman, even a hard one as armed with weapons she seemed to know how to use, would be easy to push around.  They learned different.  The scar on her face that was visible, and scars on the right side of her neck, shoulder and arm that usually were better covered, said that she'd got the bad end of a fight at least once.  Anybody asking about it just got a humorless grin.  "Should've seen the other guy."

    She was fast, strong, and relentless on the trail, moreso than any woman had a right to be.  There was reasons for that, but they were her own.  Anybody didn't like how she did things could go do it themselves and leave her the hell alone.  That was all the same to her, too.

    She didn't stick anywhere long, sayin' she liked to keep movin'.  She kept the company she chose, usually those men or women who were of like mind, no stranger to passion but to whom soft words like 'home', 'love', and 'family' were best just left unspoken.   Sex was like the alcohol, somethin' to take the edge off, something she needed when the urges, and the memories, became unbearable.

    Quote from: potential opener

    Mackey's hooves hit dully on the packed dirt that was the main thoroughfare through town.  It was one of those rare times when it was wet enough not to kick up dust to add to that she was already wearing on her skin, in her hair, and driven into her clothes.  Even more rare, it was also not wet enough to sink her mount's feet fetlock deep in to the mud, which he would sling everywhere.  It was, however, hotter than hell, and the body lashed onto Fuckwit's back was starting to stink, at least to her keen nose.

    To the other riders, wagon drivers, and pedestrians who stopped long enough to take note of the sight, they probably couldn't smell anything other than blood, and maybe dried shit.  He'd browned his longjohns when she'd leaped out of the fog, and that'd only made the wolf angrier.  Once his throat was ripped out and he was gurgling his last horror-filled seconds on the rocky ground, Cass had been in no mood to give him a change of underwear.  He'd rolled in the shit of his own doings in life, so it was appropriate that she was bringing him covered with it, and, hell, she'd smelled plenty worse.

    A-course, that was two and a half days ago, and her nose didn't get used to things like it used to.

    She drew in the reins in front of the weathered gray building with its worn sign that read Manstown Jail, and reached up to pull her stained hat off her head, holdin' it in a gloved hand while she wiped the sweat from her brow on the arm, smearin' more dust into the sweat.  She couldn't see it, but she could feel it, and she snorted as the phrase "Painted up and on the warpath" came to mind, makin' her scowl as she slid down of Mackey's back.  Nobody came to offer to help, not with the scent that was risin' off the limp body, and if they had, a bad-tempered snarl from her'd send 'em packin' anyway.   The ropes that held old Charlie Cafferty onto the mule came free with a firm tug, and he tumbled off onto the steps leadin' up to the jail just as the young red-headed kid with a shiny tin star on his shit-brown shirt came nervously out.

    "Tell Sheriff Kent that I brung Charlie Cafferty in t'collect on the bounty.  Hunnerd Dollar, dead, an' he's 'bout dead as they get."

    "Aw, hell.  Why in the .. pardon my French ... holy hell didn't you take him to the undertakers.  Sheriff'd come down there just as easy.  God damn it, now I'll have to do it."

    "Cheer up, Dep.  It's your job to clean up the shit in city limits, 'n' my job to chase 'em down for you when you can't get it done.  Tell the sheriff I'll be back t'collect on what's owed after I get cleaned up."

    By cleaned up, what Cass meant was after she stopped in the saloon, and wet her whistle.  It'd been a bloody chase, and while the evil that Charlie Cafferty done that she knew about kept her from feelin' either sorrow or guilt now that he was cold, didn't mean she had to relish the doin'.  There were only a few she'd enjoyed the killin' of.  That thought prompted an involuntary movement of her gloved hand up to her neck to rub at the scars on the dark-tanned skin there, an absent movement that she wasn't really aware of even as her other hand slapped the hat back onto her head.

    The Deputy, his face screwed up in distaste, nodded his head but said nothing more, at least until he bent down and took hold of Charlie's boots to drag him around.  "Sheeee-yew!  Holy Mother of God, what a stink!"

    Cass didn't figure she'd made herself a friend in the young deputy, but that was all right.  Didn't need no wet behind the ears lawman as a friend anyway.  The less contact she had with him the better, and if the only part of the real world she introduced him to was the stink of death and the soiled trousers of a man who'd reaped what he sowed in full measure, then he could count himself lucky.

