GreyZone
Senior Member
Hello! My name is Kamryn, and I've been looking for a couple long-term, detailed partners for any number of time periods/eras in history. Always assume that I'm looking for more roleplays to join!
If you're interested, here's a little about me/my preferences:
Some eras/decades/events that I have experience with and would love to pursue:
If you're interested in any other time period, PM me and I would love to do some research and get back to you with that. Hope to hear from you soon!
If you are looking for some examples of my writing, I've collected a few for you that are collapsed in spoiler tabs:
If you're interested, here's a little about me/my preferences:
- I'm equally comfortable playing male and female characters
- I don't love battles/politics, but do love other aspects of historical roleplay
- I'm on the eastern timezone (United States)
- I'm online almost constantly (particularly on weekends and holidays); therefore, you'll get many replies a day. I do like consistently constant partners, but of course, I know real life arises
- I'm not a Nazi about grammar nor historical accuracy; just don't be too ludicrous and we'll be good
- I will always match whatever length you give me, but do like longer posts because they're more enjoyable to read and to reply to
Some eras/decades/events that I have experience with and would love to pursue:
- The Tudor monarchy (1485-1603, England/Wales) [This is the one I've been craving the most--I'm most familiar with Anne Boleyn and Katherine of Aragon, and would love to do something with Henry VIII's reign]
- Victorian Britain (1837-1901)
- World War II (1939-1945) [i have experience with this era in the US, Great Britain, and Germany)
- Medieval Monarchy (5th-15th century) [We could do whatever we wanted with this]
If you're interested in any other time period, PM me and I would love to do some research and get back to you with that. Hope to hear from you soon!
If you are looking for some examples of my writing, I've collected a few for you that are collapsed in spoiler tabs:
Jairus's eyes closed, his lids rimmed with a sleepless purple. His hair was starting to curl up again, and he knew that in no time he would see those curls snipped off and just laying on the ground. "My first lover," he began, his voice choked with nostalgia. "Had black hair the color of graphite pencil lead. It was wavy and thick but it would tighten and spiral after sex. She always smelled like the salt sea as if she carried all of Spain with her, and tangerine soda from a bottle you had to open with a spoon. Her skin was the color of caramel taffy, her eyes like that buttery leather couch that your mother never let you sit on downstairs because it was for company. She had these long, breathtaking fingers and my cheek fit perfectly in the indent between her waist and hip. She always wore bright colors, like she was afraid that she would slip into the plaster if she didn't. She looked great in rich purple. I loved her."
Bree's eyes closed, her face scrunching up as if she was trying not to cry. "You're such a bastard, Lawson," she whispered under her breath. Jairus just took her head and gently moved it to his shoulder. She exhaled as if she was Atlas and he just took on her burden for her.
"My second lover was forbidden and like a viper but I loved her anyway. It was like I slithered from Eden just to corrupt her, like she was a shiny red apple, ripe and full of juice that would dribble down your chin if you bit into it. But I loved her anyway and now she's a core of that girl that she used to be," he whispered, his eyes glassing over. "She must have been poisoned because my thoughts were choked with her. Her skin was so light it looked as if she was a Greek sculpture, her flesh so soft that your fingers sink in if you touch her hips."He paused for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. He never told anyone about this lover when they asked.
"My days were only good when we went driving, the sunset caught behind her in the passenger seat. The horizon tried to match her beauty but it never managed to." He offered Bree a broken smile, tears streaming down his cheeks. "She was an exploration every time, a new country and all of outer space and a constellation and a crashing waterfall in the middle of a jungle all at once. She would take a drink of her vodka and you couldn't help but wish you were the bottle." His voice cracked on the last word, but he quickly recovered.
"My third lover," he began. "The one that you know. Her skin, sometimes I swear that God just blew a puff of cayenne pepper on her skin. She's just so full of life, so full of spunk and sass and everything spicy and good. It's like she sets my mouth on fire with just one taste of her, but the only water that will quench it is just more of her--" he froze, his words rushing out too quickly. "Her collarbone is so beautiful I could drink from the pools above it for the rest of my life. Her cheekbones could cut butter, her voice could bring me to my knees. I always tell her that she's so beautiful that she could make the angels weep, and she's the only woman after my second lover that I could trust to see my copy of Romeo and Juliet.
