Asteria
⚔️
Hello there, sweets! I am Lily and I am currently looking for a good ol' historical roleplay. Down below you will find more about myself, my roleplaying style, what I love, and what I look for in a roleplaying partner.
I have just one request from you: read my rules before contacting me. That is all. Respect me and I will respect you.
Annnnd don't refrain from contacting me about other time periods or ideas!
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RULES
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- Patience/ posting schedule – I am what RPNation’s community would consider a slow writer. I like to mull over my replies and think of the many ways my response could go before deciding on the final one and sitting down to write it. I am also a student and therefore writing ends up occupying the second place in my life. Even if I were madly in love with a roleplay, I wouldn’t be able to reply right away or numerous times a day. What I can promise at the moment are 1-3 replies per week, depending on my schedule. I may be able to get up daily replies in certain circumstances. Sooo, I do not expect you to reply daily to our roleplay or force yourself – take your time and so will I.
(THIS DOES NOT APPLY TO OOC chat - I love chatting with my partners and creating a connection, as well as fangirling over characters and plots so expect numerous replies there. I am chatty.)
- Age talk – I do not like to measure one’s maturity or ability to write extraordinary replies by age. However, as I grew up and entered adulthood (haha, I’m so funny), I can see why this may be an issue. I am a 20-year-old and I would prefer someone who is 18+, as I will approach darker themes in my roleplays. RPNation’s set of rules will be respected as well, so you know… fade-to-black and all the stuff.
(If you are under 18 however and you consider that we would click as partners, do not refrain from contacting me. We can sort something out.)
- Writing style – I love writing. I love fleshing out actions and emotions. I consider that I fit well in the multi-para/novella type when it comes to my writing style (to put this into numbers, my usual replies range from 1000 to 2000 words and I am able to reach 3000 words depending on the scene). No matter, my replies are usually so long due to the fact that I double most of the time and I include numerous side characters/ NPCs. What I ask of you is that you offer me 500 words (this pretty much means some paragraphs/ a document page) per character. Quality over quantity, right?
Concerning grammar – English is not my main language so I am not prone to judging others for their errors. As long as I can understand what is going on and the writing has a clean appearance to it, I am all right.
- Genders I play, doubling, and romance – I do love romance and it is a genre that I usually like to include in my roleplays but I can survive without it. Our characters don’t seem to get along and they are better off as enemies than anything else? Or just friends? Fine. I am not dying.
If we do include romance however, I prefer doubling as it gives me a sense of balance. I do not want to force someone to play the male or be forced to play the male myself. You want to play the male? Great. No? Great. So please, do not contact me if you double for the sake of doubling ^^; I pay the same amount of attention to my characters, despite their gender.
I do play both genders (with a preference for the female role if we go for only main character/ roleplayer) and I usually go for MxF. I am open to FxF and MxM in the right circumstances, but be aware that I do not have much experience with these pairings.
- Limits – I do not have any limits, in truth, but I am sensitive to some certain scenes (the rape scenes from Outlander, for example, I wanted to die). For the sake of the plot, I would do anything, in truth. In case you have any limits, let me know beforehand.
- Where I roleplay, where I can be contacted – PMs or threads are the same to me. I have an e-mail I use for roleplaying (Gmail and Hotmail), so if that is your preference, no problem with me! I have Discord as well, but I will only use it for OOC talk.
- God-Mod – Just refrain from controlling my characters’ actions and we are fine.
- Leaving the roleplay/ abandonment – Speak freely to me about such things. If you are bored or find yourself uninspired to continue, let me know. I have restarted roleplays or just started new ones with the same partners to keep the spark alive.
So I can see that you have gone through all my rules, please contact me through PM (I will accept a response on this thread in case you are a new member, but otherwise, it will be ignored) and introduce yourself, along with a writing sample. Show me you are excited for this, damn it.
- Patience/ posting schedule – I am what RPNation’s community would consider a slow writer. I like to mull over my replies and think of the many ways my response could go before deciding on the final one and sitting down to write it. I am also a student and therefore writing ends up occupying the second place in my life. Even if I were madly in love with a roleplay, I wouldn’t be able to reply right away or numerous times a day. What I can promise at the moment are 1-3 replies per week, depending on my schedule. I may be able to get up daily replies in certain circumstances. Sooo, I do not expect you to reply daily to our roleplay or force yourself – take your time and so will I.
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CONCERNS RELATED TO HISTORICAL FICTION
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I think one of the main concerns someone could have when doing historical-fiction is related to the question: how true can you stay to the chosen time-period? It makes you overthink. Did I get the costumes right? Did I get the setting right? The vocabulary? Did they have pens back then? Is this how they salute one another????????? ERROR 404
I fucked shit up sometimes. I realized later that what my character did was probably seen as socially unacceptable and people would probably frown than laugh at it. I imagined Jane Austen coming back and just hitting me repeatedly with the hard-cover editions of her books and leaving with my laptop so I would not write such atrocities again. Did I die though? No.
What do I want to say? Be open to making mistakes and learning from them. I do not expect you to write about that period as a historian would. I do not want to come off as someone who knows every detail and wants the perfect historical-fiction because… I am not. What I know usually comes from the internet and Wikipedia pages or books I have read (even writers that pick this genre AND PUBLISH ACTUAL BOOKS can’t sometimes stay as true as they want to that period) or period-dramas I have watched. Does that make me an expert? Hardly.
What else do I want to say? Be open to communication. Are you not certain what the social response would be to your character’s action? Do you not know if you got something right? Are you insecure about a detail? Talk to me about it. Chances are that I may help you or or we could research it together.
Conclusion? Acceptance and communication are the key for me when it comes to historical fiction. Roleplaying is fun, I agree, but I would like to see some interest from my partner’s side. I am not asking you to research everything, but I ask you to at least have knowledge of the big image of the period we have chosen.
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TIME PERIODS ~ PAIRINGS ~ IDEAS
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Here I have listed the time-periods I am interested in. Along them you can find particular events I look for and that are included in the time-period, pairings, and some tiny ideas:
- Ancient Greece
- Ancient Rome
- the 14th century (Italian Renaissance)
- artists and their muses > painter assigned to paint the portrait of the daughter of a noble family, woman cross-dressing as a man so she can be a painter’s apprentice
- the Medici family related > banks and corruption, arranged marriages for power
- papacy and the bloodiness that surrounds it (if you are familiar with the House of Borgia and Pope Alexander VI – Rodrigo Borgia – you know where I am heading)
- the 15th – 17th century (the Tudor period)
- court drama (ah, don’t I love this)
- arranged marriages
- the War of Roses
- any plot or pairing that is related to the time-period or a similar time-period
- the 17th century – the Musketeers
- the 1700s – early 1800s (the Georgian era, including the Regency era): here we can include plots similar to the ones in Jane Austen’s books
- arranged marriages
- forbidden relationships due to social statuses
- balls (I mean, we all are here for the balls, aren’t we?)
- the mid-1800s – early 1900s (the Victorian era, followed by the Edwardian era)
- I do have a craving for fantasy/ supernatural elements within the Victorian era: vampires combined with the reincarnation of a lost love, supernatural hunters
[*]something involving a serial killer (imagine The Alienist)
- I do have a craving for fantasy/ supernatural elements within the Victorian era: vampires combined with the reincarnation of a lost love, supernatural hunters
- World War I (1914-1918) – I do enjoy using the world wars as the setting for a plot (I am more interested in the humans of the war than the politics behind it. I know the history of the war. I have studied it. However, I am more interested in the psychology of those that had participated in this event and how the simple man saw the political mayhem)
- expect DARKER themes as war is often romanticized in historical-fiction and movies
- I will do romance in this setting; however, do not expect it to be pretty or easy (I want to believe that at least romance had a purity to it during the war, but we all know it is highly improbable..)
