Obsidianserpent
Senior Member
Hello everyone; the partner search continues. I consider myself a relatively advanced RPer and am looking for another similarly skilled writer. Here's what I'm looking for in a partner:
Below is a sample of my writing. If any of the plots above interest you (or if you'd like to discuss something original) please PM me a sample of your writing as well.
I should also add that I'm a concept artist, and may illustrate our adventures together. Below are some samples of my work.
If any of this has piqued your interest, please PM me a sample of your writing. I hope to hear from some of you!
- Writes 2-3 paragraphs minimum.
- Posts at least once a week (I prefer quality over quantity).
- Pays attention to spelling/grammar and avoids run-on sentences.
- Writes in the past tense, third person limited perspective.
- Is willing to world build with me in advance over PM.
- I'm not opposed to romance (MXM) but it not my top priority; my goal with this RP is to create an intriguing, fast paced story, not a scintillating romance.
- I'm don't care whether my partner plays a male or female character.
- Reclusive Sorcerer X Hired Mercenary (Northwestern Europe, Arabian, West African, Eastern Europe): A unique sorcerer (my character) hires a band of mercenaries to assist him in escorting an insidious, sentient stone to a shrine where it would be destroyed. Along our journey, the stone begins to play tricks on the minds of the hired mercenaries. The caravan is attacked by a mysterious group of cultists before the stone intervenes, transporting our characters to an unknown series of caverns. Our characters must work together to discover the stone's sinister intentions and escape the subterranean labyrinth...
- Tribesman X Fellow Tribesman (Celtic, Norse, North African, Mayan, West African): A proud and ancient tribe (to which our characters belong) has been pushed to the brink of extinction over the past half century by the swelling empire, forcing them to retreat deeper and deeper into the wilderness. A demon monstrosity attacks the village unexpectedly. Though we manage to slay the creature, we learn that the creatures head must be taken to an altar, beyond the empire's walls. Our characters soon become caught up in battle for the north between two other-worldly forces...
- Warlock X Vampire/Werewolf/Vampire Hunter (Eastern Europe, English Victorian resembling Penny Dreadful): WIP (Open to suggestions).
- Assassin X Rival Assassin (Egyptian, Arabian, Japanese, Chinese, Western Europe): Civil war engulfs the land. Warring factions have warred with one another for nearly a century. Over the past decade, however, a potential victor appears to be emerging. He/she is ruthless and sadistic, delighted by torture and murder for their own sake. Meanwhile, a terrible blight afflicts the rice paddies of the lord's enemy forces, and many suspect the blight to be the product of black magic. Two powerful groups of specialized assassins have emerged: one whose ultimate goal is to slay the sadistic ruler, the other to protect him/her at all costs.
- Witch Doctor/Sorcerer X Pirate/Captain (Western Europe/Western Africa): A sorcerer (my character) books passage south to a remote jungle island in order to study under a legendary shaman and escape a widespread witchhunt in the western heartlands. While out at sea, a disagreeable sell-sword organizes a coup, over throwing the captain (partner's character) of the ship. The sorcerer and captain are locked up with the intention of selling the captain as a slave and the sorcerer as hacked up body parts to be sold. Our characters must work together to escape the brig and retake control of the ship...
- OC X Canon or OC character (Princess Mononoke): While the humans of Irontown have formed a tentative peace with the forest gods, the tensions between the warring states of Japan have only intensified. Lady Eboshi is being threatened to choose sides, with the threat of war growing on the horizon...(WIP)
Below is a sample of my writing. If any of the plots above interest you (or if you'd like to discuss something original) please PM me a sample of your writing as well.
Morcant knelt beside the corpse and gathered a minute piece of talc from his rucksack. Ancient spells ushered from his lips as he carefully drew a circle around the body. It was strange to him that this rotting slab before him was once a member of the most feared thieves guild in Vogos. Decades of scheming, murdering, and hiding from the civilized world, and this is what the rogue had to show for it. He recalled Judoc's words. Death, time; these were the only true lords of heaven and earth, and it was through their power that the vanity of man's petty pursuits was laid bare for all to see.
“Anala...Sabtain...Mithrakas…”Each syllable echoed on the cold wind. A distinctively earthy aroma filled the air, like that of a fertile forest just before a storm. It was the Anem Cira, or “soul spark” as it was known in the common tongue; the veil between the Ghost Land and the corporeal world was growing thinner with each word the skinwalker uttered. He pulled a sharpened ceremonial blade, thin and needle-like from a leather sheath upon his ankle and pitched it high above the sternum of the rotting corpse. With all the force he could muster, he drove the blade into the center of its chest, twisting it back and forth until an audible crack relieved the pressure beneath him. A puff of noxious odor spewed from the freshly formed cavity. Morcant’s eyes welled up with tears. He’d only invoked Albiach Cineadhia on three prior occasions, and never on a corpse so late into decomposition. Under the tutelage of Judoc, he had performed many spells and rituals which required dabbling in the macabre. He’d grown accustomed to writing in the blood of goats, horses, and men, and creating salves and elixirs from the organs of all manner of vermin. But no invocation had thus far required him to work with a specimen so repugnant.
“Vamarus...Danir…” The surrounding greenery was sapped of its vitality and form, leaving behind a ring of withered husks. From the Ghost Land energy continued to flood into the corporeal world unabated, creating a subtle humming on the air. Morcant extended his hands deep into the corpse’s hollow chest, and tore what little remained of the heart from the side of its ribcage. Maggots which had burrowed beneath the fleshy surface wriggled to and fro. He felt a lukewarm mixture of stale water and bodily fluids trickle down his arm and soak his plain linen shirt. Fighting back the impulse to vomit, he gripped the heart firmly in his hand and elevated it into the air.
