CosmicSquares
Flop Era Survivor
Hey y'all! You can just call me by my 'IGN' Cosmic or Cos. I use they/any pronouns & I'm a butch woman of color! I've been writing for about 14~ years, both in online and offline contexts. I've honestly always loved writing, and I'll probably always find myself writing! Whether it's with others (as I'm seeking to do now), or individually!
And yes, I finally fixed the issue with my closed inbox! Sorry about that, it should be easier to reach me now! Feel free to PM as opposed to responding to the thread!
I'm currently a 1st year grad student! I've always really loved research, and my past theses have been centered on the theories of: Frantz Fanon, Edward Said, and Audre Lorde. My favorite books from each (respectively) are: Wretched of the Earth, Orientalism, and Sister Outsider. Cliche picks (in context of their bibliographies) for certain, but they're their most popular works for a reason! Edward Said is my favorite theorist of the three, and I have recently revisit some of his writings in my leisure time, specifically The Question of Palestine and The Politics of Dispossession. In terms of my research, I have also used Che Guevara, Toussaint L'Ouverture, and Ho Chi Minh- Global decolonial & anticolonialist theory (and praxis) is my jam!
As for fiction, I've got silly little faves. Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller, as well as her Circe, are two I've really enjoyed recently! Yes, yes, I'm a little Greek mythos nerd! Aside from those two works though, magical realism with Queer (and/or feminist) subtext always does it for me! Thousand and One Nights, Three Thousand Years of Longing, that vibe is always fun! Winter's Orbit (Everina Maxwell) was also a fun recent read of mine! A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara mentally destroyed me, but that one was good too! I'm a book nerd!
Speaking of being a nerd, I'm big on video games too! My Steam account is about as old as my writing record! In terms of favorites in that category, Disco Elysium & Hades II are my crowned, best-ever, top-of-my-list games. The former is such a cute little D&D-like experience (I'm a long-time DM, speaking of), but with all the grittiness of a detective mystery! And the latter is a fun foray into Greek mythos in a roguelike setting. Also, yes, I've played Baldur's Gate! I dabble in some League (ADC/Top) here and there, and some Honkai: Star Rail!
I also adore music! Seriously, like, recommend me some music you love from a favorite artist in your intro post! I'll love it!! My fave artists (that sing in English) have got to be Mitski (Francis Forever), Hozier, (Swan Upon Leda) Rio Romero (Butch 4 Butch), Ricky Montgomery (Cabo), Hope Tala (Is It Enough), and Orion Sun (Dirty Dancer). So, yes, like every other lesbian hahaha. In addition, am a big foodie- I'm pretty lucky to live in a part of the world that has nearly every cuisine at my disposal, so I've practically tried it all! Here's a sampling of what I've been listening to lately in general:
Aside from my own region's cuisine (which will always rank on top for me!!), A close runner-up has got to be South Asian. Spicy food is my lifeblood, and the unbelievable diversity of spices and dishes in South Asian cuisine is too good! A final fun little fact, I'm trilingual!
So, yeah! Books, games, music, as well as a bit about me generally. Just little interests and hobbies of mine! Feel free to tell me a little about you as well!
Advanced Literate/Novella. Yep, pretty much what's on the tin! This means around 1k+ words a post, though I'm not a huge stickler on this. I've written 5k words in a post before, and I've written 600 in a post before. It just depends on what level of responsiveness is needed! And outside of those speaking English as a second language (or those with disabilities), please, please, keep the typos and grammar mistakes in your post to a minimum. In other words, try to proofread your posts! I'm big on editing personally, and I'm definitely a perfectionist when it comes to my own writing- You don't have to be, but just don't post something I can hardly read! Constant typos can really take me out of the post. All in all, I'm a believer of Quantity and Quality.
18+ Only. Due to my own age, I'm pretty uncomfortable writing with anybody much younger than I am! It's really that simple.