- nurse x soldier/ war prisoner
- nurse/woman x pilot
- woman x wounded soldier
- the 1920s (post-war period)
- gangster families, rival families, illegal activities and corruption (Peaky Blinders, anyone?)
- the 1920s – 1960s (the Golden Age of film > Hollywood)
- I do have a soft spot for the glamorous Hollywood and the scandals behind it
- actress x actor/ director
- aspiring actress x director
- I do have a soft spot for the glamorous Hollywood and the scandals behind it
- World War II (1939-1945) – read what I have mentioned at WWI as it applies to WWII as well
- jew x German soldier (I do not really know what to think of this pairing and considering the events of WWII, people could find this one disturbing and, probably, that is where I am heading > I do want to approach darker themes, maybe a toxic relationship)
- woman soldier x male soldier/ war prisoner
- nurse x soldier/ war prisoner
- French woman x German soldier (the German occupation of Paris)
[*]partisans
- the 70s, 80s, 90s – high school drama (Freaks and Geeks, The Breakfast Club anyone?), rock stars or THE DRUG WAR
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FANDOM ~ PERIOD DRAMAS ~ MOVIES ~ BOOKS
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Here are some TV shows, movies and books which I do enjoy and which are usually set in a time period that I am interested in:
TV SHOWS
The Peaky Blinders
Poldark
Knightfall
The White Queen/ The White Princess
The Tudors
I Medici
Victoria
Alias Grace
Black Sails
Reign
Rome
The Borgias
The Last Tycoon
War and Peace
Freaks and Geeks
MOVIES
Tristan & Isolde
The Pianist
Flyboys
Schindler’s List
Suite Française
Tulip Fever
Dunkirk
Suffragette
Rules Don’t Apply
Testament of Youth
Dead Poets Society
The Breakfast Club
*The Age of Adaline (I would like to play in Adaline’s past and not the present)
*King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (it may not even fit here but I did enjoy it)
BOOKS
Jane Austen’s books (sincerely, all of them)
The Brontë sisters’ books
If there was one thing that Lisanne Wright wished she could change about London – excluding the series of unfortunate and gruesome events that had been plaguing its streets for the past three months – it would be the weather. She had found it bearable most days, for she had the cold British blood and the utter ignorance for anything unrelated to one’s business that came with it, but she could no longer stand it. It was not necessarily the threatening cloudy skies, the relentless and frequent rains or the perpetual darkness that made it difficult to discern morning from night – it was the fog she found most unsettling. The smoke from the nearby factory chimneys, coupled with the air’s dampness, created a strange and dense mixture, which engulfed the Port of London, suffocating its docked ships and facilities.
‘It is not about the fog’, Lisanne found herself thinking, ‘it is about what lies within’. The fog had turned to be a harbour for heinous acts, be it a petty theft or a murder carried out for revenge, and those who committed them. A pickpocket, one who lured his disoriented victims into the fog only to rid them of their belongings on a daily basis was, however, simple dust in the wind compared to the murderer whose name had parted everyone’s lips in shock.
Jack the Ripper.
It was as if his shadow loomed over every secluded street corner, heavy and unforgiving. If it was not for the three men at her side, who the two united police forces of London had spared for Dr. Laszlo Kreizler’s arrival, she might have thought twice before venturing out that day. The reminder of the guns they carried – one carefully placed in the inside pocket of their fall coats and another tucked into their belts, at their backs – offered her some comfort. Nonetheless, they were dressed as civilians in order to not attract unwanted attention. Dr. Laszlo Kreizler’s arrival was no secret; the newspapers would not allow such an event to escape them, but the police wanted to offer the Doctor and his associates at least a day’s respite before they would delve deeper into the persona of Jack the Ripper.
And, as if on a cue, the minute the damned name passed through her mind once more, an unexpected and loud noise filled the air. It did not seem to be close, but it was enough to get Lisanne to turn her head and peek over her shoulder in the distance, dark strands of hair escaping from underneath her silk ribbon trimmed hat.
There was nothing of importance to be seen however, and, through the fog, she could hardly discern some silhouettes. Yet, the irritation in the tone of those voices reached her – there must have been a commotion caused by the bad handling of some cargo of importance.
Lisanne breathed in then, and she turned her head, her free hand moving first to her stomach and then to the hat atop her head. The veil that hung from it was still in its place, covering the entirety of her face. Her gloved fingers traced the material for a moment as if, as long as it was there, separating her from the rest of the world, she would be safe and sound. Whereas most had found the Ripper’s actions a source of entertainment, for what were humans if not creatures in search for bloodshed, there were some like her – especially women – who threw a second glance over their shoulder every time they left the safety of their home. She could have been one of them. She could have so easily ended up roaming the streets in search of men who were in need of relief or some sweet words and warm touches for the night if it were not for Dr. Victor Griffiths.
Much in life would have been different if it were not for Dr. Victor Griffiths. Events like this one were just another reminder of that.
Such thoughts were set aside though, in a corner of her mind, as she heard a pair of footsteps approaching her. And once the man, who she recognized as the Superintendent Daniel Shoemaker, joined her, it was a soft smile she greeted him with, noticeable even through the veil. This was her charm, Dr. Griffiths had repeated so many times before – men found the need to approach her when she was deep in thought, when she seemed so unaware of her surroundings and of those at her side. They wanted to see if they could get her attention, even for a moment.
“I think it might rain today,” the man spoke then, his gaze lost through the fiery clouds.
Lisanne’s eyes broke from him then and settled upon the waves instead. She did not need to look at the sky to confirm his speculation. It always seemed it would rain and, most of the time, it did. “It is interesting,” the woman added, her gaze following his own.
“What is, miss?”
“How, despite how much it rains in London, its streets are still perpetually struck by misery and tragedy. Rain is supposed to cleanse sin, is it not?” And yet…
The toll of a bell was heard in the distance then, announcing the arrival of a ship.
‘It is not about the fog’, Lisanne found herself thinking, ‘it is about what lies within’. The fog had turned to be a harbour for heinous acts, be it a petty theft or a murder carried out for revenge, and those who committed them. A pickpocket, one who lured his disoriented victims into the fog only to rid them of their belongings on a daily basis was, however, simple dust in the wind compared to the murderer whose name had parted everyone’s lips in shock.
Jack the Ripper.
It was as if his shadow loomed over every secluded street corner, heavy and unforgiving. If it was not for the three men at her side, who the two united police forces of London had spared for Dr. Laszlo Kreizler’s arrival, she might have thought twice before venturing out that day. The reminder of the guns they carried – one carefully placed in the inside pocket of their fall coats and another tucked into their belts, at their backs – offered her some comfort. Nonetheless, they were dressed as civilians in order to not attract unwanted attention. Dr. Laszlo Kreizler’s arrival was no secret; the newspapers would not allow such an event to escape them, but the police wanted to offer the Doctor and his associates at least a day’s respite before they would delve deeper into the persona of Jack the Ripper.
And, as if on a cue, the minute the damned name passed through her mind once more, an unexpected and loud noise filled the air. It did not seem to be close, but it was enough to get Lisanne to turn her head and peek over her shoulder in the distance, dark strands of hair escaping from underneath her silk ribbon trimmed hat.