"She's the mother of my children. Sometimes I welcome her fire and sometimes I feel like it's burning me from the inside out because we're so different and sometimes she doesn't understand me and I don't her, and we just char each other's flesh until we're unrecognizable--"
Anne was well aware that her sister did not know the jewels around her neck came from his majesty himself, but it almost made her private triumph that much sweeter seeing that she was the girl who rode on his side during the hunts. If asked, she could always just say that Henry was paying favors to any lady of the family whom he obviously had taken an interest in. But Anne knew it was only a matter of time before he got tired of her sister's sweet disposition and blissful ignorance.
"How was the hunt, Mary?" Her voice was clear and unbiased as she struck up conversation, her dark eyes never once leaving the royal couple. Everyone knew they were crumbling; it was such common knowledge no one even needed to bother pretending they were in love. It was ridiculous that Mary even considered Henry to be in love with his brother's wife, turned his.
Katherine rose at the entrance of her husband, forever the regal queen and Isabella of Castile's youngest daughter. Despite the fact that her head was held high, her whole body poised with grace, there was undeniable gray creeping into the auburn below her hood, the veins on her once-beautiful hands suddenly more prominent. She had once been a great beauty, and no one could truly place when her downfall had happened. Hadn't her skin been more creamy once, her face smooth and her hair radiant?
"My lord," she greeted her husband, dipping into a deep curtsy along with the rest of her maidens. "It is so good to finally be graced with your presence."
Even if she had meant the words sincerely, it was quite evident that the queen was rather disappointed in Henry's lack of involvement with her as of late. Of course he had banquets to attend and dances to watch and a country to run and maidens to fuck, but he could not even dine informally with her anymore? What happened to the boy who sat at her feet only to have her run her fingers through his bronzed curls? He could stack as many rings on her hands as he wanted, he never requested them where she wished them to be any longer.
Anne remained standing as her mistress greeted the king, the ever-present and always beautiful smirk still playing on her lips as if she was a ringleader and the only one privy to the punchline of the joke that is life. How embarrassing it must be for Katherine, to watch the man who had reformed everything to marry her loose interest as if she was an old pie who suddenly molded. And she hadn't even managed to give him a sun, no matter how many nights he was in her chamber. Hadn't he already had one with Elizabeth Blount? If that married woman could get a boy off of him, why couldn't Katherine of Aragon?
What she wouldn't give to show Henry how different it would be to have an actual woman by his side, no matter how Mary seemed to think that Katherine was wonderful and an absolute role model. The queen had no idea how to pleasure a man--Anne hardly did for that matter as well, but that was beside the point. The queen had to be the most boring creature in bed on the entire planet.
"We shall have much to discuss this evening, my sister," Anne whispered to Mary coyly as they all waited for Henry's response. "I simply cannot wait."
I've noticed that it has become conformity to be an individual. So many nurses have drilled into my head that my inability to speak makes me special, that it's a blessing no matter what everyone else screams back. I never got that blessing of being a teenager where I was able to form everyone's opinion of me for them--where I sat in my bedroom at night just whispering sentences that I wanted to be branded to my skin. I read a book on that once, where a girl said something horrible so she did nothing but whisper nice phrases so it would look like she was perfect.
I'm sort of cursed into actually being myself. I notice it as stranger's eyes scour my body, surprised that they can't find last night's conversation on my forearm. For a split second, I almost forget that I'm The Anomaly--the weird kid destined to be a brain dead and drooling creature in the corner. But still, I'm sitting on a train by myself, mulling over the infamous mainstreamed high school. My fingers absentmindedly fingerspell words as I'm thinking, quick motions almost as natural as breathing. The woman across the aisle from me pulls her burgundy-colored mouth into a sour frown, clutching her purse tighter to her protruding torso when she notices I'm using American Sign Language. They fear it. Who wouldn't be terrified of something that doesn't create words? It would be absolutely ludicrous.
My phone vibrates in a fit of rage, announcing a message from Nancy, who's asking how things are going. Even though I'm no longer her problem, she's still doting. Even though she should be focusing on her other patients instead of me. Even though she took the time to contact me, I find myself pulling further away from the screaming child next to me. Nancy can wait.
