Multiple Settings Maladaptive Daydreamers Club

[CorinTraven]

Welcome! I find interest checks extraordinarily awkward to write, particularly to start, so I'll get right to introductions and a brief synopsis of my roleplay experience thus far in life. I'm a 26-year-old woman in the EST timezone, and I've been roleplaying for plus ten years now. I started on MMO style sites (Runescape), and eventually migrated over to more epic, novel-style forum-based roleplays as I got older. I'm a woman who appreciates craft, and I find roleplays most enjoyable when my partner is of a similar style and experience as me. As far as settings go, I really enjoy historical settings and a majority of my roleplays have been in your traditional medieval or pseudo-renaissance style. That being said, historical accuracy isn't nearly as important to me as writing a story that's fun and exciting. I'm eager to branch out and have been having cravings centered more on the political unrest of the 1800s and the era of common revolutions and the overthrow of established powers.

I'm far more concerned about finding a quality partner because a great story can come be made in any setting. I'd prefer not to do a modern setting just because I don't find it as exciting, and I'm not a super fan of science fiction or futurism, but if you've got an idea to pitch and I see potential, I can be convinced.

Out-of-character communication is great, I love to plot and use it as a method to relax/unwind when I'm having trouble disengaging from any stresses in real life, so expect odd-hour rants if you pair up with me.

I'm generally very enthusiastic and committed as a writer, and I hope to find someone with a similar zest. I consider myself a romanticly inclined writer; as in I enjoy a focus on character and emotions with more dramatic language and description. Below, I will detail some themes that interest me. They're not all required, just a sense of what I enjoy as a writer.

Spoiler: Partner Requirements

- 18+ (Preferably 21+)
- Enjoy Plotting and OOC discussion (Discord typically)
- Multi characters
- Desire to invest in longterm story and world building
- Reasonably Active & Communicative otherwise

Spoiler: Themes

Realism
Conflict
Jealousy
Political Intrigue
Abuse
Toxic Relationships
Hatred
Revenge
Justice
Power
Emotional
Character Development
Romance
Goodness
Kindness
Hope
Seriousness
Stakes
Innocence
Comic Relief
Corruption
Death
Complex Family Relationships
Secrets
Lies
Manipulation
Fear
Heroism
Antagonism
Struggle
Trauma

Well, I hope that there's someone out there looking to write, and if you're interested please reach out to me via PM to further discuss a partnership between us.

Thanks for reading!

 

[CorinTraven]

Writing Sample Bump

Spoiler: Writing Sample # 1

When Fyodor relented, Marta was quick to settle, taking her seat once more and returning his empty smile- though at least she was sickeningly pleased where he was only sickened. Karine was quite the opposite- knowing him from a tone like a musician might a symphony, and he was not settled. It was her turn to stand, slow and tentative, crossing the room toward him as he continued speaking. His final words were a banishment, and she reached for his empty hand with both of hers, to bring his knuckle to her lips and lay a soft kiss upon it.

Her words were quiet, private, and pleading, “It’ll only be for one night. I am sorry to leave you here alone. I will be back in the morning; I love you Fyodor- thank you for understanding.” She squeezed the meat of his palm before lowering his hand to instead move to embrace him fully.

Behind her, Marta would be speaking to her children- all too quick to oblige, “Symon, help your sister tie her boots, and get your coats on. Aunt Karine is coming back with us to the hotel.” The older boy hadn’t much been paying attention to the adults speak, absorbed in whatever little fiction he’d been reading, but Sofiya had been acutely aware of their discussion. She’d been looking between them the entire time, her doll sat in her lap, and wanting to contribute- but she knew better than to join an adult conversation.

So, when it was settled her aunt would be coming, she smiled with her small, gapped teeth showing, and exclaimed excitedly: “Aunt Karine’s coming with us Mama! Yay!” She hopped to her feet, beating the more sluggish Symon to their shoes, and insisting, “Symon- I don’t need your help tying my boots! I can do it by myself.” She sat on her bottom and began the first trial: Which shoe was which? They looked so similar, she supposed it didn’t much matter and just tugged one onto her left, and one onto her right. The laces were left loose, and she quickly worked at tying a wretched knot at the top before Symon could stop her. The older boy had struggled for a minute with trying to get her from just tangling her laces, but she was fighting him, and he did not feel like getting yelled at if she started to cry. So he went to put on his own shoes and let her walk around with her own backwards and knotted if that’s how she wanted it to be.