There was nothing of importance to be seen however, and, through the fog, she could hardly discern some silhouettes. Yet, the irritation in the tone of those voices reached her – there must have been a commotion caused by the bad handling of some cargo of importance.
Lisanne breathed in then, and she turned her head, her free hand moving first to her stomach and then to the hat atop her head. The veil that hung from it was still in its place, covering the entirety of her face. Her gloved fingers traced the material for a moment as if, as long as it was there, separating her from the rest of the world, she would be safe and sound. Whereas most had found the Ripper’s actions a source of entertainment, for what were humans if not creatures in search for bloodshed, there were some like her – especially women – who threw a second glance over their shoulder every time they left the safety of their home. She could have been one of them. She could have so easily ended up roaming the streets in search of men who were in need of relief or some sweet words and warm touches for the night if it were not for Dr. Victor Griffiths.
Much in life would have been different if it were not for Dr. Victor Griffiths. Events like this one were just another reminder of that.
Such thoughts were set aside though, in a corner of her mind, as she heard a pair of footsteps approaching her. And once the man, who she recognized as the Superintendent Daniel Shoemaker, joined her, it was a soft smile she greeted him with, noticeable even through the veil. This was her charm, Dr. Griffiths had repeated so many times before – men found the need to approach her when she was deep in thought, when she seemed so unaware of her surroundings and of those at her side. They wanted to see if they could get her attention, even for a moment.
“I think it might rain today,” the man spoke then, his gaze lost through the fiery clouds.
Lisanne’s eyes broke from him then and settled upon the waves instead. She did not need to look at the sky to confirm his speculation. It always seemed it would rain and, most of the time, it did. “It is interesting,” the woman added, her gaze following his own.
“What is, miss?”
“How, despite how much it rains in London, its streets are still perpetually struck by misery and tragedy. Rain is supposed to cleanse sin, is it not?” And yet…
The toll of a bell was heard in the distance then, announcing the arrival of a ship.
‘You’ve done it. You lucky rascal, you’ve done it!’
Throughout his life, Marcus Isaacson had been surrounded by certain invisible barriers, ones he acknowledged but could not quite come to terms with, his Jewish heritage the most prominent of all. It was the cause of his frequent gloom-ridden and dismissive interactions, the scornful and distrustful gazes, the spiteful hushed tones that accompanied his every entrance and retreat – for a man who worked in a field that required trust and a strong sense of justice, he had usually been the target of mistrust and injustice. He had fought against it, relentlessly so, as a lawyer, as a Detective Sergeant, but who would entrust a man of a stained bloodline with their safety and life? None, for the Jews had been considered the bringers of misfortune and death wherever they went, wherever they hid. By trying to escape a life of poverty and misery, they had only entered one filled with blatant discrimination.
He wondered what his parents had felt when, on a ship perhaps resembling the one he found himself residing on, they had seen that the New World’s land was so close and yet so far. What had they felt then? What had they felt when the soles of their feet had been buried in the land which promised so much, which promised freedom and the hope for a better future? Had they truly felt hope, had they been fearful? His mother had hardly spoken of that day and his father even less so. As a child, he had thought them brave. As a youth, he had condemned them and found them foolishly blind to the chaos of the world, for if they had been aware of it, how could they bring children into such misery? But, as a young man, he understood. Perhaps it had been the fear of loneliness ruling over their actions, guiding their choices, or perhaps the need to feel that they had not lived in vain. They continued to live through their sons and daughter.
Marcus’ eyes were stormy that early morning, resembling the unsettled skies or the fierce waves that lapped at the ship, just as his fears lapped at his mind. His thoughts resembled the sea in its fierceness. His joy, the feverish excitement, was replaced by a sudden fear, a persistent doubt.
‘This is not New York. This is not that cursed police department.’
Yet, his mind retorted: ‘That cursed police department may be better than a city that fears for its safety and thinks that this new plague, known as Jack the Ripper, is a Jew of all things.’
The young man sighed as he leaned on the rail, arms crossed. His thoughts were interrupted though as his brother, Lucius, spilled the contents of his guts for what would be the tenth time that day. Marcus’ gaze followed his movements, his brother’s carefully folded handkerchief leaving his sweat-stained forehead and reaching his lips, but not before being folded once more. ‘Hygiene freak,’ Marcus thought. He could not help but be amused as he smiled to himself.
“Beautiful day, is it not?” Marcus jested, taking in a long breath before letting it out with a contented sigh. “Such a refreshing–“
Lucius was having none of it. “Shut up.”
His older brother’s smile did not fade in the least. “Good thing that our mother was not carrying you when she came to America or else we would not have been here in the first place.” Those words were enough to attract a scornful gaze from Lucius as his head perked up, too soon perhaps. Nausea seemed to hit him again as he lowered his head. Marcus only chuckled but, as the aggravating sound of a bell filled the air surrounding them, he shifted his gaze to the shore. The port hid beneath a dense blanket of fog.
Marcus’ hand found Lucius’ back, settling on the hard surface with force. “Come on now. You’ll feel better once your feet will be back on the ground.”
“I’ll feel better the moment I’ll be away from you.”
Marcus mimicked a wince at his words. “Your words pain me.”
“Your presence unsettles my stomach.”
Another chuckle parted Marcus’ lips as his hand continued to rest on his brother’s back. He only shrugged. “You don’t mean it. And shouldn’t you be over the moon now? England – oh, the knowledge. Now you can talk about Sir William Herschel and fingerprinting right on his homeland.”
Lucius remained silent. “If we don’t get this… killer either, Dr. Kreizler will be the one that goes mad.” And Marcus knew it to be true. They had caught the last one, but his motives had remained unknown. Dr. Kreizler hardly lived with that failure.
“Come on now,” Marcus sighed.
It was a womanly figure that greeted them as they descended from the ship, a man at her side and few others splattered across the dock – Marcus was the head of the party, with Lucius following slowly behind, still shaken from the seasickness that had plagued its body for the last few days. He did not think more of her presence, as she must have been their hostess, but when she lifted the dark veil that had made it appear as if she had been covered from head to toe, Marcus needed to remind himself to advance and not to stop. She had an understated beauty; her features were classic, common in their simplicity, but when her lips curved in their gentleness and her dark orbs shone with kindness, accentuating the faint freckles on her nose, Marcus thought that there must be more to her. Lucius appeared to be smitten.
Even when she extended her hand, gracefully so, as if they were old companions, Marcus was the first to grip it. Even her grip was soft, welcoming. “I am Lisanne Wright,” she introduced herself. “The personal secretary of Dr. Victor Griffiths. He will assist you throughout the investigation. I apologise for having to meet you in such unfortunate circumstances.” Her gaze followed the man at her side. “And this is Superintendent of the City of London Police, Mister Daniel Shoemaker.”
The man acknowledged them with a nod and a firm grip as Marcus dropped the secretary’s hand.
Marcus was used to different accents, his mother’s Germanic one the most prominent one. The British accent, however, had an entirely different allure to it – the accentuated consonants, the unusual ‘r’ and ‘t’. Along with her elegant and poised gestures that did not appear to be forced, she was different in comparison with the women he knew. Even Miss Howard had a straightforwardness, a roughness and an apparent coldness that could not be overlooked.
“Sergeant Marcus Isaacson,” he added, “and this is my brother, Lucius.”