The aroma of a diaper just filled swims in to my nose right as I flick my phone back on. There she is, right on my battered screen, words scratched all over her like she's a walking and slightly morbid dictionary. The lump in my throat that used to be constant has thinned out more and more as the miles increase between me and the asylum. Josephine has turned into a figment of my imagination to the point where I'm not sure she even existed. It's been a few months with nothing but illegal updates from Nancy: they're trying to work on her frontal lobe today; she's going in for cosmetic surgery to try to fix her facial scars; she's still mute. She still has it. We're all just deaf, mute, insane, criminal... Throw any negative noun out there and I'm sure it will be pinned on us.
--
All of a sudden, there's a dull weight in my palm. My eyes glance up only to lock on Josephine's fiercely green ones. Her mouth forms a careful O-shape, a slender finger raises to her lips. Her appearance is so grotesque at this point that I'm not even sure how I recognize her. That black, curly hair is replaced by a scarring and stapled skull, a softball-sized area shaved for surgery, the rest chopped off in a fit of rage. They've managed to make her stop the scratching of the sharp objects, but that doesn't mean she doesn't use a ballpoint pen as her weapon of choice.
She's composed of blue bruises, red sleep deprivation, black ink, and green jaded light. That's when I realize what's in my hand. Sure enough, a broken pair of scissors rests there dauntingly, the remaining half rusty and decrepit. But it's enough. She can make anything enough.
"Who left this out?" My signs jab at her, prying for information she'll never submit.
A wicked grin spreads across her cracking lips. "Some sweet, beloved soul who I'm eternally grateful to."
My stomach drops. She was always quirky, bizarre, even, but now she's a self-destructive sociopath. "No. Give it to me. Josephine--" I reach for it, but her fingers close around my wrist, wrenching it so tightly that I can feel the direct pressure against my bones. In a futile attempt, I fling it across the room, far enough away that she'll have to pass the nurse's station to retrieve it. We both know that she'll never be able to do this.
Her face contorting into the expression of a tortured howl, her body can't decide if she wants to lunge for me or those condemnable scissors. She decides on me; I'm weaker prey. Her nails claw, teeth gnash, legs wildly swing. She's pried off of me soon enough, but not before the damage is done. This hasn't been the first time the girl who I'm pretty sure I love has attempted to gash my face. Only when I threaten to take away her words. Only then. She never seems to know that those words are exactly what's killing her.
Margaret snapped back, "I think it comes more from the fact that lower class men turn to lager and young girls who do not know better when they are wishing. " In all reality, she didn't want to hear Victor's poetic reasonings for the misfortunes of her class. He didn't understand them, and he never would. He just sat upon his pedestal of stature and wealth and gazed down, simplifying and mocking a life that he had never known.
"It is more difficult than you presume, Mr. Edwards," she replied in a tight voice. "To not know where your next meal is coming from, to hope to sell enough to buy a new dress, one a year if you are lucky. I sold two of my back molars for this corset that I am wearing, simply so I could sell more. The cycle is never ending, Mr. Edwards, and you speak of horrors you know nothing of.
After listening to him again, she continued, "I fail to see why you are so attracted to those who scrape by on nothing but their soul," Margaret replied after listening to his stories of his lovers with stony eyes. "Do you find it glamorously tragic? Do you enjoy your Mr. Poe so much that you tantalize yourself by inserting yourself into one of his horrific tales by loving those who are in the bottom of the food chain, Mr. Edwards? You can play the part of the misfortunate and starving artist all you want, but you, Sir, cannot pretend as if you understand what it is like from day to day. Loving someone who suffers does not make you a saint as going to church does not make you a lover of God."
Bree's eyes closed, her face scrunching up as if she was trying not to cry. "You're such a bastard, Lawson," she whispered under her breath. Jairus just took her head and gently moved it to his shoulder. She exhaled as if she was Atlas and he just took on her burden for her.
"My second lover was forbidden and like a viper but I loved her anyway. It was like I slithered from Eden just to corrupt her, like she was a shiny red apple, ripe and full of juice that would dribble down your chin if you bit into it. But I loved her anyway and now she's a core of that girl that she used to be," he whispered, his eyes glassing over. "She must have been poisoned because my thoughts were choked with her. Her skin was so light it looked as if she was a Greek sculpture, her flesh so soft that your fingers sink in if you touch her hips."He paused for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. He never told anyone about this lover when they asked.
