Promachos
She who fights in front
Hello! I am Promachos, or whatever variant you desire, she/they, 21.
I'm a college student currently in between semesters with a lot of free-time. I've been rping for somewhere around nine years, and my other hobbies include music, video games, studying philosophy, baking, lots of random things. I'd probably best describe my writing style as gritty, atmospheric and human. Gritty because of my preferred settings and topics, atmospheric because of my preferred prose style, and human because I am deeply fond of creating OCs and trying to give them as much personage as I can.
I'm really looking for someone who will be enthusiastic about the writing process with me. I want to get to know each other's writing preferences and find a storyline that will really click for both of us. I like chatting OOC (and can offer a Discord to do so, as well) whether that be about ideas for the RP itself, or just in general to build familiarity. I'm very moodboard and spotify link spam friendly. This is all, ultimately, because RP is very much about the 'co-writing' process for me. Being inspired by each other, building off one another and creating communal art.
I do consider myself advanced lit, but I'm not particularly fussed with word counts. My absolute bare minimum if I'm really struggling is three paragraphs, I can go well beyond that, but mostly I tend to prioritize quality over quantity and only ever ask the same!
So if you're interested, here's a few ground rules:
I prefer my partners also be over 18.
Be communicative and friendly, even if you only want to talk about the RP itself!
I'm aiming for a two post a week minimum. I am typically far more active than that, but I'd like that to be the mutual 'bar'.
Let me know your triggers or off limits topics up front!
I prefer my partners also be over 18.
Be communicative and friendly, even if you only want to talk about the RP itself!
I'm aiming for a two post a week minimum. I am typically far more active than that, but I'd like that to be the mutual 'bar'.
Let me know your triggers or off limits topics up front!
My general interests are: Dark fantasy (low or high), Cyberpunk, Apocalyptic (mid or post), Horror, Gothic/Southern Gothic, Magic, Politics, and things that fall similar to any of those.
I can write for any gender, any pairing, and while I love a good (slow burn, maybe a bit angsty) romance, I'm also a huge fan of enemy and sibling dynamics.
One of my favorite things is good art about bad people. If you have a villain (or just difficult) OC you want to play as the protagonist, throw it at me. I have a few of my own as well.
I do have some plots ready to suggest for any of my above genres if you'd like to know what directions I'm thinking in, but feel free to bring your own or let me know you'd rather come up with something together. A writing sample included in your DM is greatly appreciated, leaving my own below!
32, Phoenix, 1333
The click of her heels played a rhythm beneath her, wood against marble tiling, traipsing swaying lines through the dusty shadows of chapel windows. The hiss of a match, the slight scent of combustion, sweet as perfume drifting aetherward. She extended one hand, gloved in pale ivory, to bring the flame to one of the prayer candles all sat there in their rows. Tucked neatly amongst its brethren- some dancing aflame, some long worn down in the gold stand.
‘My lady Dwayna, please grant me your blessings for the coming year.’
Some hierophantic knowledge told her she was supposed to meditate, now, but the feeling of hollowness was deep-set as her gaze drug its way, tripping over the people around her in their reveries. In former days, she had never been a cynic of the Six, and the prayers slipped from her lips like lullabies recited back at a parent. But those days were gone, uncomplicated days with few questions. Gods who did not speak, and thus could do no wrong. Who did not show their faces and thus also hid their brutality. When the stories of divine war were merely history, and were not cast out onto Elonian sand with fire and brimstone.
You weren’t supposed to blow the candles out, so she didn’t; but her tongue slid anxiously behind a pink-stained mouth, writhing in restlessness towards the resisted act of rebellion.
Why must civilization be built with the bones of dead things?
32, Phoenix, 1329
Crack.
A musket shot rang out across the hillside, sailing up the valley walls like a bird of prey, shattering what felt like anamnesis. One shot was fine, he thought. One shot, more often than not, was whatever rich man's bratty kid could afford a gun taking down a deer with far too much firepower. But a single glance at Cait's face made it clear she had no such hopes of simplicity; she wasn't holding her breath in the wait of silence, she was holding it in the wait of the inevitable.
...Crack. Then the bells.