Lucius hardly contained an eye-roll. “Detective Sergeant Lucius Isaacson, miss,” Lucius accentuated as he gripped the woman’s hand.
The woman’s smile remained just as welcoming, inviting. “Welcome to London.”
Throughout his life, Marcus Isaacson had been surrounded by certain invisible barriers, ones he acknowledged but could not quite come to terms with, his Jewish heritage the most prominent of all. It was the cause of his frequent gloom-ridden and dismissive interactions, the scornful and distrustful gazes, the spiteful hushed tones that accompanied his every entrance and retreat – for a man who worked in a field that required trust and a strong sense of justice, he had usually been the target of mistrust and injustice. He had fought against it, relentlessly so, as a lawyer, as a Detective Sergeant, but who would entrust a man of a stained bloodline with their safety and life? None, for the Jews had been considered the bringers of misfortune and death wherever they went, wherever they hid. By trying to escape a life of poverty and misery, they had only entered one filled with blatant discrimination.
He wondered what his parents had felt when, on a ship perhaps resembling the one he found himself residing on, they had seen that the New World’s land was so close and yet so far. What had they felt then? What had they felt when the soles of their feet had been buried in the land which promised so much, which promised freedom and the hope for a better future? Had they truly felt hope, had they been fearful? His mother had hardly spoken of that day and his father even less so. As a child, he had thought them brave. As a youth, he had condemned them and found them foolishly blind to the chaos of the world, for if they had been aware of it, how could they bring children into such misery? But, as a young man, he understood. Perhaps it had been the fear of loneliness ruling over their actions, guiding their choices, or perhaps the need to feel that they had not lived in vain. They continued to live through their sons and daughter.
Marcus’ eyes were stormy that early morning, resembling the unsettled skies or the fierce waves that lapped at the ship, just as his fears lapped at his mind. His thoughts resembled the sea in its fierceness. His joy, the feverish excitement, was replaced by a sudden fear, a persistent doubt.
‘This is not New York. This is not that cursed police department.’
Yet, his mind retorted: ‘That cursed police department may be better than a city that fears for its safety and thinks that this new plague, known as Jack the Ripper, is a Jew of all things.’
The young man sighed as he leaned on the rail, arms crossed. His thoughts were interrupted though as his brother, Lucius, spilled the contents of his guts for what would be the tenth time that day. Marcus’ gaze followed his movements, his brother’s carefully folded handkerchief leaving his sweat-stained forehead and reaching his lips, but not before being folded once more. ‘Hygiene freak,’ Marcus thought. He could not help but be amused as he smiled to himself.
“Beautiful day, is it not?” Marcus jested, taking in a long breath before letting it out with a contented sigh. “Such a refreshing–“
Lucius was having none of it. “Shut up.”
His older brother’s smile did not fade in the least. “Good thing that our mother was not carrying you when she came to America or else we would not have been here in the first place.” Those words were enough to attract a scornful gaze from Lucius as his head perked up, too soon perhaps. Nausea seemed to hit him again as he lowered his head. Marcus only chuckled but, as the aggravating sound of a bell filled the air surrounding them, he shifted his gaze to the shore. The port hid beneath a dense blanket of fog.
Marcus’ hand found Lucius’ back, settling on the hard surface with force. “Come on now. You’ll feel better once your feet will be back on the ground.”
“I’ll feel better the moment I’ll be away from you.”
Marcus mimicked a wince at his words. “Your words pain me.”
“Your presence unsettles my stomach.”
Another chuckle parted Marcus’ lips as his hand continued to rest on his brother’s back. He only shrugged. “You don’t mean it. And shouldn’t you be over the moon now? England – oh, the knowledge. Now you can talk about Sir William Herschel and fingerprinting right on his homeland.”
Lucius remained silent. “If we don’t get this… killer either, Dr. Kreizler will be the one that goes mad.” And Marcus knew it to be true. They had caught the last one, but his motives had remained unknown. Dr. Kreizler hardly lived with that failure.
“Come on now,” Marcus sighed.
It was a womanly figure that greeted them as they descended from the ship, a man at her side and few others splattered across the dock – Marcus was the head of the party, with Lucius following slowly behind, still shaken from the seasickness that had plagued its body for the last few days. He did not think more of her presence, as she must have been their hostess, but when she lifted the dark veil that had made it appear as if she had been covered from head to toe, Marcus needed to remind himself to advance and not to stop. She had an understated beauty; her features were classic, common in their simplicity, but when her lips curved in their gentleness and her dark orbs shone with kindness, accentuating the faint freckles on her nose, Marcus thought that there must be more to her. Lucius appeared to be smitten.
Even when she extended her hand, gracefully so, as if they were old companions, Marcus was the first to grip it. Even her grip was soft, welcoming. “I am Lisanne Wright,” she introduced herself. “The personal secretary of Dr. Victor Griffiths. He will assist you throughout the investigation. I apologise for having to meet you in such unfortunate circumstances.” Her gaze followed the man at her side. “And this is Superintendent of the City of London Police, Mister Daniel Shoemaker.”
The man acknowledged them with a nod and a firm grip as Marcus dropped the secretary’s hand.
Marcus was used to different accents, his mother’s Germanic one the most prominent one. The British accent, however, had an entirely different allure to it – the accentuated consonants, the unusual ‘r’ and ‘t’. Along with her elegant and poised gestures that did not appear to be forced, she was different in comparison with the women he knew. Even Miss Howard had a straightforwardness, a roughness and an apparent coldness that could not be overlooked.
“Sergeant Marcus Isaacson,” he added, “and this is my brother, Lucius.”
Lucius hardly contained an eye-roll. “Detective Sergeant Lucius Isaacson, miss,” Lucius accentuated as he gripped the woman’s hand.
The woman’s smile remained just as welcoming, inviting. “Welcome to London.”
‘I am no tyrant.’ The other words of the woman were engulfed by the loudness of a single word – a mark that Katalina had borne since birth. Perhaps her thoughts were childlike, considering the circumstances she found herself in, as she was bothered by no other detail except the given attribute and the woman’s tone. Her wits must have been affected by the musty and boiling air and the vivid memory of the haunting dream that never allowed her the mercy of a peaceful sleep. How wonderful must it be to sleep, to forget the existence of such a hostile world and be submerged in a sea of pure relaxation and peace. There was a time, a distant one, in which Katalina had known such peace, tucked away in the warmth of her mother’s chest when the coldness of the night was too hard to bear. But since then, many merciless nights had passed over her that had left her gasping in her own sweat, the ringing screams of her heart and the blood it pulsated vibrating in her ears.
Fear fed those dreams, lingering at their roots. Katalina had wanted to believe that her fear was normal – a precursor to bravery and that it was meant to shape her – but no courage followed the dark dreams and the restlessness they inflicted. She only felt the bitter taste of despair, for when she succumbed to the overwhelming fear she lost herself a little more.
Yet, she woke too soon. The dream had not followed its usual course. She hadn’t been the spared its ending whatsoever, as the creations of her mind molded into the harshness of the reality she was presented with. There was a strange familiarity in the approaching steps, a familiarity that made her wince and her guts to painfully twist. Yet, the man her mind associated with the steps could not be there. It was impossible, but her imagination twisted the thought no matter.
As if to ease her worries, the strange woman’s voice was heard, announcing the arrival of the captain. Katalina’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice, only then realizing she had closed them, and her troubled gaze fell upon the man who called himself the captain of the ship she resided on. She knew she had to leave her fear aside, for she had to be as strong as her namesake and present the power that dwelled underneath her titles and position. A simple illusion of power was not enough, not for a warden. Even those low men had expectations, searching for a flame of confidence that they could tame. Fear would never be a choice she could consider, for she’ll never allow that weakness to define her. Her chin rose defiantly as her eyes sought his own, but his gaze did not meet hers.
No words accompanied his looks. He only watched, his eyes travelling from her calf to her thigh and up, over the swell of her chest, taking in every detail of the way the silks tightened over the heated flesh and the curves they exposed. She had never been blind to such looks or the thoughts that resided behind them and what the sight of a woman, as the one she presented, inflicted on men. None other had watched her so shamelessly before though, as she was just a prize in his possession – as if she belonged to him. The mere thought pushed her to press her knees together, bringing them closer to her chest. When his eyes rose to her face and met the darkness of her eyes, Katalina’s expression bore something between hatred and shame. Whereas his gaze had travelled all along her form, her own did not wander farther from his face.
When he had started speaking, she did not remain silent. “You did not deserve that honour.” Her tone was harsher than she had intended it to be – her voice ragged due to her dry throat. “You’ve stolen it. There’s a difference.”
And damned be she if she’d dance to his tune. Yet, she had allowed her pride to settle to the bottom of her heart as she took in his next words: they were in the middle of Nebulam Sea, moving North East… and there was the burning reason, the burning answer she had expected, one she could guess so easily from the hints he gave her. She had been captured for ransom. Her fingers were brought into a tight fist, her nails digging into the calloused skin of her palm. ‘Not now. Not now!’ All could end in ruin.
Katalina hardly allowed a moment to pass between his question and her own. “The Gatekeepers of the Sea, isn’t it?” For who else would have had the courage?
The Gatekeepers of the Sea were known to the woman. There had been mere whispers of their appearance on the seas when she was younger. As their influence grew, their name was no longer whispered – it was cursed so loudly that one could no longer be indifferent to it. Merchants had flooded the audiences’ chamber, some with their minds stained by worry while others had already fallen prey to the conquering fleet. The royal fleet itself was aware of the threat they represented. Her father, ignorant in his pride, had thought himself invincible and therefore, turned a blind eye to their actions, as if they may vanish so. As if, one day, they would not rise against the king himself if given the chance.
But Katalina had not remained blind. Every man of influence that could raise a sword against her and be followed by others was known and carefully watched. The seas had remained untouchable though, their secrets carefully hidden from one’s eyes and ears. She had been unable to see this attack coming, to prevent it or stop it.
“And the captain you must be. Damien Glascow.” It was then when she tried to raise, to feel her legs again. “Do you know what they call you? The Ghost. The Risen Dead Man,” she came closer to the bars of the cell with each word, supporting herself against the wooden wall. “But around corners, the Navy calls you a traitor.” Her hand grabbed one bar. The other followed its example. “A coward. A man who knows nor the meaning of honour, nor duty. There’s even a not so small compensation for the one who will catch you alive… or dead.”
She did not know from where did her body muster the strength to stand up, to look at him straight in the eye. Was her fear of the outcome controlling her actions then? The memory of those she had left unprotected back home? Or was it a childish fear, settled deep in her heart that no one would come to her rescue? “But for now, I’d like to believe that those whispers are not true.”
Her eyes bore an unsettled fire, but calmness ruled over the tone of her as she sought to accentuate her position. “I represent Haathiel. I am Haathiel. If you want to parley with Haathiel, you have to parley with me. Don’t you desire to know what would follow your actions? Don’t you desire to know if you truly have a treasure in your possession or just another mouth to feed?”
He must have had just as many questions as she did.
Fear fed those dreams, lingering at their roots. Katalina had wanted to believe that her fear was normal – a precursor to bravery and that it was meant to shape her – but no courage followed the dark dreams and the restlessness they inflicted. She only felt the bitter taste of despair, for when she succumbed to the overwhelming fear she lost herself a little more.
Yet, she woke too soon. The dream had not followed its usual course. She hadn’t been the spared its ending whatsoever, as the creations of her mind molded into the harshness of the reality she was presented with. There was a strange familiarity in the approaching steps, a familiarity that made her wince and her guts to painfully twist. Yet, the man her mind associated with the steps could not be there. It was impossible, but her imagination twisted the thought no matter.
As if to ease her worries, the strange woman’s voice was heard, announcing the arrival of the captain. Katalina’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice, only then realizing she had closed them, and her troubled gaze fell upon the man who called himself the captain of the ship she resided on. She knew she had to leave her fear aside, for she had to be as strong as her namesake and present the power that dwelled underneath her titles and position. A simple illusion of power was not enough, not for a warden. Even those low men had expectations, searching for a flame of confidence that they could tame. Fear would never be a choice she could consider, for she’ll never allow that weakness to define her. Her chin rose defiantly as her eyes sought his own, but his gaze did not meet hers.
No words accompanied his looks. He only watched, his eyes travelling from her calf to her thigh and up, over the swell of her chest, taking in every detail of the way the silks tightened over the heated flesh and the curves they exposed. She had never been blind to such looks or the thoughts that resided behind them and what the sight of a woman, as the one she presented, inflicted on men. None other had watched her so shamelessly before though, as she was just a prize in his possession – as if she belonged to him. The mere thought pushed her to press her knees together, bringing them closer to her chest. When his eyes rose to her face and met the darkness of her eyes, Katalina’s expression bore something between hatred and shame. Whereas his gaze had travelled all along her form, her own did not wander farther from his face.
When he had started speaking, she did not remain silent. “You did not deserve that honour.” Her tone was harsher than she had intended it to be – her voice ragged due to her dry throat. “You’ve stolen it. There’s a difference.”
And damned be she if she’d dance to his tune. Yet, she had allowed her pride to settle to the bottom of her heart as she took in his next words: they were in the middle of Nebulam Sea, moving North East… and there was the burning reason, the burning answer she had expected, one she could guess so easily from the hints he gave her. She had been captured for ransom. Her fingers were brought into a tight fist, her nails digging into the calloused skin of her palm. ‘Not now. Not now!’ All could end in ruin.
Katalina hardly allowed a moment to pass between his question and her own. “The Gatekeepers of the Sea, isn’t it?” For who else would have had the courage?
The Gatekeepers of the Sea were known to the woman. There had been mere whispers of their appearance on the seas when she was younger. As their influence grew, their name was no longer whispered – it was cursed so loudly that one could no longer be indifferent to it. Merchants had flooded the audiences’ chamber, some with their minds stained by worry while others had already fallen prey to the conquering fleet. The royal fleet itself was aware of the threat they represented. Her father, ignorant in his pride, had thought himself invincible and therefore, turned a blind eye to their actions, as if they may vanish so. As if, one day, they would not rise against the king himself if given the chance.
But Katalina had not remained blind. Every man of influence that could raise a sword against her and be followed by others was known and carefully watched. The seas had remained untouchable though, their secrets carefully hidden from one’s eyes and ears. She had been unable to see this attack coming, to prevent it or stop it.
“And the captain you must be. Damien Glascow.” It was then when she tried to raise, to feel her legs again. “Do you know what they call you? The Ghost. The Risen Dead Man,” she came closer to the bars of the cell with each word, supporting herself against the wooden wall. “But around corners, the Navy calls you a traitor.” Her hand grabbed one bar. The other followed its example. “A coward. A man who knows nor the meaning of honour, nor duty. There’s even a not so small compensation for the one who will catch you alive… or dead.”