"My days were only good when we went driving, the sunset caught behind her in the passenger seat. The horizon tried to match her beauty but it never managed to." He offered Bree a broken smile, tears streaming down his cheeks. "She was an exploration every time, a new country and all of outer space and a constellation and a crashing waterfall in the middle of a jungle all at once. She would take a drink of her vodka and you couldn't help but wish you were the bottle." His voice cracked on the last word, but he quickly recovered.
"My third lover," he began. "The one that you know. Her skin, sometimes I swear that God just blew a puff of cayenne pepper on her skin. She's just so full of life, so full of spunk and sass and everything spicy and good. It's like she sets my mouth on fire with just one taste of her, but the only water that will quench it is just more of her--" he froze, his words rushing out too quickly. "Her collarbone is so beautiful I could drink from the pools above it for the rest of my life. Her cheekbones could cut butter, her voice could bring me to my knees. I always tell her that she's so beautiful that she could make the angels weep, and she's the only woman after my second lover that I could trust to see my copy of Romeo and Juliet.
"She's the mother of my children. Sometimes I welcome her fire and sometimes I feel like it's burning me from the inside out because we're so different and sometimes she doesn't understand me and I don't her, and we just char each other's flesh until we're unrecognizable--"
Anne was well aware that her sister did not know the jewels around her neck came from his majesty himself, but it almost made her private triumph that much sweeter seeing that she was the girl who rode on his side during the hunts. If asked, she could always just say that Henry was paying favors to any lady of the family whom he obviously had taken an interest in. But Anne knew it was only a matter of time before he got tired of her sister's sweet disposition and blissful ignorance.
"How was the hunt, Mary?" Her voice was clear and unbiased as she struck up conversation, her dark eyes never once leaving the royal couple. Everyone knew they were crumbling; it was such common knowledge no one even needed to bother pretending they were in love. It was ridiculous that Mary even considered Henry to be in love with his brother's wife, turned his.
Katherine rose at the entrance of her husband, forever the regal queen and Isabella of Castile's youngest daughter. Despite the fact that her head was held high, her whole body poised with grace, there was undeniable gray creeping into the auburn below her hood, the veins on her once-beautiful hands suddenly more prominent. She had once been a great beauty, and no one could truly place when her downfall had happened. Hadn't her skin been more creamy once, her face smooth and her hair radiant?
"My lord," she greeted her husband, dipping into a deep curtsy along with the rest of her maidens. "It is so good to finally be graced with your presence."
Even if she had meant the words sincerely, it was quite evident that the queen was rather disappointed in Henry's lack of involvement with her as of late. Of course he had banquets to attend and dances to watch and a country to run and maidens to fuck, but he could not even dine informally with her anymore? What happened to the boy who sat at her feet only to have her run her fingers through his bronzed curls? He could stack as many rings on her hands as he wanted, he never requested them where she wished them to be any longer.
Anne remained standing as her mistress greeted the king, the ever-present and always beautiful smirk still playing on her lips as if she was a ringleader and the only one privy to the punchline of the joke that is life. How embarrassing it must be for Katherine, to watch the man who had reformed everything to marry her loose interest as if she was an old pie who suddenly molded. And she hadn't even managed to give him a sun, no matter how many nights he was in her chamber. Hadn't he already had one with Elizabeth Blount? If that married woman could get a boy off of him, why couldn't Katherine of Aragon?
What she wouldn't give to show Henry how different it would be to have an actual woman by his side, no matter how Mary seemed to think that Katherine was wonderful and an absolute role model. The queen had no idea how to pleasure a man--Anne hardly did for that matter as well, but that was beside the point. The queen had to be the most boring creature in bed on the entire planet.
"We shall have much to discuss this evening, my sister," Anne whispered to Mary coyly as they all waited for Henry's response. "I simply cannot wait."
I've noticed that it has become conformity to be an individual. So many nurses have drilled into my head that my inability to speak makes me special, that it's a blessing no matter what everyone else screams back. I never got that blessing of being a teenager where I was able to form everyone's opinion of me for them--where I sat in my bedroom at night just whispering sentences that I wanted to be branded to my skin. I read a book on that once, where a girl said something horrible so she did nothing but whisper nice phrases so it would look like she was perfect.