    Over at the By Jove Saloon, Cass was sittin' at a table close to the open window, a bottle of whiskey and a half-full glass at her elbow, feet propped up on the chair while she stared at the walls and drank, fillin' up the empty spaces and replacing the stink of her bounty with the raw smell of whisky, Sheriff Kent strode in through the swinging doors and squinted, blinking in the dim light, until he spotted her and came over to her table.

    "Don't get so drunk you can't head out in the mornin', Cass.  Got another bounty for ya."

    "Get somebody else," she replied as she picked up her glass and tossed back the rest of its contents. "I aim to git me a bath, and sleep until sundown tomorrow ... after which, I'm gonna sit myself down right here in this bar and drink 'til sunup ... or at least until they run out of good Kentucky bourbon."

    The sheriff, his face grave, shook his head, the movement peggin' him as bein' one of the purveyors of that filthy habit of chewin' tobacco, even if his mouth was empty at the time. "Ain't nobody else gonna do right by this one."

    His tone penetrated through the pleasant mist of apathy Cass had been courtin' with the whiskey, and she slammed the glass down with a grunt of discontent, but she was already straightening up, her feet clunking down on the floor -- as good an indication of her interest as she gave most anything.  She snorted, then poured some more whiskey in her glass, but this time filled it only half full before she waved the serving gal over and grabbed a clean glass from it, and poured the sheriff an equal amount.  It was a full blown invitation for him to continue -- or at least as much of one as he was going to get.

    "You ever heard of the Donner party?"

    (suited for an old west style game or story, and one that allows elements of the supernatural -- could possibly be modified for a modern or dystopian game with supernatural elements)

    Liv Head -- TAKEN - Back in Black with TyCaine
    Olivia Head (Liv) 
    The roar of the engine and the purr of the wheels on asphalt was normally something that Liv Head enjoyed, particularly on the lonely stretches of road between one small town and another.  In the wee hours of the night, on a road that she'd hadn't driven in at least a couple of years, with lightning flashing overhead bright enough to blind her as she rounded another copse of trees and the road angled sharply upward, she wished she was anywhere else.

    Especially given that the battered, filthy duffle bag slung into the back seat held either her freedom or her death warrant, and the car hot on her heels was making the second option far likelier than the first.

    Her ears registered a buzzing sound, rather like that of a mosquito, for a split second before it morphed into the report of the back glass shattering into half a billion green-tinted pieces that held together by the miracle of modern science and whatever remained of her luck.  A few pebble-like shards bounced off the dash, and there was a sting of pain and then warmth on her shoulder from where one of the propelled pieces had struck bare skin beneath the worn black sleeve of her AC/DC T-shirt.  "MotherFUCKERS!" she snarled, jerking the wheel in reaction as her free hand slapped over the wound, feeling the sticky warmth of blood beneath her palm.

    Big 102 was, appropriately, blasting out AC/DC's 'Highway to Hell' with the volume pumped up enough that she could feel the pulse of the speakers beneath her hand on the steering wheel, up her arm, and even through her jeans, tickling her ass as muscles tightened on the leather seat.  If it was time to punch her ticket, at least she was on the right road, the right song was playing.   At least she'd be going out going for the gold, pedal to the metal, living her life instead of hunkering down in some crumbling four wall suburban prison, waiting tables or wiping snotty noses and changing diapers.

    On the highway to hell
    Highway to hell
    I'm on the highway to hell

    Grimly, she got both hands back on the wheel in time to control the lurch from the wheel, which had gone on over to the gravel shoulder, as it got back on pavement.  Once it was all steady, she risked a look backward, hooting in defiance as she pushed even harder down on the gas.  She was already geared up, no help there, but at least she'd stolen a damn good car to make a break in.  The bullet that'd come through the window hadn't hit the radio, or her, and a hole in the roof was better than a hole in the head any damn day.

    No stop signs, speed limit
    Nobody's gonna slow me down
    Like a wheel, gonna spin it
    Nobody's gonna mess me around

    Liv twisted the wheel hard as she spotted the intersection.  Fuckers after her might be hot shit driving in the city, but that was long gone.  Two-lanes and dirt roads were her friend here.  All she had to do was lose them, and if they had to fuck around with the GPS to figure out which way they were going with no familiar landmarks, she still had a chance.

    The first fat drops of rain started falling, and she reached to turn the wipers on, singing with more gusto than talent, grimly set on her course.  Nothing else she could do -- even if she tossed the damn bag out the window, did she think that'd be the end of it?  Fucking hell NO, they'd hound her to the ends of the earth, and a bullet to the head would be the absolute best she could hope.  The dice had been rolled, and there wasn't nothing to do now but watch 'em tumble and see where they ended up.