OOC Or Not, IDC. I'll be honest- I'm a pretty low energy/maintenance kind of gal, and I like to be fairly private concerning my daily going ons! I can do with or without active OOC. Whichever you prefer, let me know! Regardless, basic rapport and clear communication is important, of course. And TRUST that I'll be making spotify playlists out of our OCs if you get me invested enough lol.
Ghost-Friendly, To An Extent. If there's some reason you can't post, or just aren't feeling the vibes, that's totally cool! I don't mind at all, especially when we're first starting out, and feeling out if we're right for each other. But (big but) if we've been writing together for a while, please try not to just disappear! That's when it's a bit irritating.
Writing Sample(s), Please! This just helps me gauge if we're going to mesh! And of course, I will also attach a writing sample to this post, so that you can judge for yourself, too.
PMs on RPN + 3rd person, past tense. The former is more of a hard rule, the latter is more of a soft rule. I like to keep it to RPN PMs, for both OOC (I really don't care to share discords or anything like that) and OC. I pretty rarely go off-site to write! In terms of my own writing style, I write in 3rd person, and in primarily past tense (as you'll see with my writing sample). You don't have to do this if you're not accustomed, but I'd strongly prefer it!
Contribute, I beg. Teamwork makes the dream work! Seriously, y'all! I can't do this on my own! Contribute to the world-making, the ideas, both small and large. Like, please. Contribute! I hate feeling like I'm running a story on my own and you're just in it. If I wanted to play D&D I'd go do that!
Be As Active As You Like. I'm pretty active on a daily basis, especially when I get really into a story, but by no means do you have to be as active! I'd prefer to know what to expect, but if your schedule is super irregular, that's fine, too! Just let me know. Communication is key! Really though, frequency is no biggie regardless.
No SA. Referring to sexual assault or any of its derivatives. This is just a trigger of mine, I'd rather not for that theme to have anything to do with the story. At all! Anything else is fair game (within the site's rules, of course). Advocate for yourself though, and let me know if you've got any triggers of your own!
Have Diverse OCs! Yes, Multiple! A huge pet peeve of mine is realizing all a partner's face claims look the same! Like, that's unbelievably boring. And I see a lot of writers on this site with this issue! If you haven't gotten diverse with your characters before, it's never too late to start! I'm talking diverse in race, sexuality, gender, body type, all of that. We can do with or without character sheets, but I add pictures to the post sometimes, for example. Whether it's to depict an outfit, a weapon, an environment, a building, a new face... I can do with or without this aspect if you find that your descriptive stylistic writing is strong!
Pairings & Preferences. Speaking of, I'm open to just about any pairing outside of cishet! Meaning almost exclusively Queer (romantic) relationships! Obviously, we'll be having relationships outside of this- fraught familial relationships, platonic relationships, all that delicious character exploration!
Also, be willing to- Not double, and not triple, but essentially help me make up an entire world of characters. Yes, we'll have 'mains' (which may result in like, 3-4+ different pairs haha), but be willing to play 'NPCs' and/or just a wealth of side characters in general! As for FCs, I don't mind the format. Drawn, realistic, whateva! I have a grand range in my own arsenal (both drawn and realistic).
No Meta-writing. I know, I know. This is obvious, basic. But it's worth saying clearly! If we discuss an idea over OOC, or if one of my characters is having some sort of concealed thought, your character doesn't just get to magically know. Yes, duh. Just understand the separation between your knowledge and the character's knowledge (as well as between characters).
Okay, I can't really think of anything else right now! But I'll add if I think of more. A living document, as they say!
Alright, now the fun part! Some plots n pairings I've had on the mind! Speaking of- I'm not really into 'fanfiction' style roleplay (I love reading it though! Yes, I am a wattpad girlie), as in I don't love fandom characters or recreating exact characters that already exist in media. That said, feel free to use their faces (as face-claims), and/or their universes! But try to keep OCs as OCs. If you have ideas of your own, feel free to pitch them! And this is a work in progress, so no worries if you don't see anything you like yet! And as always, we can always brainstorm something different. And no need to be familiar with the source material! I'm more than open to explaining the basics.