I'm sort of cursed into actually being myself. I notice it as stranger's eyes scour my body, surprised that they can't find last night's conversation on my forearm. For a split second, I almost forget that I'm The Anomaly--the weird kid destined to be a brain dead and drooling creature in the corner. But still, I'm sitting on a train by myself, mulling over the infamous mainstreamed high school. My fingers absentmindedly fingerspell words as I'm thinking, quick motions almost as natural as breathing. The woman across the aisle from me pulls her burgundy-colored mouth into a sour frown, clutching her purse tighter to her protruding torso when she notices I'm using American Sign Language. They fear it. Who wouldn't be terrified of something that doesn't create words? It would be absolutely ludicrous.
My phone vibrates in a fit of rage, announcing a message from Nancy, who's asking how things are going. Even though I'm no longer her problem, she's still doting. Even though she should be focusing on her other patients instead of me. Even though she took the time to contact me, I find myself pulling further away from the screaming child next to me. Nancy can wait.
The aroma of a diaper just filled swims in to my nose right as I flick my phone back on. There she is, right on my battered screen, words scratched all over her like she's a walking and slightly morbid dictionary. The lump in my throat that used to be constant has thinned out more and more as the miles increase between me and the asylum. Josephine has turned into a figment of my imagination to the point where I'm not sure she even existed. It's been a few months with nothing but illegal updates from Nancy: they're trying to work on her frontal lobe today; she's going in for cosmetic surgery to try to fix her facial scars; she's still mute. She still has it. We're all just deaf, mute, insane, criminal... Throw any negative noun out there and I'm sure it will be pinned on us.
--
All of a sudden, there's a dull weight in my palm. My eyes glance up only to lock on Josephine's fiercely green ones. Her mouth forms a careful O-shape, a slender finger raises to her lips. Her appearance is so grotesque at this point that I'm not even sure how I recognize her. That black, curly hair is replaced by a scarring and stapled skull, a softball-sized area shaved for surgery, the rest chopped off in a fit of rage. They've managed to make her stop the scratching of the sharp objects, but that doesn't mean she doesn't use a ballpoint pen as her weapon of choice.
She's composed of blue bruises, red sleep deprivation, black ink, and green jaded light. That's when I realize what's in my hand. Sure enough, a broken pair of scissors rests there dauntingly, the remaining half rusty and decrepit. But it's enough. She can make anything enough.
"Who left this out?" My signs jab at her, prying for information she'll never submit.
A wicked grin spreads across her cracking lips. "Some sweet, beloved soul who I'm eternally grateful to."
My stomach drops. She was always quirky, bizarre, even, but now she's a self-destructive sociopath. "No. Give it to me. Josephine--" I reach for it, but her fingers close around my wrist, wrenching it so tightly that I can feel the direct pressure against my bones. In a futile attempt, I fling it across the room, far enough away that she'll have to pass the nurse's station to retrieve it. We both know that she'll never be able to do this.
Her face contorting into the expression of a tortured howl, her body can't decide if she wants to lunge for me or those condemnable scissors. She decides on me; I'm weaker prey. Her nails claw, teeth gnash, legs wildly swing. She's pried off of me soon enough, but not before the damage is done. This hasn't been the first time the girl who I'm pretty sure I love has attempted to gash my face. Only when I threaten to take away her words. Only then. She never seems to know that those words are exactly what's killing her.
Margaret snapped back, "I think it comes more from the fact that lower class men turn to lager and young girls who do not know better when they are wishing. " In all reality, she didn't want to hear Victor's poetic reasonings for the misfortunes of her class. He didn't understand them, and he never would. He just sat upon his pedestal of stature and wealth and gazed down, simplifying and mocking a life that he had never known.
"It is more difficult than you presume, Mr. Edwards," she replied in a tight voice. "To not know where your next meal is coming from, to hope to sell enough to buy a new dress, one a year if you are lucky. I sold two of my back molars for this corset that I am wearing, simply so I could sell more. The cycle is never ending, Mr. Edwards, and you speak of horrors you know nothing of.
After listening to him again, she continued, "I fail to see why you are so attracted to those who scrape by on nothing but their soul," Margaret replied after listening to his stories of his lovers with stony eyes. "Do you find it glamorously tragic? Do you enjoy your Mr. Poe so much that you tantalize yourself by inserting yourself into one of his horrific tales by loving those who are in the bottom of the food chain, Mr. Edwards? You can play the part of the misfortunate and starving artist all you want, but you, Sir, cannot pretend as if you understand what it is like from day to day. Loving someone who suffers does not make you a saint as going to church does not make you a lover of God."
Last edited by a moderator:
