Verbally Tap-Dancing M for an Orchestrally Literate F

[Heinakori]

Yo!

I'll keep this short and sweet as my O/O went way off hand. Please do not reply in this thread but send me a PM instead.

I've played for roughly fifteen years.
I wouldn't say that I'm the best player out there, but I'm decent, okay? A fat decent. English isn't my first language, I'm finnish, and the anglo-saxian languages don't bend nicely on my tongue. As there's always room for improving, I'm searching someone with better writing then what I have - or matching.

I want a story. A saga, a tale, what ever we want to call it. I don't like from black and white things. I like from complicated matters, rough and smooth humor, plots and deceptions. I don't want to get my back rubbed all the time, but I want a real good story where I don't need know what happens next. I don't want to know what happens next.

I can make plots like this, *snap*, and I usually can make pretty wicked and good ones. I can lead a game and I'm a pretty good follower too - though you can expect me to throw some sticks on the wheels and wriggle and wraggle within the boundaries I'm given. I expect the same from you!
Characters I snatch from the wind and create on the spot, and I won't be telling you the biography of him. You need to find it out yourself.
Not a perfect couple, that's the fear? Aww, cute. I'm not searching for Mary Sues, I'm searching for someone who can play the character.
Of course I'll be taking wishes and hopes in consideration, and I'll do tailored tales - I'm not making the game by myself!

To put it simply: I'm looking for a very good verbal dancer to tap-dance with.
I'll dance Mystery, Coppers of all sorts, Robbers and Agents of all era's, I'll waltz Adventure, Sci-Fi, Horror, History and Post-Apocalyptic settings, but I certainly do ballet medieval low/high fantasy.
I really don't do "nice" vampires or half-demons/half-princesses and such: unless you are an outstanding individual who agrees with my O/O's.

Send me a PM, and let's exchange some ideas from the dance pool. I'll tailor out a plot for you if you are short of ideas. You read it right! I'll tailor out a plot for a PM, and throw out an opener if so requested. 

Some samples of my writing to warm you up:

"Meet Slava."

To be honest, very honest in fact, being sane in this world just isn't enough to survive. In the arid wastelands, you needed to be a bit mad to get the upper edge, to get on top of the food chain. Well, to the better half of it at least. What was considered "crazy" in the civilized ages, many generations ago, was "mandatory" these days.
Slava was an exception. He wasn't insane. He was ultra sane. He was more sane than anyone, leaping across the wall of sanity to the better side of it, all the way up to the highest peak of sanity and just over it. Just an itsy bitsy over it. Saying that Slavan was insane was just utterly wrong. He was completely on the other side of the Origin.

People didn't understand Slava, but Slava understood people. Oh yes. Slava knew what people really thought. Yes. What they really were. They were meat. Un-rot. Fresh. Not like, edible meat, but walking meat. Slowly cooking away under the scorching sun, or the poisonous air, stewing away in the sludge. They were all tangy and most of them were clever, unlike cockroaches. Cockroaches weren't clever. Rats were clever, yes, Slava knew. Very clever. Rats, they tricked Slava. These big-ass radiated rats were more clever then most of men.
As he was way too sane to live in a pack or a tribe, or maybe the reason was his structural bone damage that had deformed his face to resemble more of a stool sample than anything else, he lived alone. Only way to recognize his face from his arse was that his arse was actually smooth. Oh, and he had teeth too. Not in there! In the face. He had checked that himself a long time ago after having doubts himself. He lived completely in present, the only part of time that actually mattered in the exact moment. The future was yet to come and the future had a wonky way of always becoming the present, and the past never did turn in to the present, so the best place to be - obviously - was right now.

So, you see, Slava didn't quite fit into any society.
Poor Slava. Or if you asked him, he was very lucky. This world was perfect for him! Brutal, desolate, merciless, hopeless even. But what did one do with hopeif hope was always lingering somewhere in there, the future. He didn't need stuff like that. Only thing he needed was a another rat to skewer, maybe a carrion bird to bite through, maybe a bunch of tasty cockroaches.. As you can imagine, Life was fairly simple for Slava. He didn't have much of expectations or he didn't find the surrounding world as a hindrance. Happiness was small things. Rats. Cockroaches.

Slava hunted. He was a hunter. Under that dark mask of his, absolutely sane, these incredibly sane thoughts rolled as he was crawling through the endless heaps of steaming trash, prodding for few tasty ones.
Nutrition. Protein. Carbohydrates. All the good stuff in a ecological package. Rats learn very efficiently to avoid traps as they are experts in pattern recognition. They know you are here, Slava.
"Cockarsed critterfuck!"
That's right, Slava. We need to change the hunting ground soon. It seems that the local rats are either all consumed or have learned to avoid us. They have heard us coming a long time ago, not to mention the smell. What a great sense of hearing they have! Or maybe they hear the vibrations what we do.
Slava stopped and raised his face, all covered in a black leather mask with two dark lenses as bright baubles in the matte cover. In those two glinting glass beads, which prevented the methane fumes or dusting sand flying in to his eyes, a pale flash of the light from the dust covered as the pale sun reflected from them, like a dawn of a thought finally sunk in and lit his candles, well hidden behind the mask. An Idea popped to his mind.
You have totally lost it, haven't you?
Slava didn't respond. He was busy. This was the most efficient way to hunt, anyways. It saved a ton of energy and effort. It was genius.

So there he was, poor Slava. Lying on top of a mountain made from various scraps of useless stuff (for some) and saving energy under the blazing sun. Waiting for the prey to come for him. For hours.
He was bent in to a half moonish shape on top of the trash peak, listening to music that no-one played, while listening to himself rationalizing the situation. Head canted downwards on the slope and legs on the other side of the trash mountain, in a crescent arc, he waited.
Oh yes. Slava saw one curious little prey coming right at him. The rats had become predators now, coming for him. He knew this would work - eventually.

"What the fuck?"
When did rats learn to curse, Slava?
That was a pretty good question, he could have answered it, but he didn't. He just lay still, staring at the rat reflecting from the dark baubles of his mask. The fat, grayish rat came closer by the second, really carefully sniffing the air with it's whiskers carefully vibrating.
"Oi! Check this one out!", the bigger rat said, located somewhere on the other side of his crescent bent body. Somewhere around his-
"This fuckers balls, fucking look at them! Look at that! What a tiny little cock!"

Not everybody understood the practical uses his tiger tight jeans. He had his own reasons for those pants. One of the most important factors were, that there really weren't many pants left in this world. One was lucky to have one, despite of the fashion tastes of some. Somewhere deep down of all the thick layers of sane a certain Slava was getting a bit worried. There was someone right next to his balls. And presuming from the words, more like, many someones.
But Men were like rats, though not as clever, not as clever as what was the rat he had patiently waited for hours on this bent position. The fat, juicy thing scudded off with a squeak.
Protein. Carbohydrates. Calcium. Water. All the good stuff. Maybe they have some food with them. Maybe they have came to save your miserable soul. To give you a place of warmth, drink, food. A society with some standards of living. Maybe this is the turning point of your life. Maybe this is the salvation you have been waiting for. Talk to them. Tell them your name. Let's get civilized.
"Oi-"

Slava suddenly jerked upwards hinge-like. A squash of a broken melon as his prodding tool, a heavy leaden pipe with a nice nook on it's head sunk in. Splinters of skull floated in front of the gleaming dark glass orbs. Blood splatters flew on his mask, smearing his orbs.
Maybe you can still talk your way out of this Sla-
"IMMA COCKMOUNTAINEER! HIARRRRRRRRAAAAAGHH!"

"Medieval Example"

*Fresh*

"Say Sarge, Why won't they ever add roofs into these things?", came out a bit irritated question with a very deep "just-n-out'back'land farmer I am"-dialect, just a moment after the helmsman had whipped at few fingers with not enough wit to hide after a slash of a tad too sharp tongue.
Rain drummed on the flat-n-round iron helmet on his head. The sharp drops made a tune, rhymed by the creaking of wooden wheels and the slow claps of hooves against the muddy trail. The natural music was given yet another instrument to play: the mumbling, coughing and spatting of a short and reasonably fat and majestically mustached man.
The mustache were broad and thick, and brightly red, and they were constantly being pecked and brushed on by thick fingers. A heavy chain mail-hood clattered as the bright red mustache turned towards the helmsman. He coughed, and excess water speckled from the red hair. "Na'wha'that's-a good question, private. Na'wha I'll tell ya.. who the hell are you to question how carts are being built, private Cobbs!? You're a cart-driver in the Royal Logistics Company, not the fuckin' "Questing Question Quartet"! An' why is this!? 'Cause you're an idiot! Only SMART people do chariots!
Ya just hold ya sharp stick and point it out at the direction the crown tells ME to point YA spear! Now-ya-ask-me-one-more-question-n'-I'll-stick-the-stick-where-it-where -- THAT - KIND - OF A QUESTION --- BELOOOONGS - private! Now do you have any other good questions for me, private?", by the end of his rant, his face had successfully shaded with his mustache.
"Oh, Sarge, no, Sarge!"
"That's more like it, private. Ya hold on to that, n' ya'll get onto a corporal one day."
"Sarge, yes, Sarge.", the helmsman saluted vigorously with his whip-arm, and oh did the serenade of shouting start once more, fueled by a reddish slash under the sergeants left eye.

A deep, bass-rich voice stopped the furious whipping the sergeant was delivering. "Do refrain of shouting so loud, sergeant. These mountains have many ears on them.. And we do not want to meet the owners of those ears.", the voice said. One word at a time. The captain was a man who talked very slowly, like each of his words were made of very thick substance, and he'd need to physically form the words on his tongue before spitting them out.
He was a thinking man. A stout, tall, heavy man with an impressive frame to back out his heavy words. And he did not like these mountains at all. They had claimed many of his men, only twelve could ride with him back home tonight, and that meant that he had done his work poorly. But he had did it. A brief glance on the cage behind the cart made sure, that his men had not perished in vain.
She was important, but for the captain she had come with a price too hefty.

Evil things roamed across the land of Ivere, and when few decades ago there the biggest evil was man, now it had some serious competitors. Restless spirits, the living death, necromancers, vile witches, and various humanoid competitors had flooded in to fill the gap of a brutal civil war, which ended nothing and gave nobody anything. Nobles changed titles, castles had new owners, and tens of thousands had died.
And right after the turmoil, vile things rose. And the land of Ivere did not simply have enough men to keep them all at bay.
Some spoke of a dark plague in the east, whispers of the dead rising and murdering their loved ones, skeletons of ancestors rising from their graves and grabbing spear and blade.
Some whispered from vicious things flooding from the north, hordes and hordes of dark creatures of dark caves, and chased by an enchanted winter and snow, with snow-trolls, ice-giants and what-other-horrid things - especially icy witches, who wanted to squelch every flame and warmth from the icy north all the way down to arid and hot south.
And in south, hordes of foreign cavalry, men from the deserts with their black horses raided everything unliving, and raped everything living.
And in the west.. a sea most unforgiving, a devious archipelago with sudden shallows and horrible shoals that claimed the lives of many sailors every year.
And in the middle, there was the land of Ivere, jagged, splintered, and the only evil that could compete with the hearts of men that lived there was the dark hearts that invaded them from three directions.

The captain glared at his catch. The nobles were growing desperate, it seemed. Resorting into heresy. Faith.. true faith wasn't what it used to be. The captain sighed and turned his gaze upon the tired and weary soldiers that dragged in front of the charts.
New churches spurred out like mushrooms on autumn rain, all promising salvation from.. what-ever-evil you wanted to be saved from. No more lords of compassion, no more warmth of the Mother, no more blind justice of the light. But fire, and radiance, and loud speeches from old men, fanatics and perverts draped in gold.
And the people flocked around those old men, grasping their cloaks and kissing their golden rings, just to believe that a certain god would watch over them tonight, that the new god would promise a good crop, and that the goat wouldn't die in labor. And the men promised them that, and they promised even more, but you had to give when you had none: and be saved! That'll be nine coppers, and do not stain my cloak of purity, heathen!

The captain did not believe in such things. He believed in abandoned old gods: Justice. Righteousness. Courage. Compassion. To Good Deeds. He believed that there was no such thing as Faction Evil and Faction Good. There were only Deeds. The rest were Talk.
Good men that did bad deeds, were bad men.
Bad men that did good deeds, were good men.
The priests claimed this thought as "Heresy", and the nobles as "Mutiny".
But the Captain Ser Nari of Blothsville wasn't a captain because he'd be stupid. He had the ability of a soldier to keep his mouth shut, and do what his crown told him to do.
The issue was, that there were eight crowns in Ivere now. And his "king" was nothing but a young upstart of a noble that claimed the throne. The upstart.. Ser Nari did not know what to think about him.
He was obviously a very smart man, but he had questionable morals, he really did. He was morally flexible, so did the educated men at the keep say. Ser Nari usually plotted "morally flexible" = Evil, but..
There was nothing else left. Ivere was in ruins. The crown was gone, and the land was in turmoil. The people were starving and desperate, and enemies, more powerful than the one just before it, popped out everywhere.

"Do not strike your men, sergeant Lillipeli, under my eye. Save your violence for those who deserve it more.
And do not strike the woman, private Cobbs, for her tongue. She's a captive, and she has right to remain unharmed when under my captivity. Do not force me to threaten you.", the captain dropped the lead-heavy words one at a time.

"She's a heretic, sire.", a knight riding next to his captain objected. "And evil by root lives inside of her. And we are to smite all evil, are we not?"
"Aye, it does.", Ser Nari agreed. "But it is not in her heart or flesh, but in her head.", he touched his ornate helm.  "And if we were to smite all evil.. we would ending up sparing no-one. Use your wisdom, Tarim, not your temper."

Read my O/O, that is. I hope to hear from you!

[Heinakori]

Old Stuff

"Free Wings"

Setting: Space-Opera
Difficulty level: Very difficult (Politics, Deductions, Manipulation, Action, Combat, Deception, Possible Slow Romance, Low Orbit Ion Cannons, Monsters, Horror, SOUNDS IN SPACE!, Blasters, Smut)
Epicness level: Michael Bay

Short: A tale of legendary proportions from a chaotic young woman called Rhubarb and an aging ideological tradesman who, both from their very own reasons, plunge into an adventure to seek out a very certain artifact: A Chronocass. Not only they both drag their very different problems and personalities behind them, but the two just happen to be dragging You, and it gets only clearer and clearer that everyone with power and resources in the galaxy is also running on your heels now.

Imagine a galaxy shattered in conflict. Not by two huge corporations, nor two factions, but by hundreds and thousands of factions and regimes. Shattered is the very right word. And you know what? That shatter was just the beginning of something that would only get worse. The cogs are spinning and time is stumbling forth on its very own rather oval track in it's rather cubical form and the border lines on the galactical map are starting to move.
Something old is awaking from it's slumber. Something new is taking birth. The feeble foundations of a fragile peace are crumbling.
Brace yourself, for You are unfortunate enough to live Interesting Times. For the Dawn is rising.

Description: Hello! I'm searching for a partner in this long term game where I'd be playing as a sort of a GM. I'd be playing a female and a male-main, where as your character would be the Protagonist. As I'll be drawing out the world and playing most, if not all, the NPC's in the very "first steps" of the game I know that it might sound.. really restraining and really boring.
I trust that it is on the contrary, the roller-coaster ride of your role-playing life! Oh yes.
I promise that this story will sweep your legs under you and blow your mind.

Q: But hey, you said that this was difficult. How can it be difficult if you are doing the GM-thing?
A: Being in the back-seat doesn't mean that you'd be forced to be PASSIVE. No. On the contrary. The difficulty comes from the restrained character that I have to force on you, though I'll make numerous of choices and help you to narrate most of your characters life. It comes from that you need to relate. Feel. To go with the flow. To breathe. To conspire, to think, to use your brain and your character and his/hers limited abilities to their best extent. Be the player. Play. Don't be passive.

Because if you are passive or indifferent in this game you might die.
And then it's all over.
Just kidding, I won't kill you off unless you really deserve it.

There is no system or no dice. It is free-form science-fantasy/fiction? game and I'll try to do my very best to keep everything understandable. I'll add few sneak-peaky's under for you to nibble on and as you see, I have left them all in cliff-hangers to lure your brain into my net.



... You are a taleri, born in the temple-city of Galagahan. You are a genetic lottery-win, a super-human. Tall, beautiful, strong, versatile, intelligent, regenerative, complex, fast and agile, you are the perfect biological machine. The State is your parents: all the taleri-children are raised by the State, taught by the State, trained by the State. Your peers are your family: you were born to serve the military, as were your sisters and your brothers. The Crown is your religion: Long live the Queen. May the Light guide your hand and strike down all who oppose the Crown. I'lith Taler, I'lith Thoro!
You are truly a special sight in the whole system: for you are something that all creations fear. You are refined to the absolute and you know it. And that is why it is your...

... You are terran, a Cartellian human to be exact, born and bred in Glasborough. You have lived in an middle-class family, high atop the garbage that lives under you, and far below the real human beings that live above you. You were fortunate enough to see the light of Eltana's sun every now and then, and fortunate enough to be educated by the Logina-Co(rporation) in "Securities".
Being born in the middle-class was a parade compared to the lower employee-statuses, but your life wasn't and isn't easy. Every day is a struggle to maintain your feeble position within the company, and truth to be told, you kinda feel you are standing on a slippery slope. You have enemies, like all the important people do...

... You are something that, regrettably, has to be confessed to as a part of the human race. You are trash. A lower-scale employee, probably a result of a failed abortion, in Eltana owned by TreSec-Corporation. The only thing they thought was important to educate you into was telling you to do what-ever-you-did faster. And they told you that you were lazy. And they also told that your parents, both died in water- or poor oxygen-diseases, were lazy and that's why you are where you are. Because you are worthless. You make your living picking off the trash that the real human beings drop down from their sky-towering scrapers. You make your living in surviving. You collect your food from the trash, you juggle with the (literally) underground (also low-ranking, how trashful) crime-lords. But you are...


Interested? Send me a PM and I'll tell you more! Thanks!

All rights reserved

Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide

“Burning cherry trees.”
It was the most beautiful and the most daunting thing Mr. Callaway had ever seen.
Burning cherry trees painted on a black canvas that had swallowed all of the ruin. The dancing flames kissing all of the beautiful flowers. And after each consuming kiss the flickering dancers grew bigger and wilder, tossing cindering pedals. A rain of flowers and fire. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
And after mere moments, all what he had seen was gone. All the beauty was stolen and replaced with desolation. Ruin. Bitter ashes. Smoldering white branches that collapsed under their weight exhaling the last flutter of sparks on their last dance. The last breath of beauty and after that, it was all just desolation and ruin.

Jean Callaway was a man who had seen more than a mere man would have, but he had never seen anything like that. Nor he had never even imagined anything like that wicked, sinister play that he had seen that day. Undoubtedly he would never forget that sight. Even when the image was becoming more and more blurry as years went on and on, he’d never forget how he felt when he saw it. The amount of trees burning, the shapes of the branches and even the colour of the branches was slightly changed each time he reminisced about that horrifying day, he’d always remember exactly how he felt that day.
Too bad that he never told anyone how he had felt that day.
“Because of the burning cherry trees, Edward.”

He had carefully placed this very particular memory of his in a very certain spot. He had created an aphorism of it. An aphorism that seemed to fit in every situation he seemed appropriate to fit it in! And Edward hated it.
There were so many flaws in the handsome, composed, intelligent, elegant and very, very rich man that Edward had lost count of and/or gracefully forgotten due the virtues listed recently, but that impudence of creating an aphorism that only he understood and what he never construed to anyone, was certainly way too much.
Edward wanted a fight. He wanted a confrontation. He was apoplectic. “What’s that even supposed to mean this time, Jean?”, he sputtered out, instantly regretting it hence he knew the answer beforehand. He had asked that very same question so many times during all these years.
The only answer what he was going to get was that mysterious little twitch of Jean’s lip and the his sliding glaze which never landed on Edward. It was always wandered to the yonder. Gracefully it set sail into distant seas, pompously stating that he had already moved on.
It was impossible to fight with Jean Callaway. He never lost his calm, and he simply ignored his partner when Edward lost his.

“You said: ‘I hate this. Why, oh why do we need to attend to this dreadful, pompous party where most of the attendants hate us, and why does it have to be here?’ and I answered simply: Because of the burning cherry trees, dear Edward.”, Jean Callaway made an elegant cough to conceal the smirk that had crept on his face. Everything about Jean Callaway was composed, so calm. The way he concealed smirks, the way he walked, the tone of speech. Not one single dark-chestnut hair of his was misplaced, nothing in his attire was sloppy or slouching. Even the Callaway’s white cane tapped on the ground on every third step he took. The cane swung forward effortlessly, perfectly synchronized by the clapping of his shining shoes. He didn’t really even need that cane. His style did.

“Dreadful and beautiful, isn’t it? What it means?”, Edward continued to push, but Jean only continued smiling that small smirk of his. Jean didn’t answer. “What beauty lies within this cesspit? Everybody hates us. We have literally everybo-”
“We do not hate.”
“I hate literally everybody there.”
“We are politicians.”, Jean said.
“You are.”
“And you are in a political role as my companion. We do not need your fire and fury here, Edward, despite how much I love it. Quite the opposite. We need to remain calm when everything around us is not.”, the smirk had gone and changed into Jean’s normal state-of-face: into expressionless stone. The usual form of his cool, even callous composure.

Edward tried to find a single trace of nervousness, but Jean was an illegible book. You could find more emotion from a unpainted concrete wall than from Jean’s gestures or features. But he knew there was something, a flicker of trepidation somewhere deep under Callaway’s red- and white silk vest, a grey shade of concern somewhere there. He could sense it.
No wonder. This was no ordinary occasion what they were attending to.
Edward tried to swallow down his childish anger. He knew Jean was right. Jean was always right. This was a political voyage and they were on a mission. Callaway was a on mission and Edward, as he had chosen Jean as his companion and spouse, had to support him.

“.. and you most certainly don’t hate everybody.”, Callaway broke the silence after they had walked for few taps of the cane forward. “Did you not enjoy talking with the recently crowned queen of Eiron? And what about Princess Quel’Huen?”
Edward’s gloomy eyes brightened as he jerked his head towards Jean. “Are they coming?”
“No, but I’m fairly sure we’ll find as interesting people to talk with in no time.”
And this was what Jean Callaway the Perfect called as “Humor”. And Edward wasn’t amused.

He turned his eyes on the scenery beyond the glass that shielded them from harsh winds and the freezing temperatures. They walked on a long covered bridge that stretched over the vast gap between the landing pad and the floating station that it served. Each and every guest had their own personal landing pad floating amidst thin air, high and high above the highest tops of Eltana’s sky-touching scrapers, orbiting the floating palace which had been built for this occasion. It was as pompous as one could imagine - to build a palace just to entertain your guests for one night. A flying palace. With very own flying landing pads orbiting it.
They were elevated all the way to the stratosphere of Eltana. It must’ve costed trillions of credits just to build these covered bridges that connected the pads and the palace, and just to pressurize them and warm them.. and when Edward glanced downwards, he could see the people who had paid for all of this. All of these credits had been taken from the back of those poor folk, miles and miles of those poor folk, under them.

“We will show ourselves as interesting people to talk with, we will be talking civilized, we will be talking business and we will not take business personally.”, Jean lectured Edward. “They were our enemies yesterday, but today we aim to make them friends for tomorrow.”
“They are slavers, Jean.”, Edward hissed.
“Yes they are. They are also repulsive mutants that linger behind the Cordallian Grey Belt, and they do business with the Outer Rim aliens, build automated armies and are part of the Neutral Cartels. Eltana also is known from their notorious mercenaries, their high level of education and their very advanced service-droids that are illegal in our Sector, and they also have an outstanding academy where they pump out so talented spies that we are doubting if the academy even exists.
I own eight space-stations in the neighbouring eight of the galaxy.
What do you suggest I do about their slavering?”, Callaway turned his head on Edwards reddening ear. “Tell them to please stop? Don’t be silly.”

[Heinakori]

10/8/2018: Heavy Editing Done and Closed.