    Hey Satan, paid my dues
    Playing in a rocking band
    Hey mama, look at me
    I'm on my way to the promised land, whoo!

    For a minute or two, as she navigated twists and turns as the fat drops turned into a deluge, she let herself hope ... and then there were the lights refracting from the shattered back windshield, the beam through the hole like a spotlight, a white-bright-moon instead of a little red dot, but the meaning was the same.  She had time enough to brace before they hit her from behind, knocking her forward.

    Yet maybe she hadn't pissed off her guardian angel beyond reconciliation.  Still, it had picked a funny shape to ride in to the rescue, a wide-eyed deer standing right in the fucking middle of the road, shaking its horns to rid itself of the rain.  Images flashed, combined, into a muddle of incredulous disbelief and a snort of sardonic laughter, and then she was rolling, and there was light and dark and pain .....

    ... and then silence, except for the drip of rain and distant thunder.

    Liv's head pounded like someone'd took a sledgehammer to it, or she'd given in to the urge to party down with a mason jar of white lightning and was paying the price.  She heaved up, surprise at being alive mingling with an actual heave from deep down in her gut, and then she was puking right there into the ditch that she'd narrowly missed drowning in.  Her car was laying on its side, crushed between a giant willow tree and the wreckage of her pursuit.  As lightning flashed overhead, Liv sat up and wiped her muddy-wet sleeve against her mouth.  There was a slumped shadow in the driver's seat nearest her that had a rag-doll sort of look.  She couldn't see much else, but nobody was screaming for help to get out or rattling doors.  Given that  the engine block looked like it might be giving a blow job to the driver and his lucky passenger, there was good bet that their dice had come up snake eyes.  The door to the driver's side of her door was open, and that probably explained the fact that her ribs felt like she'd been on the receiving end of a bear hug from some gigantic behemoth. 

    "Alive because a seatbelt failed,"
    she grumbled, and the scrape of her voice sent her into another painful paroxysm of coughing.  If there'd been anything left in her stomach to heave up, she probably would have made a greater mess of herself ... if that was even possible.  When she could breath again, she got up ... and that hurt even worse, but there had been no pink foam (or worse) in her spittle.  Limping, she made her way over to the car, stopping at the pursuer's lousy ass Nissan Altima for the sole purpose of making sure one of them wasn't going to pop out and make her night any worse.  Nobody was moving in there, and she just didn't have the stomach to try to dig through the wreck to find a gun.

    The pain in her body lessened somewhat after the first few steps, though it was going to be a while before she rocked out on the dance floor or was in the mood to do the horizontal bop.  With a groan, she opened up the rear door, which opened readily enough despite the seemingly loud shriek of metal.  She'd get the bag, and hoof it ... she knew this area, and there were a couple of places she could hole up for a day or two until the heat died down and the bruises faded withing walking distance, even if the walk was going to hurt like a bitch.

    It wasn't much of a plan, but it'd have to do.

    Except the bag was gone.  Liv leaned in further, getting on her knees and putting muddy prints on the leather.  It wasn't on the floor boards, it wasn't under the seat.   She searched, near frantic and close to despair when her fingers happened upon a familiar shape.  It was the bag, but it was unzipped, flat, and there was nothing inside ... nothing but a single bundle of bills.  All the scrabbling in the world wasn't going to make it fill back up.  The money, the drugs, gone.   The one bright hope in this shitty ass day, and it was gone.  Had it fallen out in the crash?  But there was nothing, and after a fruitless search along the path of the wreck there was nothing ... not even any footprints she could find leading away.  One of the passengers must have gotten out -- but if that was so, why hadn't he taken the bag?  It looked like shit, but it wasn't like the Black Gremlins were a fastidious bunch.

    There was nothing for it now.  She was alive, and she had one bundle of cash.  Sticking around here was only going to land her ass in the grave or in a jail cell.  Liv rescued her jacket and shrugged into it, wincing, and put the now damp bundle in the inner pocket.  Then she made her way to the road ... and hoofed.  At least there was no traffic, but fuck ... she hurt.


    It was nearing dawn when she passed the first house.  There was a light in the window - rural area, working class folk either getting ready for a commute or maybe a day of hunting, fishing, trying to put food on their table the old fashioned way.  Though her feet were killing her, and every bone and muscle in her body felt like it was on fire, she kept going, trying to force more speed out of her last reserves.  She needed to be under cover before it was light enough for her sorry state to attract attention.