“Sabnatha…”
His eyes turned black as smoke. Blurred images, one after the other flashed before him in his mind’s eye, each accompanied by a prickling pain which began at the base of his spine and spread throughout the length of his torso like a surge of electricity. Clad in scanty sienna gowns, three beautiful women with locks of auburn danced around the vacant post to which he was bound. Their lithe bodies moved in unison as though they were of a single mind. He did not recognize the curious tongue in which they spoke. Their coarse and raspy tones of their voices resembled not those of fair maidens but demons; a tritonal, guttural retching which Morcant would not soon forget. The tallest of the three slowly approached him like a dancer in a city brothel, her hips swaying from side to side and a coy, yet devious smile upon her lips. She arched her spine, pressed herself against him and purred quietly as a placated feline. Her teeth were sharp as arrowheads and the smell of rancid meat was heavy upon her breath. She slipped her hand beneath her garments and gently caressed the tit of her breast. Her eyes rolled with pleasure into the back of her head, her mouth barely ajar. A dark, virescent fluid soaked through the thin garment covering her bosom and trailed down the pale flesh of her breasts. With stained fingertips, she sensually caressed Morcant’s jawline.
“Do you hunger child?” the woman whispered gently into his ear. Her words devolved into a maniacal cackle as she forced her fingers between his clenched lips. The taste of tar and vinegar was overpowering. His mouth began to swelter, as though he were cradling a smoldering coal upon the rear of his tongue. The sensation spread to the lining of his throat: a dry, torrid tingle which crept along his trachea and constricted his airways. As he struggled in vain for faded breath, he heard Dyana’s voice in the peripheries of his mind, calling to him with an air of desperation he’d yet to perceive in the ranger’s self-assured voice.
“Morcant...wake up!”
“Anala...Sabtain...Mithrakas…”Each syllable echoed on the cold wind. A distinctively earthy aroma filled the air, like that of a fertile forest just before a storm. It was the Anem Cira, or “soul spark” as it was known in the common tongue; the veil between the Ghost Land and the corporeal world was growing thinner with each word the skinwalker uttered. He pulled a sharpened ceremonial blade, thin and needle-like from a leather sheath upon his ankle and pitched it high above the sternum of the rotting corpse. With all the force he could muster, he drove the blade into the center of its chest, twisting it back and forth until an audible crack relieved the pressure beneath him. A puff of noxious odor spewed from the freshly formed cavity. Morcant’s eyes welled up with tears. He’d only invoked Albiach Cineadhia on three prior occasions, and never on a corpse so late into decomposition. Under the tutelage of Judoc, he had performed many spells and rituals which required dabbling in the macabre. He’d grown accustomed to writing in the blood of goats, horses, and men, and creating salves and elixirs from the organs of all manner of vermin. But no invocation had thus far required him to work with a specimen so repugnant.
“Vamarus...Danir…” The surrounding greenery was sapped of its vitality and form, leaving behind a ring of withered husks. From the Ghost Land energy continued to flood into the corporeal world unabated, creating a subtle humming on the air. Morcant extended his hands deep into the corpse’s hollow chest, and tore what little remained of the heart from the side of its ribcage. Maggots which had burrowed beneath the fleshy surface wriggled to and fro. He felt a lukewarm mixture of stale water and bodily fluids trickle down his arm and soak his plain linen shirt. Fighting back the impulse to vomit, he gripped the heart firmly in his hand and elevated it into the air.
“Sabnatha…”
His eyes turned black as smoke. Blurred images, one after the other flashed before him in his mind’s eye, each accompanied by a prickling pain which began at the base of his spine and spread throughout the length of his torso like a surge of electricity. Clad in scanty sienna gowns, three beautiful women with locks of auburn danced around the vacant post to which he was bound. Their lithe bodies moved in unison as though they were of a single mind. He did not recognize the curious tongue in which they spoke. Their coarse and raspy tones of their voices resembled not those of fair maidens but demons; a tritonal, guttural retching which Morcant would not soon forget. The tallest of the three slowly approached him like a dancer in a city brothel, her hips swaying from side to side and a coy, yet devious smile upon her lips. She arched her spine, pressed herself against him and purred quietly as a placated feline. Her teeth were sharp as arrowheads and the smell of rancid meat was heavy upon her breath. She slipped her hand beneath her garments and gently caressed the tit of her breast. Her eyes rolled with pleasure into the back of her head, her mouth barely ajar. A dark, virescent fluid soaked through the thin garment covering her bosom and trailed down the pale flesh of her breasts. With stained fingertips, she sensually caressed Morcant’s jawline.
“Do you hunger child?” the woman whispered gently into his ear. Her words devolved into a maniacal cackle as she forced her fingers between his clenched lips. The taste of tar and vinegar was overpowering. His mouth began to swelter, as though he were cradling a smoldering coal upon the rear of his tongue. The sensation spread to the lining of his throat: a dry, torrid tingle which crept along his trachea and constricted his airways. As he struggled in vain for faded breath, he heard Dyana’s voice in the peripheries of his mind, calling to him with an air of desperation he’d yet to perceive in the ranger’s self-assured voice.
“Morcant...wake up!”
I should also add that I'm a concept artist, and may illustrate our adventures together. Below are some samples of my work.
If any of this has piqued your interest, please PM me a sample of your writing. I hope to hear from some of you!
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