Some of these are still under construction (I know, I'm so lazy!), but feel free to select them if the genres and inspirations intrigue you nonetheless!
Plots:
Taken!
Keywords: Vampiric, Modern
Inspo: Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines (Game)
Context:
- Source Materials (Links Attached):
- Clans
- Clan Curse
- Terminology: Vampire heritage
- 'The Masquerade': Traditions
Sample Text (Two Kindred Elders Perspective):
Atlas could not remember if he had ever been human. Perhaps he had, once. Eons ago. All he knew, was his brother had been turned around the same time as him. He could not remember who he was, in his youth. Before becoming this. But now? A creature of the night. Long, enduring years. Collecting spawn here and there. His brother, Erik, had no interest in rule, though. He mostly stayed out of it- Outside of his bare minimum requirements to his own clan, and to the other clans. The guy was fairly anti-social, frankly. But he held healing power beyond imagination... Even if he only subsisted himself on vegetables alone. On animal blood, at his worst. He refused to feed on people. It made him immeasurably weaker than even other spawn. It wasn't a good look. But he didn't seem to care. He was far more interested in his powers for necromancy. Vampires already had wonderful healing on their own. But to be brought from the dead, if brought to Erik quickly enough? Fine. It was a useful skill.
And that night had been like any other night.
Except, except. An oracle. A Malkavian, approaching him, the Vampire Lord, the Vampire Elder. One of many, for he was not alone in his rule. Akin to an oligarchy, of sorts. Over thousands and thousands of vampire spawn. Under each clan of the Elder, of the Lords. Erik didn't turn people anymore, though. No. He thought it cruel. It didn't stop his clanmates from doing so, though. Atlas, thought it a gift. Especially since depending on who bit whom, they got particular powers. For example. Atlas had all the oracles.
The Malkavians. Their symbol was a broken mirror. Sure, they were a little insane... And often saw things that weren't there. But, they were oracles nonetheless. And they came to Atlas with visions. It saved him the work of needing to look further. An awfully draining power. And indeed, would eventually drive one to insanity. In circles and circles of time. It was even foretold that a gaze upon Atlas was too unbearable for a human- He'd drive them insane on the spot. It was why he never really traversed the night, when other vampires did. Only when he wished to turn them.
There were also the Ventrue clan. The nobility- Their symbol was the royal scepter. Often those who had been nobility in life. In positions of power. Politicians, kings, princes. All the rest. They excelled in leadership and organization... Even if they couldn't help but put their nose up about it. Absolute snobs, the lot of them. And they caused the most social conflict. Their Elder did, at least, with his elitist attitudes, and insistence that he knew what was best. Still, his propensity for order and peace mixed well with Atlas' own desire for such a thing. Things were unstable enough without some inner fallout, or disunity. That'd really drive his clan crazy! To bits!
Then there was the smallest clan, the Tremere. Their symbol was a square inside a circle. Geometric shapes. They were smallest, as they died quite easily. They were once witches, wizards. Now warlocks, often making pacts with lower demons to avoid getting their hands dirty. They were, of course, forbade from consorting with anything at arch-demon level or above. And frankly? Often times, their blood wasn't rich enough to sustain such things. They very often died in the process of summoning. It was against their code for a reason! Their code, 'The Masquerade'.
Ah, but the Tremere rarely learned. Whole lot of creeps, really. Kept to themselves and such. Still, they caused the least trouble of all the clans, for at least they died before any trouble could occur. Ah, yes. Speaking of trouble. And there were the Toreador. The prettiest ones. Their symbol was the ever-fleeting rose. Charmers. Manipulative, and obsessed with beauty and life and socialization. Loved art, and loved living like art. A fairly lazy clan, though. Once beauty was brought to their attention? It was impossible to turn away.
Aptly followed by the ugliest clan- The Nosferatu. Their symbol was akin to a drama mask- The unhappy one. Unsightly creatures, they couldn't even be seen among humans due to how horrifying they looked- And they were the closest to loss of control, even when compared to the clan of beasts. However, they were best in terms of navigation. Of finding things. Of getting into things, too. They were the stealth of the operation, and could get into just about any damn thing, no matter how high-tech it was. They were the information-gatherers. Or rather, the gossips of their people. They had dirt on everyone. The rogue sort.