    Finally, she reached her destination, an old, dilapidated house a little off the main road.   It was used as a drop site by the crew she occasionally ran with, cars mostly, not drugs.  There was a good chance the Gremlins didn't know about it ...  maybe they thought she was dead.  Hell, if one of them went back a bundle short, they'd probably think he took it and it'd be his ass on the block.  Even if there was a fucking horde descending on the old place now, though, she had to crash.  She was running on fumes, and those were about to run out.

    Still, she took a moment to poke around, just to avoid surprises.  Nobody in the house, and the spare key was still where it always was, in the ruins of a cut-tire flower pot.  Still, before she went in, she took a moment to limp over to the old gray-wood shed to the side of the house, and peeked in.   There wasn't much light, but she could see the telltale shadow of the  old car there, half covered by a ragged tarpaulin.  Why she looked, she didn't know, but one thing was for damn sure.  She was too tired, too hurt, to worry about what came next right now.  As the sun rose, she let herself in, and stumbled to the old dusty couch and fell on it.

    Even with the pain and the musty, moldy smell that permeated the house, Liv was asleep in seconds.
    « Last Edit: January 18, 2017, 09:27:25 AM by GypsyRose »

    Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

    🔮 GypsyRose Handbook 🔮
    « Reply #12 on: February 18, 2016, 12:41:36 PM »

    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.  'GypsyRose' 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 Capricious, Oft Slandered Muse

    some musings on

    What My Writing Partners Can Expect
    What I Ask in Return

    Muses, we've all got them, right?

    In a sense, I suppose we do,  though I've learned that not everyone's interpretation of 'muse' is the same. 

    One definition of a 'Muse' is a source of inspiration, especially a 'guiding genius'.  It is also any of the nine sister goddesses in Greek mythology who presided over song and poetry, the arts and sciences.  It is also used, perhaps not classically, as one's own spark of creativity and desire to create, and most frequently on E, that involves writing.

    In that sense, my 'Muse' is a good thing.  It's the thing that draws me here, keeps me here, through those (thankfully short) bleak periods when I think my writing could best be illustrated by vaguely warm piles of canine excrement drying amongst verdant blades of sunlit grass and patches of violets.

    When that 'muse' is on, well, hell, it's one of the best feelings in the world.  When you find that idea that fires you.  When you find that perfect writing partner who seems to jump right in to your vision and enhances it into a rich, vibrant tapestry that you can stand back from and admire with wonder, musing (see what I did there?) with wonder that you had any hand in creating it.  When you've written a post and step back with the sense that it was pretty damn good.

    We can love our muses then, no matter our interpretation.

    I'm not going to say anyone's interpretation of 'Muse' is the wrong one.  I'm only going to lay out what my 'muse' does and does not mean to me in terms of my writing.

    My muse may not always cooperate with me, but it is not my master and it is not some balky orphan child or uncontrollable delinquent that is impossible to discipline.  It is not the artless 'not my fault' shrug of the shoulders that accepts no responsibility for thoughtless, inconsiderate, or dismissive behavior.  It does not get credit or blame when I stay up late to write that post that's just burning in my brain, or when my brain goes 'look! squirrel!' every four or five words.

    I will write, and I will get that post up usually within a week at the very most.  My muse may kick and scream over it during those times when I'm down or I just have trouble remembering that I'm a smart, sometimes witty, sometimes funny, decently talented, and pretty nice person.  I may have to tie that sucker to a chair, get out the rubber hose, and bitch-slap out half a sentence at a time,  turn it upside down and shake it, but ultimately 'I' am the one in control.

    Very occasionally, real life (bronchitis bout over the holidays, anyone?) might increase that time-frame, but the information is in my signature and my A/As if this is the case.

    IF I cannot get an at least decent post out, then it is then my responsibility to let my writing partner(s) or GM, know that there is an issue.   Maybe it can be solved.  Maybe it can't, and the story comes to an end, but if I'm making that decision for more than myself, then I need to let the other person(s) involved in on it.  If I don't do that, then it is not my 'muse' that's being a bitch, it's me.

    Here's what I'd like my prospective partners to take away from reading this:

    • My promise that I will do my best to give you a post within a week if we're writing together.  I may occasionally stumble and let it stretch out a little longer if RL has me by the throat.  I will occasionally make an exception for this if I know a partner is on hiatus or if we are involved in several stories and I'm waiting on a response in those.
    • My promise that I will not just walk away from a story without letting you know, unless I feel you have already walked away first.
    • My heartfelt plea that you do not ask to write with me, or agree to write with me, if your muse is prone to leading you to not posting for longer than a week in certain stories while it is hyper-active elsewhere, unless you first let me know what the issue is and let me decide whether I want to wait for a response OR we have agreed upon a slower pace.  Typically, I need a posting speed of once a week to stay invested in a story, and I am reluctant to start anything with a slower expected speed. I would also include that same request if you know you may well get into one of those 'fuck it' sort of moods and cut yourself off from E, from writing, from communication without at least a brief message to let your fellow writers know.

    I don't like sending those 'withdrawing from the story' type PMs any more than the next person.  That's especially true when I like my writing partner and/or the story -- and, you know, I usually DO like the people I write with, and the stories I write collaboratively.  However, if a story has slowed consistently from the pace initially discussed ... particularly when stories are complex and there are lots of details that need to come into play ... I will likely be sending that 'thank you for writing with me, but' message, to free up both my partner's muse and my own to write where inspiration is active.  If a story that has just started goes without a response or communication for more than 2 weeks, I likely will simply end that story as well, based on prior experience.

    I'm reasonable, and I try hard to be both nice and respectful of my partners' time.  If illness, family issues, work troubles, etc. is keeping a partner away from E or writing, I am more than willing to be patient so long as I know that there is an issue. 

    Please be willing to give me the same courtesy, if you would like to write with me.

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

    Wandering Characters
    These characters have a basic history and plot seed, but the setting, time period, and storyline are more elastic and open to alteration than most of my plot ideas.  A story can easily be crafted around them.

    Historical / Alternate History Plots
    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.

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

    Contemporary / Modern Plots
    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.

    Futuristic & Dystopian Plots
    These plots are set in Sci-Fi, Futuristic, or Dystopian settings.

    One Shots
    These plots are not really meant to go long term, and likely contain a more immediate sexual premise, but there is still backstory and plot.

    Fandom / Canon Plots
    These plots are based on TV, movies, video games, and generally concern canon characters of some sort.

    Pairings & Settings of Interest
    These are generic pairings to give an idea of some of the kinds of pairings and settings that have immediate appeal.

    Visual Inspirations
    These are pictorial inspirations, or ideas that have not fully risen to the status of full-fledged plot, as well as some character types that I'd like to develop or write alongside.

    « Last Edit: December 13, 2016, 11:53:50 AM by GypsyRose »

    Offline GypsyRoseTopic starter

    🔮 Confessions of a Write-a-Holic - Share My Addiction? 🔮
    « Reply #13 on: December 29, 2016, 10:04:55 AM »

    Status Update:        have discussions going on currently - not looking for anything else at the moment    

    Please read my Ons/Offs (linked in my signature) if you think you might be interested in writing with me on one of these ideas, or suggesting your own.

    I play mostly female characters, generally heterosexual, but can also play bisexual characters.
    Some plots can easily be adapted to play with female characters rather than male. 
    Writer gender doesn't matter, though I do confess a preference for writing with ladies or lieges
    when pairing with another female character, mostly because I usually write with lords.

    I do have interest in playing a male character opposite a partner's female character, but this is heavily dependent on the idea in question.

    Table of Contents

    • Availability & Change Log
    • GypsyRose Handbook (a bit about me and what / how I write)
    • Wandering Characters (willing to build a plot around these characters to suit)
    • Historical / Alternate History Plots
    • Fantasy Plots
    • Modern Plots
    • Current Cravings
    • One Shots
    • Fandoms
    • Basic Pairings / Settings of Interest
    • Visual Inspirations
    • Ideas Under Development (ideas that aren’t quite fleshed out yet)
    • Placeholder
    • Title Page / Start at the Other End


    moved things around a bit to tidy up and reflect current wants 1/18/17
    made additions to the 'Wandering Characters' section 12/29/16
    added 'The Wild Hunt' to one shots, 12/14/16
    added 'The Witch's Due' to current cravings, 11/17/16
    currently seeking a one-shot story 9/29/16
    expanded on Visual Inspirations 9/8/16
    returned 'That Collar Suits You, My Dear' to Fantasy 8/27/16
    added 'Lady Luck Saloon' to Historical & 'The Devil Inside' to Modern 8/11/16
    changed status to 'selectively looking for specific cravings 8/11/16
    added a visual inspiration 7/25/16
    added Lacy Dalton & Angie Witt into the 'under development' section 7/24/16
    Rewrote & Redesigned Plots thread & Added New Content   2/18/2016
    « Last Edit: January 18, 2017, 09:29:22 AM by GypsyRose »