She did not know from where did her body muster the strength to stand up, to look at him straight in the eye. Was her fear of the outcome controlling her actions then? The memory of those she had left unprotected back home? Or was it a childish fear, settled deep in her heart that no one would come to her rescue? “But for now, I’d like to believe that those whispers are not true.”
Her eyes bore an unsettled fire, but calmness ruled over the tone of her as she sought to accentuate her position. “I represent Haathiel. I am Haathiel. If you want to parley with Haathiel, you have to parley with me. Don’t you desire to know what would follow your actions? Don’t you desire to know if you truly have a treasure in your possession or just another mouth to feed?”
He must have had just as many questions as she did.
With another exchange of illusory promises, the young princess broke from her mother’s side, much to her dismay. The Queen’s discontent seemed to come to the surface as the name of her oldest daughter’s name passed Princess Vivian’s lips – her nails scratched lightly at Ser Asherborne’s vambrace, his offer of assistance accepted at last, as she braced against the desire to let her fingers coil around her rose’s flesh and hold on to the life inside of her. Whereas her eyes tried to reach the fruit of her womb, her body remained unmoving in its frailness. She left her body to succumb to her tiredness and fear but when her gaze reached the warrior she had entrusted with the most precious gem of Haathiel, nothing of those emotions could be distinguished. It only burnt, reiterating the threat from before: “If she dies, it’s his head; he goes with her, one way or another.” With a bow of his head, Ser Vane silently acknowledged the hidden meaning before moving to join the princess.
A dog at its master’s heel he was, for when he reached her, he did not allow himself to fall far behind. Yet, there were those moments in which she would be ahead of him with just a few steps, enough for the knight to become aware of the lack of similarity between her and the environment she had been brought in. There was a light within, a spark that was accentuated by each light step she took. Her walk did not fit the solemnity of the darkness that surrounded her, nor did it remind him of her sister’s calculated stride. It was as if hers hid a child’s curiosity for the unknown and the impatience that came with it, a detail that Ser Vane could not comprehend.
Had the lives that his father had mercilessly stolen from the land been given to her, to enhance her vitality and beauty? Did she feed on the suffering and death that plagued these walls?
‘No,’ the knight thought to himself. ‘Or else she would not be as blind to the consequences of her family’s actions. She would fear those willing to retrieve their lives.’ Her words betrayed that she was indeed blind or ignorant of what could befall her. Many would search to spill her blood, perhaps even more now that the shadow of her sister no longer loomed over the land. ‘There is more lurking in the shadows, princess.’
Nonetheless, he did not speak. Not as if he would have done so in other circumstances – even during his daily training or on the battlefield, where most warriors taunted the victims of their fury, he remained as silent as a crypt. His enemies met their death in silence. He lived in silence. And perhaps her unawareness was a façade. Perhaps this was the reason she appeared to be so self-assured, for she already knew the truth to be contrary to her words.
At the mention of books, he knitted his eyebrows together. He knew only one written language and that was the one of his sword: its length, its width, the feel of its hilt against his calloused palm. As a man of war, not of the scriptures, and as a northerner who had been taught that the spoken word held more value and truth to it, Ser Vane had not been bothered to learn how to read. It had yet to affect him. He did not mention it though as the princess came to a halt and she shifted her attention to him – he may have been at the centre of her words but she had not graced him with her gaze since the moment she approved his presence at her side. A smile danced atop her lips. “It would be kind of you, Your Highness,” he found fit to add.
So did his duty begin as the young woman retired to her quarters, a bow from the knight following her departure.
Ser Vane’s body was the first to announce the passing of time. A persistent pain ran down his back. His legs grew stiff under his weight. Effort had never seemed to tire him before, if anything it made him strive for more as his blood boiled and sweat formed upon his heated flesh; in such moments he had one goal and one goal only: to conquer and not be conquered. His body would have to get used to these prolonged periods of time that lacked in movement though, he knew far too well. Princess Vivian’s word of approval had sealed the union between him and the stillness that surrounded him, between him and this endless hallway, these unmoving doors.
Yet, the eerie silence that plagued the hall was perturbed – the clink of plates on mental accompanied a set of approaching footsteps. Soon enough a servant girl appeared from around the corner, holding a heavy tray. A pleasant smell teased Ser Vane’s nostrils as she approached, yet it was not the food that his gaze settled on, but the girl’s nervousness. Her hands lightly shook on the handles of the tray and when she raised her green eyes to meet his own, she just as quickly lowered them, her cheeks reddening even more. “From the Queen. Her Highness shall keep her strength during such hard times.” Her voice was barely above a mere whisper in the wind.
It was clear to him then, the reason why she appeared so shaken. The Queen must have put her through the threats and the warnings he had been greeted with as well.
Ser Vane did not need to hear more. His fingers curled into a fist and he knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Neither word of approval, nor of disapproval was heard. As far as he could tell, the atmosphere inside the room remained as still as before. He refrained from knocking a third time, his hand lingering in the air above the door for a moment before dropping it. When he looked back at the young girl, her gaze was now raised and watchful. His tone betrayed no worry when he addressed her. It only emanated confidence. “Her Highness has been distressed this morning. It is only sleep that soothes her. Give me the tray and you may go.”
The servant brought it closer to her chest instead.
“You’ve done what you’ve been asked. Go and reassure the Queen, girl,” he added. When he extended his hands expectantly, all she could was to comply.
When the young girl’s skirts vanished behind the corner, the guard turned his attention to the doors of the Princess’ quarters. Skillfully balancing the weight of the tray on one hand, the other hovered over the hard surface once more. He knocked harder this time.
Once.
Twice.
Ser Vane felt no comfort in the silence that followed. It gnawed at his guts, for he found it most unsettling – if he had not seen the woman that resided behind those doors and her high spirits perhaps he would not have given these circumstances a second thought. After seeing her, however…
Urgency stained his movements as his hand rested upon the handle, enough to give away his agitation but not enough for his intrusion to not be excused in case the Princess was merely sleeping or she did not wish to be disturbed. Once his gaze settled upon the room, his blood ran cold, his hand gripping at the handle. He had been trained to be as quick as he could when it came to assessing his surroundings, an unknown territory: the sheets upon the bed appeared to be untouched and so did the chairs. Ser Vane did not give attention to the details as there was no sight of her reddish hair, no sound of her voice or lively steps. The room as a whole appeared to have not been disturbed. Only a light breeze seemed to travel through the room, even more now that the doors were opened.
A breeze. Only the breeze. A bad omen.
His eyes fell upon the window, inviting in its stillness.
A dog at its master’s heel he was, for when he reached her, he did not allow himself to fall far behind. Yet, there were those moments in which she would be ahead of him with just a few steps, enough for the knight to become aware of the lack of similarity between her and the environment she had been brought in. There was a light within, a spark that was accentuated by each light step she took. Her walk did not fit the solemnity of the darkness that surrounded her, nor did it remind him of her sister’s calculated stride. It was as if hers hid a child’s curiosity for the unknown and the impatience that came with it, a detail that Ser Vane could not comprehend.
Had the lives that his father had mercilessly stolen from the land been given to her, to enhance her vitality and beauty? Did she feed on the suffering and death that plagued these walls?
‘No,’ the knight thought to himself. ‘Or else she would not be as blind to the consequences of her family’s actions. She would fear those willing to retrieve their lives.’ Her words betrayed that she was indeed blind or ignorant of what could befall her. Many would search to spill her blood, perhaps even more now that the shadow of her sister no longer loomed over the land. ‘There is more lurking in the shadows, princess.’
Nonetheless, he did not speak. Not as if he would have done so in other circumstances – even during his daily training or on the battlefield, where most warriors taunted the victims of their fury, he remained as silent as a crypt. His enemies met their death in silence. He lived in silence. And perhaps her unawareness was a façade. Perhaps this was the reason she appeared to be so self-assured, for she already knew the truth to be contrary to her words.
At the mention of books, he knitted his eyebrows together. He knew only one written language and that was the one of his sword: its length, its width, the feel of its hilt against his calloused palm. As a man of war, not of the scriptures, and as a northerner who had been taught that the spoken word held more value and truth to it, Ser Vane had not been bothered to learn how to read. It had yet to affect him. He did not mention it though as the princess came to a halt and she shifted her attention to him – he may have been at the centre of her words but she had not graced him with her gaze since the moment she approved his presence at her side. A smile danced atop her lips. “It would be kind of you, Your Highness,” he found fit to add.
So did his duty begin as the young woman retired to her quarters, a bow from the knight following her departure.
Ser Vane’s body was the first to announce the passing of time. A persistent pain ran down his back. His legs grew stiff under his weight. Effort had never seemed to tire him before, if anything it made him strive for more as his blood boiled and sweat formed upon his heated flesh; in such moments he had one goal and one goal only: to conquer and not be conquered. His body would have to get used to these prolonged periods of time that lacked in movement though, he knew far too well. Princess Vivian’s word of approval had sealed the union between him and the stillness that surrounded him, between him and this endless hallway, these unmoving doors.
Yet, the eerie silence that plagued the hall was perturbed – the clink of plates on mental accompanied a set of approaching footsteps. Soon enough a servant girl appeared from around the corner, holding a heavy tray. A pleasant smell teased Ser Vane’s nostrils as she approached, yet it was not the food that his gaze settled on, but the girl’s nervousness. Her hands lightly shook on the handles of the tray and when she raised her green eyes to meet his own, she just as quickly lowered them, her cheeks reddening even more. “From the Queen. Her Highness shall keep her strength during such hard times.” Her voice was barely above a mere whisper in the wind.
It was clear to him then, the reason why she appeared so shaken. The Queen must have put her through the threats and the warnings he had been greeted with as well.
Ser Vane did not need to hear more. His fingers curled into a fist and he knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Neither word of approval, nor of disapproval was heard. As far as he could tell, the atmosphere inside the room remained as still as before. He refrained from knocking a third time, his hand lingering in the air above the door for a moment before dropping it. When he looked back at the young girl, her gaze was now raised and watchful. His tone betrayed no worry when he addressed her. It only emanated confidence. “Her Highness has been distressed this morning. It is only sleep that soothes her. Give me the tray and you may go.”
The servant brought it closer to her chest instead.
“You’ve done what you’ve been asked. Go and reassure the Queen, girl,” he added. When he extended his hands expectantly, all she could was to comply.
When the young girl’s skirts vanished behind the corner, the guard turned his attention to the doors of the Princess’ quarters. Skillfully balancing the weight of the tray on one hand, the other hovered over the hard surface once more. He knocked harder this time.
Once.
Twice.
Ser Vane felt no comfort in the silence that followed. It gnawed at his guts, for he found it most unsettling – if he had not seen the woman that resided behind those doors and her high spirits perhaps he would not have given these circumstances a second thought. After seeing her, however…
Urgency stained his movements as his hand rested upon the handle, enough to give away his agitation but not enough for his intrusion to not be excused in case the Princess was merely sleeping or she did not wish to be disturbed. Once his gaze settled upon the room, his blood ran cold, his hand gripping at the handle. He had been trained to be as quick as he could when it came to assessing his surroundings, an unknown territory: the sheets upon the bed appeared to be untouched and so did the chairs. Ser Vane did not give attention to the details as there was no sight of her reddish hair, no sound of her voice or lively steps. The room as a whole appeared to have not been disturbed. Only a light breeze seemed to travel through the room, even more now that the doors were opened.
A breeze. Only the breeze. A bad omen.
His eyes fell upon the window, inviting in its stillness.
Mobile-friendly version, as my code seems fucked up on smartphones:
- Patience/ posting schedule – I am what RPNation’s community would consider a slow writer. I like to mull over my replies and think of the many ways my response could go before deciding on the final one and sitting down to write it. I am also a student and therefore writing ends up occupying the second place in my life. Even if I were madly in love with a roleplay, I wouldn’t be able to reply right away or numerous times a day. What I can promise at the moment are 1-3 replies per week, depending on my schedule. I may be able to get up daily replies in certain circumstances. Sooo, I do not expect you to reply daily to our roleplay or force yourself – take your time and so will I.
(THIS DOES NOT APPLY TO OOC chat - I love chatting with my partners and creating a connection, as well as fangirling over characters and plots so expect numerous replies there. I am chatty.)
- Age talk – I do not like to measure one’s maturity or ability to write extraordinary replies by age. However, as I grew up and entered adulthood (haha, I’m so funny), I can see why this may be an issue. I am a 20-year-old and I would prefer someone who is 18+, as I will approach darker themes in my roleplays. RPNation’s set of rules will be respected as well, so you know… fade-to-black and all the stuff.
(If you are under 18 however and you consider that we would click as partners, do not refrain from contacting me. We can sort something out.)
- Writing style – I love writing. I love fleshing out actions and emotions. I consider that I fit well in the multi-para/novella type when it comes to my writing style (to put this into numbers, my usual replies range from 1000 to 2000 words and I am able to reach 3000 words depending on the scene). No matter, my replies are usually so long due to the fact that I double most of the time and I include numerous side characters/ NPCs. What I ask of you is that you offer me 500 words (this pretty much means some paragraphs/ a document page) per character. Quality over quantity, right?
Concerning grammar – English is not my main language so I am not prone to judge others for their errors. As long as I can understand what is going on and the writing has a clean appearance to it, I am all right.
- Genders I play, doubling, and romance – I do love romance and it is a genre that I usually like to include in my roleplays but I can survive without it. Our characters don’t seem to get along and they are better off as enemies than anything else? Or just friends? Fine. I am not dying.
If we do include romance however, I prefer doubling as it gives me a sense of balance. I do not want to force someone to play the male or be forced to play the male myself. You want to play the male? Great. No? Great. So please, do not contact me if you double for the sake of doubling ^^; I pay the same amount of attention to my characters, despite their gender.
I do play both genders (with a preference for the female role if we go for only main character/ roleplayer) and I usually go for MxF. I am open to FxF and MxM in the right circumstances, but be aware that I do not have much experience with these pairings.
- Limits – I do not have any limits, in truth, but I am sensitive to some certain scenes (the rape scenes from Outlander, for example, I wanted to die). For the sake of the plot, I would do anything, in truth. In case you have any limits, let me know beforehand.
- Where I roleplay, where I can be contacted – PMs or threads are the same to me. I have an e-mail I use for roleplaying (Gmail and Hotmail), so if that is your preference, no problem with me! I have Discord as well, but I will only use it for OOC talk.
- God-Mod – Just refrain from controlling my characters’ actions and we are fine.
- Leaving the roleplay/ abandonment – Speak freely to me about such things. If you are bored or find yourself uninspired to continue, let me know. I have restarted roleplays or just started new ones with the same partners to keep the spark alive.
So I can see that you have gone through all my rules, please contact me through PM (I will accept a response on this thread in case you are a new member, but otherwise, it will be ignored) and introduce yourself, along with a writing sample. Show me you are excited for this, damn it.
I think one of the main concerns someone could have when doing historical-fiction is related to the question: how true can you stay to the chosen time-period? It makes you overthink. Did I get the costumes right? Did I get the setting right? The vocabulary? Did they have pens back then? Is this how they salute one another????????? ERROR 404
I fucked shit up sometimes. I realized later that what my character did was probably seen as socially unacceptable and people would probably frown than laugh at it. I imagined Jane Austen coming back and just hitting me repeatedly with the hard-cover editions of her books and leaving with my laptop so I would not write such atrocities again. Did I die though? No.
What do I want to say? Be open to making mistakes and learning from them. I do not expect you to write about that period as a historian would. I do not want to come off as someone who knows every detail and wants the perfect historical-fiction because… I am not. What I know usually comes from the internet and Wikipedia pages or books I have read (even writers that pick this genre AND PUBLISH ACTUAL BOOKS can’t sometimes stay as true as they want to that period) or period-dramas I have watched. Does that make me an expert? Hardly.
What else do I want to say? Be open to communication. Are you not certain what the social response would be to your character’s action? Do you not know if you got something right? Are you insecure about a detail? Talk to me about it. Chances are that I may help you or or we could research it together.
Conclusion? Acceptance and communication are the key for me when it comes to historical fiction. Roleplaying is fun, I agree, but I would like to see some interest from my partner’s side. I am not asking you to research everything, but I ask you to at least have knowledge of the big image of the period we have chosen.
I fucked shit up sometimes. I realized later that what my character did was probably seen as socially unacceptable and people would probably frown than laugh at it. I imagined Jane Austen coming back and just hitting me repeatedly with the hard-cover editions of her books and leaving with my laptop so I would not write such atrocities again. Did I die though? No.
What do I want to say? Be open to making mistakes and learning from them. I do not expect you to write about that period as a historian would. I do not want to come off as someone who knows every detail and wants the perfect historical-fiction because… I am not. What I know usually comes from the internet and Wikipedia pages or books I have read (even writers that pick this genre AND PUBLISH ACTUAL BOOKS can’t sometimes stay as true as they want to that period) or period-dramas I have watched. Does that make me an expert? Hardly.
What else do I want to say? Be open to communication. Are you not certain what the social response would be to your character’s action? Do you not know if you got something right? Are you insecure about a detail? Talk to me about it. Chances are that I may help you or or we could research it together.
Conclusion? Acceptance and communication are the key for me when it comes to historical fiction. Roleplaying is fun, I agree, but I would like to see some interest from my partner’s side. I am not asking you to research everything, but I ask you to at least have knowledge of the big image of the period we have chosen.
Here I have listed the time-periods I am interested in. Along them you can find particular events I look and that are included in the time-period, pairings and some tiny ideas:
- Ancient Greece
- Ancient Rome
- the 14th century (Italian Renaissance)
- artists and their muses > painter assigned to paint the portrait of the daughter of a noble family, woman cross-dressing as a man so she can be a painter’s apprentice
- the Medici family related > banks and corruption, arranged marriages for power
- papacy and the bloodiness that surrounds it (if you are familiar with the House of Borgia and Pope Alexander VI – Rodrigo Borgia – you know where I am heading)
- the 15th – 17th century (the Tudor period)
- court drama (ah, don’t I love this)
- arranged marriages
- the War of Roses
- any plot or pairing that is related to the time-period or a similar time-period
- the 17th century – the Musketeers
- the 1700s – early 1800s (the Georgian era, including the Regency era): here we can include plots similar to the ones in Jane Austen’s books
- arranged marriages
- forbidden relationships due to social statuses
- balls (I mean, we all are here for the balls, aren’t we?)
- the mid-1800s – early 1900s (the Victorian era, followed by the Edwardian era)
- I do have a craving for fantasy/ supernatural elements within the Victorian era: vampires combined with the reincarnation of a lost love, supernatural hunters
[*]something involving a serial killer (imagine The Alienist)
- I do have a craving for fantasy/ supernatural elements within the Victorian era: vampires combined with the reincarnation of a lost love, supernatural hunters
- World War I (1914-1918) – I do enjoy using the world wars as the setting for a plot (I am more interested in the humans of the war than the politics behind it. I know the history of the war. I have studied it. However, I am more interested in the psychology of those that had participated in this event and how the simple man saw the political mayhem)
- expect DARKER themes as war is often romanticized in historical-fiction and movies
- I will do romance in this setting; however, do not expect it to be pretty or easy (I want to believe that at least romance had a purity to it during the war, but we all know it is highly improbable..)
- nurse x soldier/ war prisoner
- nurse/woman x pilot
- woman x wounded soldier
- the 1920s (post-war period)
- gangster families, rival families, illegal activities and corruption (Peaky Blinders, anyone?)
- the 1920s – 1960s (the Golden Age of film > Hollywood)
- I do have a soft spot for the glamorous Hollywood and the scandals behind it
- actress x actor/ director
- aspiring actress x director
- I do have a soft spot for the glamorous Hollywood and the scandals behind it
- World War II (1939-1945) – read what I have mentioned at WWI as it applies to WWII as well
- jew x German soldier (I do not really know what to think of this pairing and considering the events of WWII, people could find this one disturbing and, probably, that is where I am heading > I do want to approach darker themes, maybe a toxic relationship)
- woman soldier x male soldier/ war prisoner
- nurse x soldier/ war prisoner
- French woman x German soldier (the German occupation of Paris)
[*]partisans
- the 70s, 80s, 90s – high school drama (Freaks and Geeks, The Breakfast Club anyone?), rock stars or THE DRUG WAR
Here are some TV shows, movies and books which I do enjoy and which are usually set in a time period that I am interested in:
TV SHOWS
Poldark
Knightfall
The White Queen/ The White Princess
The Tudors
I Medici
Victoria
Alias Grace
Black Sails
Reign
Rome
The Borgias
The Last Tycoon
War and Peace
Freaks and Geeks
MOVIES
Tristan & Isolde
The Pianist
Flyboys
Schindler’s List
Suite Française
Tulip Fever
Dunkirk
Suffragette
Rules Don’t Apply
Testament of Youth
Dead Poets Society
The Breakfast Club
*The Age of Adaline (I would like to play in Adaline’s past and not the present)
*King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (it may not even fit here but I did enjoy it)
BOOKS
Jane Austen’s books (sincerely, all of them)
The Brontë sisters’ books
TV SHOWS
Poldark
Knightfall
The White Queen/ The White Princess
The Tudors
I Medici
Victoria
Alias Grace
Black Sails
Reign
Rome
The Borgias
The Last Tycoon
War and Peace
Freaks and Geeks
MOVIES
Tristan & Isolde
The Pianist
Flyboys
Schindler’s List
Suite Française
Tulip Fever
Dunkirk
Suffragette
Rules Don’t Apply
Testament of Youth
Dead Poets Society
The Breakfast Club
*The Age of Adaline (I would like to play in Adaline’s past and not the present)
*King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (it may not even fit here but I did enjoy it)
BOOKS
Jane Austen’s books (sincerely, all of them)
The Brontë sisters’ books
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