By the time Karine would step back from Fyodor, Sofiya was at her side, holding her aged and patched coat which stuck out against the small girl's fine, fur lined jacket. “Here Aunt Karine! I broughted you your jacket. I’m so happy you are coming with us!” She turned her eyes to Fyodor, as oblivious of the details of his sour mood as she had been to the detail of her shoes. “Buh-Bye Mister-…Rezkov! Your house is very big! Mommy wouldn’t let me see the rest of it, but I hope we come back and then I can!”

“Sofiya- Come here, leave Mister Rezakov alone. Let’s put your mittens and scarf on, Love.” Marta called her back quickly, Karine taking her coat, and giving Fyodor a parting glance.

“Good bye Fyodor. I will see you in the morning.” She slid her arms, bulked with layers of sweaters, into her coat, and turned to put her own boots on at the door, which was beginning to get crowded with Marta and her brood standing by.

Marta did not see a reason to say goodbye, just smirking to herself as she opened the door and directed Symon and Sofiya gently into the hallway. Karine followed not far behind her, trying to give Fyodor a reassuring smile as she closed the door and waved her hand in departure.

A few steps into the hallway, Marta remarked snarkily: “Symon would have never allowed us to walk alone through the city. Let alone at night and with the children…Just because you are fighting…”

They were fighting? Karine’s stomach tightened as she looked up to her elder sister, unable to retort as she fretted over Fyodor. At her side, Sofiya reached for her hand.

“Aunt Karine! Hold my hand while we walk! You don’t got no gloves, I’ll keep your hand warm!” Karine gave a gentle smile at that, despite her apprehension, and the four of them began down the steps of the large, shared lodgings.

 

[CorinTraven]

Spoiler: Writing Sample # 2

“…Hmm?” She murmured breathily, seeming for a moment that she might stir and then drop right back to sleep for how tight a hold on her exhaustion had taken, but her eyes opened, lucidness returning quickly when she noticed his shadow over her. She blinked her unfocused eyes rapidly, squeezing them for a few seconds and rubbing the tiredness out of their corners while she was reoriented to the waking world. The almost morning glow of the afternoon sun did little to lessen her confusion as she pushed herself up, brushing off her legs and noting the red-patterned impression the grass had left on both her forearms. A matching pattern was less pronounced along the peak of her cheek and brow, fading quickly as she stood and felt sheepish about how deep of a sleep she’d succumbed to. She placed a note of judgement in his tone, found disapproval where there’d been none, and made great effort to prepare herself quickly, as if that would lessen the show of vulnerability she conflated with rest.

With him taking lead, her efficiency in travel was much improved, and Josephine found herself impressed by his uncanny ability to understand and traverse the unpredictable terrain. They made it back to the river with the twilight enclosing around them, guided to the dark reflection and gentle sound as the last bits of color drained out the western horizon. It’d been a small victory after the hopelessness that had begun that day, and Josephine had never been so thankful as she was when she’d splashed a few handfuls of crisp stream upon her face. It’d been an ecstasy made the cold of that night pass more easily, even without a fire and the sun’s heat dissipated quickly off the once sweltering landscape.

The next morning came and went without gunshots, without any signs of life beside the two of them and a half dozen prairie antelope they’d spotted grazing in the tall grass that lie to their north. Lars had spotted them first with his field glasses, before pointing them out and handing them off for her to look. Josephine had seen the pronghorned creatures before, but fleetingly from the window of the train and at great distances; so she found them notable when given an opportunity to observe. When finally, some unperceivable danger had first one antelope stiffening, and then the entire herd leaping through the grass off into the distance, she was disappointed that the tranquil moment had passed. Like the herd, she and Lars were quick to continue moving, not wanting to linger and wait for danger to make them scatter.

Though the question occurred to her, Josephine did not broach what the specific details of their heading, long after she knew she ought to. She had no plan, or even hope to develop one, and though she felt in her bones she’d live to regret it, she was relieved to let herself be led after months of being inundated by choice, each more challenging and consequential than the last. While they were in the wilderness, she decided, there was really no trouble in following him. It wouldn’t be costly, she suspected, until they reached a railroad, until then- ten miles east was just as good as ten miles west.

He seemed to know something she did not about where passage could be made and where it could not from a distance, an intuition that told him if they should go this way or that, where it was safe to stop and where it was best to keep moving. She admired him and was impressed by his skills, wanting to know how he knew one way from another, and by the third day, she’d begun to question decisions unabashedly, not challenging it but wondering: Why? How did he know, how could he tell?

It was late into their third day of travel, the first two having been with a perfect blue sky and beating sun, but on the third, clouds had moved in from the west. The wind had picked up after noontime, and fat pellets of rain had dropped first in lonesome slivers, before becoming a consuming blanket, forcing them to seek shelter and let the storm pass. The trees provided some relief until they found a cleft in the jutting landscape, an alcove of dry earth nestled within it.

Josephine came running out from the rain, her saddlebags haphazardly held under each arm, a mixture of a laugh and a yell barely heard over the sound of thundering rain. Supplies rescued from the backs of their horses whose best cover would be the trees, the girl panted, shook, and wiped the water off of her face and arms. She was excited by the sudden weather, hair in limp soaked strains across her shoulders and down her back, hat hanging by a string tied around her neck, having been soaked through and useless as it was. Though her teeth were beginning to chatter and goose-eggs were raising along her arms, Josephine did not note her discomfort; instead turning, looking out into the downpour, and shouting- though she’d doubt he’d hear her with how loud it was, especially out in the rain.

“Hurry up, Macbraid! You’re going to get struck by lightning!”

When he joined her, equally soaked to the bone, she remarked in a singsong, knowing tone. “Don’t you wish you would have packed light now, like me?” She said this knowing- as did he- that she was missing several crucial, overlooked pieces of equipment like a cook pot or extra canteen for water. That didn’t prevent her toothy smirking and laughter- having been talking since mid-morning that she hoped it would storm and now she was stupidly content despite convention dictating otherwise when one was caught in a storm.

 

[redheadswift]

Hi there! 21-year-old woman, also in the EST zone, with a love for historical fantasy. I would love to start a long-term roleplay with you! I’m totally new to this site and desperate to find new partners. I hope we can be in touch! I mostly use discord and chatzy. Please DM or reply and let me know

 

[CorinTraven]

Spoiler: Writing Sample #3

Josephine sat forward with interest as he spoke, repositioning to be more comfortable, elbows on her knees, her skinny ankles crossing over one another and tucking her feet beneath her bent legs. As much as he openly disdained his profession and painted a deadly and undesirable picture with his grim words, it still sounded quite exciting to the curious girl, forgivably callow, and unable to fathom the worst of his regrets. Her voice was equal parts wonder and dismay: “So, do you have to kill most of your bounties?” She wasn’t quite frightened by that, though perhaps she should be, remembering waking in his camp, his big shadow squatted down in front of her, knife in hand, and how she’d taunted him while completely prone. Before that night, how many times had someone shot their mouth off at him and he cleaned their blood off that blade after? How many people had been in her same position, but under ‘simpler’ circumstances? It gave her new a perspective to consider him from, one that chilled her, though not without providing thrill and intrigue as well.

The girl would never go so far as to have thought him soft before, he’d demonstrated roughness and grit from their first meeting onward, but he’d done so with a mild manner and restraint that made it easy to forget he was a dangerous man, capable and experienced in extraordinary violence. She didn’t understand why he’d apparently given up on carrying her bounty through, what complication had been insurmountable, enough to abandon his goal completely, with the key to victory in hand. He told her it was because she was too much trouble, but Josephine didn’t quite believe that, he didn’t seem the type to change his course so easily, and he’d invested much into tracking her down. Josephine fretted over his reasoning like a dog on a bone, gnawing at the marrow for an answer that satisfied her, expecting that if she could only crack it open, she’d know his motivations.

His question surprised her in the swell of fondness recalled in her answer, trimmed with the melancholy of memory. “My Papa showed me- My mother’s father.” Her expression softened and her smile widened as she elaborated. “He loved hunting, and in the summers, my mother would escape the city heat with my brothers and I to stay with him in the Adirondacks. He had a lodge there- on Lake Champlain. My mother didn’t much care for it, she preferred civilization and society, she didn’t have much passion for nature…but we loved it- my brothers and I. It was the best, Lucas and I used to spend all summer making forts in the woods, we’d get it into our head we would spend the night there and be real survivalists, make ourselves sick eating blackberries…and inevitably at some point in the night Ben and Sam- our older brothers- would come up and start stomping around until we both lost our nerve and run inside screaming that we’d seen a bear." A laugh accompanied her storytelling, animating as she found a familiar rhythm and beat. "You’d think after the first year we’d figure it out or give it up- but it happened a few more times before Lucas decided he’d had enough and snuck one of our grandfather’s rifles off the wall and hid it in the fort. Thank God, our Papa noticed before it got dark and anything bad could have happened. Lucas was showing it to me and explaining his plan to kill the bear when he tore through the old tablecloth we were using as a door in a fever, and when he saw Lucas with that gun…I don’t know if I’d ever seen him more mad. He tanned Lucas’ hide pretty good, he must have been ten or eleven by then. I remember it was the only time I’d ever seen him use his belt-…he never was keen on hitting us, he had a good humor about him. My mother complained he spoiled us...But that time, I suppose it was serious, Ben and Sam got in trouble too, for terrorizing us. God, Ben had to be almost eighteen, he must not have beat them, they would have been too old, but I remember he’d scolded them and made them apologize for tormenting us. By the end of it, everybody was sore and in trouble-…except for me." She added with a glowing smugness. "Lucas tried to say it was my idea- but my Papa wouldn’t hear it.” Assured and content in that, it was obvious from her enthuse and the timbre of her voice, that she held deep affection for her grandfather, realizing with a bit of fluster, she’d prattled on at length, compelled by the warmth of her childhood memories.

“Sorry- that was stupid, none of that matters...I only meant to mention it because he would always shoot with his pals and my brothers. When I was six, he was shooting at pigeons with a new shot gun, letting my brothers try it out, and he’d held it and let Lucas fire it, and I’d asked if I could next. My mother must have been elsewhere, she wasn’t very happy when we told her later, but he did much the same he had with Lucas with me, held it, aimed it, probably helped me pull the trigger too, but we hit the bird, and I was quite convinced it’d been me and he was happy to say the same. After that, whenever he was practicing or sporting with the boys, I insisted on being part of it, much to my mother’s protests and chagrin. For my 12th birthday, he gave me a Remington Rolling block.” Her eyes gestured to the rifle of that exact model set beside her, “After I realized I was going to need a rifle out here- I thought about getting a repeater, but figured it’d be best to get a gun I know how to use.”

“But- yeah, we spent a lot of time together, and he’d take me hunting, he’d set up contests for my brothers and I, put up a prize of a quarter and coach and judge us. Lucas would get frustrated too easily and quit, he was a sore loser, especially to me. Ben was good as long as it was close- he can’t see much after about twenty yards, and Sam never liked the noise of it and would rarely participate, so it would often be just me and my Papa. Until my Mother decided that it was an unbecoming hobby for a young lady and sent me to New Jersey with my cousins the summer I was thirteen. I wrote to my Papa, begging for him to come and take me to Lake Champlain and lamenting being separated during what was sacred time for us, and before June was up, my aunt’s husband had received a telegram from him with the demand that his granddaughters be put on a train to Albany and to be updated when he should expect their arrival. Sure enough, a week later, he was waiting at the train station for my cousins and me, and we spent the rest of the summer with him…” Her smile was warm, crinkling the corners of her eyes, but draining slowly from her as her voice lost its light and enthusiasm, a tinge of pain developing in her throat, “Then that winter, he died…and well, after that, my mother got what she wanted and I wouldn’t do much shooting anymore…” Her voice trailed off, shrugging her narrow shoulders, and hoping she hadn’t bored him too terribly jabbering on about these small moments she treasured, her eyes searched his face furtively, uncharacteristic shyness strung into her expression.

“But, I guess that didn’t do her any good, did it? Put me in the finest finishing schools, made sure I had a thousand lessons on poetry, painting, proper etiquette- had me memorize an endless volume of silly, useless, frivolous nonsense that was supposed to domesticate me and polish me up to be a respectable young lady…yet, I still wound up here…If she could see me now, I bet she’d wail…she’d take one look at me and go ‘Josephine, what have you done! You’re going to freckle all over your skin, you’re completely red! You’re filthy, you smell like a horse and you’re dressed like a boy!’…” Her voice changed key and mimed franticness to imitate her mother, dropping to her normal pitch as she continued. “Not to mention, I’m keeping such gauche company. My mother could hardly tolerate if my father invited his foreman to supper, she thought it boorish when the poor man used silverware out of order. She would faint, if she knew what a waste all her hard work has culminated to. She probably would prefer I had just disappeared entirely, if she could know where I am, what I’ve been doing.”

 

[CorinTraven]

Bump