The chair crashed to the floor behind him as he shot from it, a hand already extended towards the sword propped up near the door before his feet were fully set beneath him. A blur of light, the color of amaranth flashed in his peripheral vision as the Psion made her way up to the second floor without so much as a whisper of passing. For him, though, there was only raw cacophony. Stamping of boots and ruffling of leather, the creak of a weathered door and beyond, screaming. The peals of the small town's single bell from the guard tower, the shouts of the militia men as they hurried to haul the log gates shut over the main entry way to the city.
The musket blasts now sounded like new years fountains, but there was something dull and hollow about the chaos. It took him a moment to recognize what it was, and when he did he felt his insides curl unto themselves; there were no hoofbeats. If there were no hoofbeats, there were no centaurs, if there were no centaurs....
"What are you aiming at?" There was more fear in his voice than he was proud of. The toe of one boot flying out from under him as it hit a loose patch of gravel on the aging palisades. His eyes were on Aiden, and Aiden's were on the field below, consumed by a hoard bearing a desperate mix of weaponry and farming equipment. He felt like years passed before a reply was uttered, two minutes turned to two decades, within which he somehow aged and weathered the same two hundred years as the stone beneath them.
When the words finally did come, he wished they didn't. Wished, against all hoping of the laws of time and space, that he could will them back out of existence, back into the air in his companion's lungs.
"They say the fifth god has been seen in the South. You need to get Cait out."
The click of her heels played a rhythm beneath her, wood against marble tiling, traipsing swaying lines through the dusty shadows of chapel windows. The hiss of a match, the slight scent of combustion, sweet as perfume drifting aetherward. She extended one hand, gloved in pale ivory, to bring the flame to one of the prayer candles all sat there in their rows. Tucked neatly amongst its brethren- some dancing aflame, some long worn down in the gold stand.
‘My lady Dwayna, please grant me your blessings for the coming year.’
Some hierophantic knowledge told her she was supposed to meditate, now, but the feeling of hollowness was deep-set as her gaze drug its way, tripping over the people around her in their reveries. In former days, she had never been a cynic of the Six, and the prayers slipped from her lips like lullabies recited back at a parent. But those days were gone, uncomplicated days with few questions. Gods who did not speak, and thus could do no wrong. Who did not show their faces and thus also hid their brutality. When the stories of divine war were merely history, and were not cast out onto Elonian sand with fire and brimstone.
You weren’t supposed to blow the candles out, so she didn’t; but her tongue slid anxiously behind a pink-stained mouth, writhing in restlessness towards the resisted act of rebellion.
Why must civilization be built with the bones of dead things?
32, Phoenix, 1329
Crack.
A musket shot rang out across the hillside, sailing up the valley walls like a bird of prey, shattering what felt like anamnesis. One shot was fine, he thought. One shot, more often than not, was whatever rich man's bratty kid could afford a gun taking down a deer with far too much firepower. But a single glance at Cait's face made it clear she had no such hopes of simplicity; she wasn't holding her breath in the wait of silence, she was holding it in the wait of the inevitable.
...Crack. Then the bells.
The chair crashed to the floor behind him as he shot from it, a hand already extended towards the sword propped up near the door before his feet were fully set beneath him. A blur of light, the color of amaranth flashed in his peripheral vision as the Psion made her way up to the second floor without so much as a whisper of passing. For him, though, there was only raw cacophony. Stamping of boots and ruffling of leather, the creak of a weathered door and beyond, screaming. The peals of the small town's single bell from the guard tower, the shouts of the militia men as they hurried to haul the log gates shut over the main entry way to the city.
The musket blasts now sounded like new years fountains, but there was something dull and hollow about the chaos. It took him a moment to recognize what it was, and when he did he felt his insides curl unto themselves; there were no hoofbeats. If there were no hoofbeats, there were no centaurs, if there were no centaurs....
"What are you aiming at?" There was more fear in his voice than he was proud of. The toe of one boot flying out from under him as it hit a loose patch of gravel on the aging palisades. His eyes were on Aiden, and Aiden's were on the field below, consumed by a hoard bearing a desperate mix of weaponry and farming equipment. He felt like years passed before a reply was uttered, two minutes turned to two decades, within which he somehow aged and weathered the same two hundred years as the stone beneath them.
When the words finally did come, he wished they didn't. Wished, against all hoping of the laws of time and space, that he could will them back out of existence, back into the air in his companion's lungs.
"They say the fifth god has been seen in the South. You need to get Cait out."
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