bad wolf
do you love my insides? the parts you can’t see?
I've found myself with a little time and a little muse and would be very interested in a couple onexone rps!
Some stipulations and/or information about my rp preferences:
Some stipulations and/or information about my rp preferences:
- I'm not really looking for romance. If it develops naturally, I'm all for it. However, if we have to invent a whole other character just to be the love interest for another, I'd rather we not. What I'm really looking for is a platonic relationship between two characters just trying to get by in an increasingly terrifying world. That'd be fun and I'd love to see where those ideas go. If romance does occur, I prefer it to be m/m or m/f.
- I'm not expecting you to write me a novel every time we post. Quality over quantity is a good rule to go by. If the scene is more so dialogue than detail, by all means write what you must. Semi-advanced to advanced is what I'm most comfortable writing for. You're in no hurry to post right away either. My only condition is that we each get a couple replies out a week. If we miss a few due to personal issues, I just ask that we let the other know what's up. I have a tendency of disappearing for a bit when I don't mean to and I'll try my best to let you know when I'll be out.
- I'm 22 going on 23 myself and therefore would prefer to write with someone around my own age. I please ask that you be at least 20.
- My characters also tend to be older in age and I prefer RL faceclaims.
- Chatting, plotting, planning... Whatever it is, I love discussing character or plot ideas with my partner. If you claim a spot, I fully expect you to contribute just as much to the story as anyone else. Suggest things and don't be afraid to make the rp your own as well. I love creating multiple characters for any one story and mood boards to come with them on Pinterest. Playlists and the sort are also always fun.
- If you're comfortable with it and wouldn't mind chatting there, I'd probably be more active chatting on Discord than I would here. As for rping, I'd prefer we do that through PMs here or on a public onexone thread.
- I am currently invested in finding a good historical rp. If you have any plot suggestions or ideas you'd like to test and expand upon with another creative individual, fire away, amigo. I am all ears. Settings I'm particularly interested in is 19th century America, the Viking era, medieval Europe, or someplace around the Age of Enlightenment. I apologize that I don't have any pre-made plots and I'm also sorry ahead of time if I reject any of the plots you may suggest.
- If you'd like to include other elements, let me know. For example, I wouldn't mind trying to incorporate supernatural elements in some plots. (i.e. wendigos, changelings, banshees)
- Loved and Lost: Born to high-society, Character A is the eldest heir to a fortune. After his return home from war, he falls from his family's grace by spending drunken nights out and about with people and friends he hardly knows. Fearing the worst, his parents attempt to set him straight by marrying him off, expecting the families' combined fortune to bring them further wealth and fame. While on the streets, Character A meets Character B, someone his family would forever disapprove of.
- I'd prefer this plot be m/m as I do already have someone in mind for Character A.
- Plot details are left vague for a reason. If you have a specific setting and/or time period in mind, suggest away. You've also free reigns on the background of Character B. c:
- I would like the families and proposed wife to be fully fledged characters rather than filler NPCs. So please claim away and be creative.
When his father had told him and his brothers that they would do war for him, his mother had merely looked at him, her eyes polished and red. They stood before them proud and determined, and all she could offer in return were her tears. He'd only ever seen her this way twice before when Brom and Arthur had left to fight in the King's wars. Two times. Now three that he'd ever seen her weep. Before they had prepared to leave, she'd held him with such ferocity that he'd been sure her strength alone would be enough to hold him back. No one would be able to pry her fingers free from his tunic and unlock her arms from around his neck. Long after their departure, he still felt her embrace.
"She does this whenever a bird leaves the nest." Brom's careful voice was almost a whisper in the night air. "She sends you off with her sorrows, as if you've already met your demise." He came around the fire with a bowl and handed it to Josef before sitting aside him. Scrapping at the sides of his own with a spoon, Brom stirred a hearty looking stew. "She scared me so bad, I thought I'd died long before I'd done my first battle," he said. Smiling at his bowl, he took a bite and nudged Josef with his shoulder. "Just don't think on it too long. The dead don't eat. You do." He nodded at Josef's stew encouragingly.
Softly inhaling the steam, Josef felt the stew already spreading its warmth. Normally, he was used to a finer array but his stomach was too hungry to say otherwise. Taking his first bite, Josef sat quiet for a moment and tried to keep his nose from crinkling. Brom only sputtered before laughing loud and full. "Not quite like home makes it," Josef tried, swallowing hard.
Brom had quieted to a chuckle but his bearded face still squinted around a large smile. "Ahh. You get used to it." Raising a spoonful, he poured it back into his bowl with a sickening splash.
"The problem is, I don't wish to," was Josef's only retort as he tried another bite. Gagging slightly, he sent Brom into another fit of laughter.
"At least my experience with such fine cuisine has spared me a few fights." Josef raised his brows questioningly. Brom was quiet as he looked down at his stew. "Tilda doesn't cook much better," he said plainly. Josef pursed his lips to keep from grinning, not wanting to insult Brom's wife. She tried her best despite knowing the cooks could do it themselves. With her background, he supposed she was used to the women cooking their husbands meals. It was a kind gesture on her part. "I don't have the heart to tell her it's dogshit."
Shaking his head, Josef clapped a hand over Brom's shoulder and squeezed, an offer of feigned consolation. "Do you really get used to it?"
Brom smiled. "No."
. . .
His father had done well to teach his sons how to battle. Josef had had a sword in his hands the minute he'd the strength to keep one aloft. Alongside his brothers, his father would take them out to the forest and would pit them against each other, promising only the most victorious a place at the dinner table. The others would eat in the kitchen long after the servants had had their fill. Josef could count on one hand the number of times he'd been able to join his father for a feast, all of them due to his brothers' mercy. They'd intentionally swung wide with their swords and he'd lunged, seizing the opportunity.
Josef could see that now, inexperienced soldiers swinging wide and hard. They'd seen their mistake long before Josef struck but had no time to counter, the momentum carrying their blades forward. They were farmers and merchants made to look like warriors, dressed up in costume and made to fight. Their armor was poor and their swords were blunt. Many wore only gambeson, the material hardly enough to keep them protected from a direct hit.
Gripping his sword tight in both hands, Josef moved to disarm one man. Gritting his teeth against their screams, he watched them stumble past and slashed his sword down the center of their back. Across the sea of flesh, he could see Brom twirl, parrying and striking like a poised snake. Their eyes met only briefly, their pause barely a second long. It was just enough to ensure the two were on their feet and alive.
The battle would have been easily won. Already, their numbers were surpassing those of their opponent. Lord Raymond's armor shown brightly against the tanned hides of Lord Asher. Blood swelled around their feet and muddied the ground, swords clashed and men screamed. It was a garish display of one Lord's power over another, but entirely necessary if Lord Raymond were to ever take the crown. Though Josef felt some guilt in taking a poor man's life, he'd do so proudly on his father's behalf.
The battle would have been easily won if they had not been out-maneuvered. He'd never seen a tide turn so fast, the water wash back and in with such urgency and purpose. It gushed and swallowed Brom whole in its midst, leaving Josef alone to face its wrath. One second, Josef was fighting a man in wraps and the next another in full, plate armor. Lord Asher's reinforcements had came in like a storm, their thunderous shouts a rally cry to those soldiers still fighting.
Josef's sword met with another, the clash enough to keep his ears ringing as he feinted a move to the right before swinging left. The man parried, their metal sliding as he pushed towards Josef. Stepping back, he swung, the sword connecting with Josef's breastplate like lightning. Stumbling back a ways, Josef attempted to use the distance to steady himself and his eyes flashed as his opponent lunged. With a grunt, Josef defended himself against a hard swing, his teeth gnashing against each other in a grimace as he stared through his visor at the other man. This was no mere farmer. This was a man well-equipped and far more experienced in battle than Josef might ever be. With the sun on his back, Josef could catch sight of the soldier's eyes through the gap in his visor. He found nothing there. Not anger, nor fear. Not even a resoluteness.
The man pushed hard and Josef found himself struggling to keep upright as his feet slipped in the mud. Planting one hand on the ground to steady himself, he rose his other as the man struck again. The sword connected with his gauntlet and drove it down. Reeling back, the soldier wasted no time as he angled a blow to Josef's head, the force knocking Josef clean to the ground. For a moment, he heard nothing, the blow sending a cold jolt through his body. He shut his eyes hard and opened them again to see white spots in his vision. He couldn't hear. He couldn't see. He could only feel as the soldier forced him onto his back.
As he fumbled with his hands, pushing against his opponent, he couldn't keep a whimper from his lips as a nauseating pain blossomed over his head, spreading to his neck and down to his toes. On his back and this close to his opponent, his sword would do him no use. He'd need his dagger if he was going to strike. Feeling the weight of his opponent on top of him, he raised his head up and looked sideways, keeping the gap of his visor as far out of reach as possible. He'd seen the killing blow. He knew the weaknesses of a man in plated armor. Pinning one hand under his knee, the soldier placed his own over the vent in Josef's helmet, rising up to put weight over it. Josef saw the glint of a blade, the spots in his vision nearly consuming it as his eyes rolled back. Using his free hand, Josef curled his fingers into a tight fist and swung blindly, finding a hint of relief as one wild swing connected hard enough with his opponent's jaw. Bucking up, Josef threw the man sideways and turned to crawl forward, blinking against a cloud of white.
"Brom!" He could taste copper in his mouth and nearly collapsed again as the pain in his head near crippled him. He needed his sword. He needed to put distance between him and the knight and shake this off if he were to survive. He only needed a moment. Kneeling, Josef slowly rose to his feet and cried out as he felt a blade slip through the kinks in his armor and into the back of his knee. Gritting his teeth, he found his own dagger and slashed back, metal clanging violently against metal. The blade in his knee twisted against flesh and bone and yanked back out as the soldier behind him rose quickly. Taking Josef's outstretched arm in his own, the soldier braced himself against it, applying pressure before sinking his blade into the flesh of his armpit.
The pain that followed was fierce and the realization that this was a blow he might not come back from sank like stones in his stomach. He yelped, afraid to move, and gripped at the soldier's hand. The blade dragged back and out. As he was pushed forward, he stumbled, his arm going lax against his side. Taking the dagger in his other hand, Josef turned to face his opponent but saw nothing. A warmth spread over him. It dripped down like tar and burned. He could feel it in his throat, thick and suffocating.
Sinking to his knees, he watched blurry figures swirl by him in frenzied dance, their music distant and horrible. Shutting his eyes against it all, he swayed, feeling himself fall forward and back again as someone took him by the shoulders. "Josef." It was a whisper. He was sure it had been a whisper. "Josef, brother, listen to me!" There was a commotion as the weight was lifted from his shoulders and he opened his eyes to see Brom struggling with another man. He attempted to rise to his feet but his body refused to move. Instead, he fell onto his back. As he lay there, his vision blurred, clouds of white swirling red before going black.
"She does this whenever a bird leaves the nest." Brom's careful voice was almost a whisper in the night air. "She sends you off with her sorrows, as if you've already met your demise." He came around the fire with a bowl and handed it to Josef before sitting aside him. Scrapping at the sides of his own with a spoon, Brom stirred a hearty looking stew. "She scared me so bad, I thought I'd died long before I'd done my first battle," he said. Smiling at his bowl, he took a bite and nudged Josef with his shoulder. "Just don't think on it too long. The dead don't eat. You do." He nodded at Josef's stew encouragingly.
Softly inhaling the steam, Josef felt the stew already spreading its warmth. Normally, he was used to a finer array but his stomach was too hungry to say otherwise. Taking his first bite, Josef sat quiet for a moment and tried to keep his nose from crinkling. Brom only sputtered before laughing loud and full. "Not quite like home makes it," Josef tried, swallowing hard.
Brom had quieted to a chuckle but his bearded face still squinted around a large smile. "Ahh. You get used to it." Raising a spoonful, he poured it back into his bowl with a sickening splash.
"The problem is, I don't wish to," was Josef's only retort as he tried another bite. Gagging slightly, he sent Brom into another fit of laughter.
"At least my experience with such fine cuisine has spared me a few fights." Josef raised his brows questioningly. Brom was quiet as he looked down at his stew. "Tilda doesn't cook much better," he said plainly. Josef pursed his lips to keep from grinning, not wanting to insult Brom's wife. She tried her best despite knowing the cooks could do it themselves. With her background, he supposed she was used to the women cooking their husbands meals. It was a kind gesture on her part. "I don't have the heart to tell her it's dogshit."
Shaking his head, Josef clapped a hand over Brom's shoulder and squeezed, an offer of feigned consolation. "Do you really get used to it?"
Brom smiled. "No."
. . .
His father had done well to teach his sons how to battle. Josef had had a sword in his hands the minute he'd the strength to keep one aloft. Alongside his brothers, his father would take them out to the forest and would pit them against each other, promising only the most victorious a place at the dinner table. The others would eat in the kitchen long after the servants had had their fill. Josef could count on one hand the number of times he'd been able to join his father for a feast, all of them due to his brothers' mercy. They'd intentionally swung wide with their swords and he'd lunged, seizing the opportunity.
Josef could see that now, inexperienced soldiers swinging wide and hard. They'd seen their mistake long before Josef struck but had no time to counter, the momentum carrying their blades forward. They were farmers and merchants made to look like warriors, dressed up in costume and made to fight. Their armor was poor and their swords were blunt. Many wore only gambeson, the material hardly enough to keep them protected from a direct hit.
Gripping his sword tight in both hands, Josef moved to disarm one man. Gritting his teeth against their screams, he watched them stumble past and slashed his sword down the center of their back. Across the sea of flesh, he could see Brom twirl, parrying and striking like a poised snake. Their eyes met only briefly, their pause barely a second long. It was just enough to ensure the two were on their feet and alive.
The battle would have been easily won. Already, their numbers were surpassing those of their opponent. Lord Raymond's armor shown brightly against the tanned hides of Lord Asher. Blood swelled around their feet and muddied the ground, swords clashed and men screamed. It was a garish display of one Lord's power over another, but entirely necessary if Lord Raymond were to ever take the crown. Though Josef felt some guilt in taking a poor man's life, he'd do so proudly on his father's behalf.
The battle would have been easily won if they had not been out-maneuvered. He'd never seen a tide turn so fast, the water wash back and in with such urgency and purpose. It gushed and swallowed Brom whole in its midst, leaving Josef alone to face its wrath. One second, Josef was fighting a man in wraps and the next another in full, plate armor. Lord Asher's reinforcements had came in like a storm, their thunderous shouts a rally cry to those soldiers still fighting.
Josef's sword met with another, the clash enough to keep his ears ringing as he feinted a move to the right before swinging left. The man parried, their metal sliding as he pushed towards Josef. Stepping back, he swung, the sword connecting with Josef's breastplate like lightning. Stumbling back a ways, Josef attempted to use the distance to steady himself and his eyes flashed as his opponent lunged. With a grunt, Josef defended himself against a hard swing, his teeth gnashing against each other in a grimace as he stared through his visor at the other man. This was no mere farmer. This was a man well-equipped and far more experienced in battle than Josef might ever be. With the sun on his back, Josef could catch sight of the soldier's eyes through the gap in his visor. He found nothing there. Not anger, nor fear. Not even a resoluteness.
The man pushed hard and Josef found himself struggling to keep upright as his feet slipped in the mud. Planting one hand on the ground to steady himself, he rose his other as the man struck again. The sword connected with his gauntlet and drove it down. Reeling back, the soldier wasted no time as he angled a blow to Josef's head, the force knocking Josef clean to the ground. For a moment, he heard nothing, the blow sending a cold jolt through his body. He shut his eyes hard and opened them again to see white spots in his vision. He couldn't hear. He couldn't see. He could only feel as the soldier forced him onto his back.
As he fumbled with his hands, pushing against his opponent, he couldn't keep a whimper from his lips as a nauseating pain blossomed over his head, spreading to his neck and down to his toes. On his back and this close to his opponent, his sword would do him no use. He'd need his dagger if he was going to strike. Feeling the weight of his opponent on top of him, he raised his head up and looked sideways, keeping the gap of his visor as far out of reach as possible. He'd seen the killing blow. He knew the weaknesses of a man in plated armor. Pinning one hand under his knee, the soldier placed his own over the vent in Josef's helmet, rising up to put weight over it. Josef saw the glint of a blade, the spots in his vision nearly consuming it as his eyes rolled back. Using his free hand, Josef curled his fingers into a tight fist and swung blindly, finding a hint of relief as one wild swing connected hard enough with his opponent's jaw. Bucking up, Josef threw the man sideways and turned to crawl forward, blinking against a cloud of white.
"Brom!" He could taste copper in his mouth and nearly collapsed again as the pain in his head near crippled him. He needed his sword. He needed to put distance between him and the knight and shake this off if he were to survive. He only needed a moment. Kneeling, Josef slowly rose to his feet and cried out as he felt a blade slip through the kinks in his armor and into the back of his knee. Gritting his teeth, he found his own dagger and slashed back, metal clanging violently against metal. The blade in his knee twisted against flesh and bone and yanked back out as the soldier behind him rose quickly. Taking Josef's outstretched arm in his own, the soldier braced himself against it, applying pressure before sinking his blade into the flesh of his armpit.
The pain that followed was fierce and the realization that this was a blow he might not come back from sank like stones in his stomach. He yelped, afraid to move, and gripped at the soldier's hand. The blade dragged back and out. As he was pushed forward, he stumbled, his arm going lax against his side. Taking the dagger in his other hand, Josef turned to face his opponent but saw nothing. A warmth spread over him. It dripped down like tar and burned. He could feel it in his throat, thick and suffocating.
Sinking to his knees, he watched blurry figures swirl by him in frenzied dance, their music distant and horrible. Shutting his eyes against it all, he swayed, feeling himself fall forward and back again as someone took him by the shoulders. "Josef." It was a whisper. He was sure it had been a whisper. "Josef, brother, listen to me!" There was a commotion as the weight was lifted from his shoulders and he opened his eyes to see Brom struggling with another man. He attempted to rise to his feet but his body refused to move. Instead, he fell onto his back. As he lay there, his vision blurred, clouds of white swirling red before going black.
The light of the fire danced about stone faces, creating the illusion of movement in an otherwise desolate and still place. If he sat long enough and stared, he'd see ghosts, dark shadows broken by the rocky crag. They'd sit and stare back at him, their mouths agape and eyes wide in misery. A gust of wind would pour out between their lips and wash over the fire, the embers reddening in defiance. There would come a tug at his clothes as the wind passed them by and he'd merely shake it away by clutching his shoulders tighter in either hand. He'd come to welcome the cold as a friend, his bristling hairs and shivers firm reminders that he was still alive. He'd more protection from the elements here than in the wooden crate he was accustomed to. The steep, stone cliffs curved about them and their fire and jutted out over their heads. It provided them a nook to hide away in till morning came and another day began. The sun barely shone over the horizon, the dark blue of the night sky paling and drained of color. Gray clouds swept in from the east, rolling fast and strong. His knees ached uncomfortably and he knew they'd see rain today one way or another.
Standing, he pushed a burning log further into the fire with the toe of his boot and stood staring at the boy sleeping on the other side. He hadn't seen him stir and he thought that it might mean the wind couldn't reach him there. With his axe in hand, he headed toward the mouth of the cave, scuffing his boots lightly against the floor in search of flint. The fire he'd made had taken so long. It'd been some time since he'd put the skill to use. Though he'd managed, flint would suit them better and would require less energy. Picking up a few rocks, he weighed them in his hands, turning them over before dropping them back to the ground. Dirt and dried blood stained his skin, most of it worn away but the grime almost permanent under his nails. Flicking his thumb over them, he strode further out of the cave.
They'd walked without stopping for nearly a day and a half, trudging up hills and over fields of moss with numb resolve. He'd no set destination in mind, no idea what lay ahead of them, but had pushed on without pause. The boy hadn't spoken a word to him since they'd left the chieftain's camp. He couldn't be certain that they'd ever exchanged anything more than mere glances whenever the boy brought him food or untied his hands. Though he'd known the boy had been exhausted by the end of it, he'd pressed on, part of him determined to lose him over the next bluff. Despite this feeling, every time the boy fell too far out of sight, he'd find himself dragging his feet.
The ground underfoot was soft where the rock stopped and the grass began. Heavy fog shrouded the hills and constant rains kept the dirt muddy and uneven. Though used to the conditions, he found himself careful about every footstep. Walking a ways out over the land, he took a seat on the remnants of a dead and fallen tree, swinging one leg over so that he straddled it. Sitting with his axe in front of him, he took in a long breath, holding it deep in his lungs. There was no hint of salt, no telltale signs of rotting underbrush, only rainwater and dirt. His gaze swept out over the hills before falling to the ground and the imprints of his boots in the soil. For a second, he contemplated writing his name in it, a runic language he'd barely had a grasp of when he was taken from home. He wondered whether he'd remember the spelling, the syllables. He wondered if the boy would even be able to read it. Perhaps it didn't matter.
Alone in the half-dark and not knowing what else he should do, he let out a steady breath and surveyed the land beyond their cave.
Standing, he pushed a burning log further into the fire with the toe of his boot and stood staring at the boy sleeping on the other side. He hadn't seen him stir and he thought that it might mean the wind couldn't reach him there. With his axe in hand, he headed toward the mouth of the cave, scuffing his boots lightly against the floor in search of flint. The fire he'd made had taken so long. It'd been some time since he'd put the skill to use. Though he'd managed, flint would suit them better and would require less energy. Picking up a few rocks, he weighed them in his hands, turning them over before dropping them back to the ground. Dirt and dried blood stained his skin, most of it worn away but the grime almost permanent under his nails. Flicking his thumb over them, he strode further out of the cave.
They'd walked without stopping for nearly a day and a half, trudging up hills and over fields of moss with numb resolve. He'd no set destination in mind, no idea what lay ahead of them, but had pushed on without pause. The boy hadn't spoken a word to him since they'd left the chieftain's camp. He couldn't be certain that they'd ever exchanged anything more than mere glances whenever the boy brought him food or untied his hands. Though he'd known the boy had been exhausted by the end of it, he'd pressed on, part of him determined to lose him over the next bluff. Despite this feeling, every time the boy fell too far out of sight, he'd find himself dragging his feet.
The ground underfoot was soft where the rock stopped and the grass began. Heavy fog shrouded the hills and constant rains kept the dirt muddy and uneven. Though used to the conditions, he found himself careful about every footstep. Walking a ways out over the land, he took a seat on the remnants of a dead and fallen tree, swinging one leg over so that he straddled it. Sitting with his axe in front of him, he took in a long breath, holding it deep in his lungs. There was no hint of salt, no telltale signs of rotting underbrush, only rainwater and dirt. His gaze swept out over the hills before falling to the ground and the imprints of his boots in the soil. For a second, he contemplated writing his name in it, a runic language he'd barely had a grasp of when he was taken from home. He wondered whether he'd remember the spelling, the syllables. He wondered if the boy would even be able to read it. Perhaps it didn't matter.
Alone in the half-dark and not knowing what else he should do, he let out a steady breath and surveyed the land beyond their cave.
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