Then there were the Gangrel- Erik's clan. The aforementioned clan of beasts. Their symbol was a howling wolf, with bared teeth. Werewolf wannabes, if you asked Atlas. Sometimes, they were actual turned werewolves, or just turned wolves, or other beasts! Still, the humans of them knew how to walk on their two legs, but they walked on all fours. Acted beastly. Loners and drifters. Still, they tamed beast, and plenty of them had a sort of control over nature. They were useful, in their way. Their power came from animalistic rage. Hell, many of them could turn into wolves! They had a gentleness with nature, though. And just so, with life, and with death. The druid of the vampires.
Though none had Erik's necromancy power- The very strongest of them, or those of certain disciplines within the Gangrel clan, could walk freely in the sunlight. But only Erik could participate in resurrections, or to speak to the dead directly, should the body be fresh enough. It was a hefty ritual, nonetheless. He often had to rest after a single resurrection, for weeks. Erik, too, practically changed his hair from short to long on the weekly. As his master had named it- He had 'too much' life. His hair grew quickly, and it could easily grow unmanageable. But there were pros in having 'too much life' as an undead one. Atlas had to carry a parasol to traverse the public- Erik was the only clan leader amongst them that did not need to do the same. The sun did not damage his skin.
He had first been discovered by his brother, who had awoken from the grave first. Erik had erupted in vines and thorn. Atlas still had a scar from his awakening. Still... Atlas had to be taken care of by Erik for weeks. Months. Had it been years before he was able to speak coherently? They had long since killed their masters. But the memory was fresh. Blood that fed the end of Erik's sharp blade of grass. And Atlas' own mirrored blade. Reflecting all that came into sight of it.
Ah, yes, and? The Brujah. Among the most troublesome of all the clans. Their symbol was a sort of upside-down anarchy symbol. The malcontents, the outcast. The rebel. Fierce warriors, who loved little more than war itself. Quickly angered, always passionate. Still, some have regained repute by going into philosophical pursuits, even activist ones. They are known for forbidden knowledges and powers. These were the most likely to defect as Anarchs- To disrespect Elder status. But they rarely disrespected the Masquerade's rules. For this reason, the Masquerade tolerated them- In ways that older structures of their society had not, like the Camarilla.
And finally? The Tzimisce. A mouthful and a half to say- Though they were the most ancient clan, by far- More than 2000 years old. Their Elder, 1000 years old since turned, who had killed his past Elder, who had been of that very age. It'd been said to have been a miracle. Remarkable, for a newly turned Kindred, vampire, to be able to kill their Elder like that. It was a dangerous business, though, for Elders to directly turn others. Hence why Kindred, the clan-folk, were often the ones to do it.
Their symbol was the ouroboros, though far more vicious looking. They were a sadistic sort. The Hunters. A clan of scholars, scientists, and flesh-shapers. Juno was the leader of this clan. Their skill was in torture- Of both themselves and others. Themselves, to change shapes and forms. Not a painless process. Of others, for... many reasons. Information, science, scholarship. They were information-gatherers, but in a far different way than the Nosferatu were. They gathered information of the new. Of what had never been known before- The Nosferatu gathered knowledge of the already-known.
They liked the path of most brutality, relished in it, proclaimed of its efficiency. Sweet, sweet bloodshed. As much as the Masquerade would allow them, and perhaps further some.
They currently hope to ascend vampiric state into something more, and their elder was practical proof of being 'ascended.' Among the oldest living vampires alive, Juno was the Elder of the Elders. He was often engaging himself in an experiment or other, involving his blood, cutting a wound open to see how his blood would respond to particular situations... Etcetera etcetera. He often had bandages along his arms, hands, thighs- Vampires healed quickly, but he pushed the limit often, for he often had a dozen or so wounds healing at once from the latest experiment.
Still, their experimental nature resulted in some... curiosity, surrounding Erik. He had long since been a target of interest- A vampire who could walk in the sun? Even his clan-mates could not do so. They often asked for samples of his blood. They were rarely indulged. By any of the clans, for that matter. If Atlas were human, this clan would be his least favorite to be caught by. They were the ones who defected to the Sabat the most. But the consequences were dire- Especially once their Elder got their hands upon them.
Juno's clanmates presented polite, intelligent, curious. Whether it was an act, or whether they truly believed such traits were compatible... Was another story. Juno was nothing of the sort, of course. Polite? Only if one considered silence polite. Intelligent? Well. Yes, he often brought many scientific breakthroughs to the Elders. Curious? Curious seemed too kind a word to describe his sort of hunger. And indeed. Juno was always hungry. Even if he wore a straight face, and rarely spoke at all. A 'Mmm' or 'Hm' often sufficed. And one knew when they were heading toward danger, quite easily, with this system- Often with a well placed 'Mmmm'. Atlas had once thought him mute. But... He'd spoken, once. Made a display of it, too. Perhaps after 1000 or so years, maybe even more, there wasn't so much to say anymore. Fair enough. His sword, wielded with cracks. But often fed by his own blood- And more often those of others, of course, to remain together, and to grow stronger, sharper.
The man was a formidable foe. And their first (and last) line of defense. Most ran when they saw him- Enemies of the Masquerade included.
All the clans lived above the city, in the wealthiest spots available, in close proximity to one another. Palaces and high-rises, practically. Them above, The Nosferatu below. Each clan had their own greivances with each other... The Brujah and the Ventrue never mixed. Order with disorder? Mm. Just so, Gangrel and Tremere didn't, either. The natural with the unnatural. The Malkavians and the Toreador, too. There was little else a Toreador hated more than having a mirror held to their face. As vain and gorgeous as they were- The moment a Malkavian cut deep? And Gods, could they cut deep... Well. A Toreador only wanted praise. Not critique nor warning. Nobody quite liked the Nosferatu... But they were needed nonetheless. Just so, the Tzimisce were oft-feared and avoided- Especially with that Elder of theirs. The Eldest Elder.
There were issues, but they held together under the Masquerade. And the Elders were the ultimate judges, enforcers, of such.
Now, of course, there were those that existed outside of the clans... The Caitiff, for one. The Clanless, the Thinbloods. Sometimes, they were taken in by clans. Other times, they were left to roam on their own- Or exiled. But if they risked too much, the Tzimisce were often sent to retrieve them. To 'take care of it.' Depending on the situation or what was needed. Their symbol was an ankh-like symbol. They were nicknamed as trash, unbound. And therefore unruly, and therefore a risk. The Elders knew precisely how many Caitiff there were, and always kept an eye. They were rarely strong, though. What was a vampire without their clan?
Then, of course, there was the Sabat. Those who turned their back on their clans, whom organized against the Masquerade. At the moment, a pitiful resistance. But a pain in the ass nonetheless. They take issue with the rules of the Masquerade, and work to bring it down, as well as all the Elders within. A ritualistic dagger was their symbol. However, so many clan types, under one banner? It made them awfully disorganized. For now, not so much a threat, but an eye was kept on them, too. There had once been far more clans, old and new, destroyed and remade, and the Sabat did indeed have some from these as well. There were dozens and dozens of 'ended' clans, now, with perhaps a survivor or two alone. Some were among the Clanless- Taken in by the Masquerade Clans. Others were Clanless, taken in by the Sabat. A matter of who wanted to follow sensible rules or not.
Ah, yes... And the worst clan- Worse than the Tzimisce. At least the Tzimisce were (officially) on their side. The Giovanni. Ghoulish folks, their symbol being the gaudiest G one had ever seen. They functioned as a mafia, of sorts. The final surviving clan of Caine, the first vampire. Of course, all clans were to come from Caine, in their own way, but the Giovanni were the only clan that could sport that they were 'purely' of Caine. Even for vampires, they were seen as a repulsive sort. They only married within the clan, and they practiced what could only be called eugenics galore. Some even rumored that by 'marrying within the clan,' that incest was a common practice... But these were rumors, only. Never confirmed.
Their specialty? Necromancy. Necromancy of the most invasive, nature-defying kind. They, in fact, excelled at it. Could do so often. It was not like Erik- Though it had brought upon him reasonable suspicion when he had first displayed proof of such power. Eventually, the other Elders surmised that it was best they had, at least, a single necromancer upon their own team, against Giovanni's army of them. It was likely that Erik's master had either Giovanni blood, or had dabbled in some sort of deal with the Giovanni. Regardless, the man was long dead. And Erik was the only one of his clan that could manipulate the dead. If such a skill were safe in anyone's hands, it was Erik's.
It didn't stop the Giovannis, though, with their obsession with him.
It had once been two overarching organizations. The Revenants of Caine- Which was now only the Giovannis, save for a couple of other integrated Revenants, and the diversified Camarilla- What was now the Masquerade. The Camarilla had once been far more exclusive, having kept out the Brujah, the Tzimisce, the Nosferatu. Seeking to eliminate them, and the Clanless, too. Times had changed. Especially since the new generation of Elders had taken power. The Camarilla was no more. Instead, a set of rules to organize them, unite them. Things were not perfect, but they functioned well enough.Available!
Keywords: Magic, Modern
Inspo: Cosmic Wheel of Sisterhood (Game)
Context:
- trans witch ascends to witch-hood (thus being validated in her femininity that she sought in her life/didnt fully get to seek in her life) - and she did tarot in life! essentially she ascends to divination, and her divination is EXTREMELY powerful. However, it was so powerful it foretold the demise of her coven- her coven leader resented that she was stronger than even herself, and exiles her for 1000 years!
- after 200 years, the witch gets fed up and breaks like the #1 law of witch-hood, summoning a behemoth! A forbidden magic, but she summons him to help her break out- its around this time the witch cops of the universe (Arbiter's office) come by and allow her to get visitors. But she can't leave, until the Behemoth fulfills his end of the deal.
- Trailer:
Sample Text (Behemoth Perspective):
Astaroth had been borne from the Cosmos. From the deepest, darkest points of the universe, he had opened his eyes, only to witness nothing more than more darkness. There was no sun, then. No bright stars. Only dark. He had been born at the very moment the universe had begun to manifest. The name in his skin, written in a Cosmic language, had been erased and rewritten many times. A branding process that told any summoner that he was whom he claimed to be. From Innana, among one of the first human beings, teaching them how to conduct war as brutally as possible. How rage ought to be put out in war. Indeed, she had created the very concept of war on Earth. To Astarte, an androgynous goddess who was far more concerned with sex and sensuality. With an immeasurable beauty. To drive men mad at the mere sight of them had been their favorite past time. To Ishtar, the very manifestation of transformation, and what it meant to be born anew. And all the beautiful releases that came with transformation- Aggression and Sexuality.
To... Astaroth. Ashtaroth. Qlipoth. Depended on who you asked.
A sort of combination of all that had come before him, with a bit of newness. He'd learned transformation from his Ishtar iteration, after all, and was completed. These days, he was known for being among the oldest Behemoths in the universe. Expensive to call upon, and with a heftier price to pay for a pact. He was known for his expansive knowledge, able to answer any question posed. He was known for his propensity toward philosophy, which easily manipulated the common man. Easing them into laziness, self-doubt. In his earlier days, he made men invisible, lead them to treasures to behold. And gave them just too little time to get all they wished from a stash. To be caught, and burned for the pact with him. Ah, what fun! He'd also been known to give mortals power over serpents. Metaphors upon metaphors, of course, to indicate other things. Serpents indicated lies. He gave men charm, and just as much power to detect it. And he? Prince of serpents, prince of dragons. Of lies, of manipulation. Of raw power.
He was most often summoned in August, as folks had figured his price was lowest, then. And it was. It was his birth month, after all. He didn't subscribe to the humans' concept of time, but in their time schedule, yes, he had been born sometime in August. August. The beginning of all things.
Though now, in a world that believed in predominately monotheism, he had resorted to coveting deals with those of the pagan persuasion- Primarily witches, warlocks, wizards, all across the galaxy. And hapless little mortals who had no idea what they were doing. Clueless, and taking from traditions they knew fuck-all about. Well, their ignorance was paid back in kind. In their defenselessness. In shock that anything they'd read had any worth.
This did not mean all had good intentions in summoning him. In fact, many did not. Not all wished to pay the price that dealing with a Behemoth required. And often, they tried to get out of it. But he always got his dues in the end. Always. Even if it took centuries of imprisonment. He would repay in kind. Eons of torture. The payment triple-fold. To suck them dry of their life essence, to subsist himself. He needed these pacts. But such dealings were quickly, swiftly, outlawed in magic circles, unequivocally across society. Something about 'catastrophic consequences.' A bunch of scared little dogs, who made a bunch of scared little rules. It only made becoming summoned far, far more fun.
Today? He was more than the arch-demoness he had been born as. Elevated past godly status, upon what some may describe as... Eldritch. Cosmic. Beyond comprehension. Behemoth, as he was formally called by the little humans who lived on that funny little Earth. His best patrons. His most consistent ones, anyway. And where he had begun first. His teachings of terror, of fear itself. For before man had feared anything, he had feared unknown. And what was more unknown to them than death? And what better to bring them death, than war? It'd always been entertaining. Though, he was far less mischievous these days. He sought pacts. And completed them. And defended himself along the way. It was that simple. Just a business, making a living. A killing, really.
He had seen men burned at the stake in his name, and just the opposite, too. For dealing with him, that is. What trifling beings these were. The least peaceful, the largest propensity for destruction, for hatred. It was delicious. Though, when he was not in pacts? He rested. It helped to conserve energy- And besides, he caused enough trouble on Earth by merely being an entity in their perception. He loved, loved, the false accusations when a human, or witch, or wizard, had nothing to do with him, but got burned at the stake anyways. Witches still punished one another harshly for this 'crime' of Behemoth summoning. Punishable by death, of course. For outside of the witches and wizards and covents, the modern society did not 'burn' one another anymore. Only the idiots who knew not what they were doing. The 'spirtualists.'
As for the witch summons? Didn't often stop them. Still, it'd been an awful long time he'd been successfully summoned... How many thousands of years? Ah. Don't speak too soon. Not-too-soon. Someone would always draw that sigil of his. Whether on accident, whether purposefully. And call his name. And he heard his name. Yes. Like blood on his lips.
The first noise out of his mouth, what could only be interpreted as a chuckle. Even if it sounded nothing like one. A call from the Cosmos? How... different! This was where the witches imprisoned one another, yes? A prisoner called for him, then. Perfect. Delicious. Manifesting all around what appeared to be... A home in the Cosmos. Far from Earth. Far for a witch to be, that is. Wrapped around, and around, and around, for his natural form was the size of the entire "house"- Prison. Gave new meaning to house arrest, hm? Alright, alright. He was coming. The blood price to be summoned was paid.
Hello, hello, little witch. His eyes opening for the first time in one hundred years. His third eye opening first, then the one upon his chest, his multiple sets of arms stretching out. Adorned with long, black fingernails. His lower half nothing but serpentine. With a narrowed gaze on his main set of eyes, a sort of reddened flame emerging from both his main set of eyes, and from his upper-mouth, too. The eyes upon his head and chest unblinking, always watching, his stomach's eye unopened. Golden cracks and scarring, that appeared to practically be akin to rope, shining against his skin. He had been taken apart and put back together a million times over. His signature (slight) underbite, with fangs poking out from beneath, he crossed one set of his three sets of arms, his face by the window of the personal prison. One set of arms propping his jaw up, fingernails drumming along his jawline. His lowest set of arms, by his still un-opened stomach eye, steadied himself along the sides of the structure.
"Well, you must be desperate."
Taken!
Keywords: Sci-Fi, Dystopia, Detectives, Bleak
Inspos: Fahrenheit 451, Cyberpunk, Disco Elysium
[Insert Desc]
Available!
Keywords: Pirate, Supernatural, Cosmic Horror
Inspo: Dredge (Game)
[Insert Desc]
Available!
Keywords: High Fantasy, DnD
Inspo: Dungeons & Dragons, in general (Tabletop)
[Insert Desc]* indicates craving!
Generic Pairings & Tropes:
Genuinely Anything Greek Mythos***
Enemies - Lovers*
Hunter x Hunted i.e. vampire, faerie, supernatural creatures in gen (Love Death Robots' 'Good Hunting' is good inspo) - Assassin x Target
((Historical)) High class x working class i.e. royalty x peasantry
Historical Shit In General**
Leader x Guard i.e. Queen and Knight
Murderer x Detective
Space Pirates/Sci-Fi Vibes**
Revenge - Romance (Sought revenge, fell in love)
Friends - Lovers
Childhood friends
Co-Detectives (Disco Elysium inspo, perhaps!)
Opposites Attract
Fake Dating
Second Chance Romance i.e. Exes
Arranged Marriage (a la Winter's Orbit)
Fairy Tale/Mythos retelling (Orpheus/Eurydice, Brothers Grimm)**
God x Demigod
God x Mortal
Dealer x User
Royalty x Royalty
Fugitive x Knight
Roommates i.e in uni (or wizarding school, go wild)
Vision or Hearing Impaired (Blind or Deaf) x Siren**
post apoc survivor x survivor
scientist x experiment*
- Source Materials (Links Attached):
The stench of sweat, and shame, and blood, made the air in the arena heavy. Étienne was fucking tired, but he rose to face the crowd anyways, sword in grip, hung back on his shoulder, breaths labored as he tugged off his half-faced, double respirator gas mask, hanging from his neck as he did so. His thick, bulky goggles fell along his chest in a similar fashion. Such was tradition, to face your people, and breathe in that infested air. That of victory, and of course, of death. The sort that was so rarely found and felt. Like clockwork, that big grin crawling upon his face. This was the moment he awaited for his entire life, all twenty-five of those painstaking years. His gaze looked over his now dead opponent. Sliced into ribbons, for the mode of combat he had chosen was fencing. Old, traditional. In a way, representative of himself. Or perhaps a show-offy sort of combat. Perhaps a bit of column A and B. He could feel every ridge, every raised metallic edge, in the handle of the sword he gripped just tightly enough to leave an indentation. Blood, dirt, and sand caked under those fingernails.
For a man who cared so much about his appearance, this was certainly a new low. Although, few had even expected him to survive this match, much less win it. And so, his appearance could at least be excused! Even if not by himself. He'd need to purify himself from top to bottom to cleanse himself of all this grime! The Champion, known only by 'Leonardo', had ruled over his section of the land, over this tribe and people, for 100 years. Of course, he wasn't human either, making Étienne's own victory all the more unexpected. As small as he was. As fleshy. Even needed a mask on while he fought, unlike Leo who wore one for show alone.
Étienne was born of this land, but that didn't matter. Plenty born of this land died in it, all the same. Still. Leonardo was not born of the land. And it was obvious, even in the way he fought. Foreign and strange, yet familiar, influenced by the practices of the land. Regardless, his birth location did not denote some special sort of meaning to his character. It all concerned perspective. In this way, his past was meaningless. Oddly liberating that was, no? He was well-accustomed, and powerful. That was the law of the land. Might is right. And that was no Leonardo-era expectation, but of the Wasteland as a whole. Every leader and council subscribed to this much. If a child were not violent in school, then one was prissy, weak. Not meant to sustain the life of a Wastelander. One had to be ruthless, cutthroat, and everything else.
Étienne was not the sort. Not at all. He did not like to take life. But that was the constraint of this existence. To kill or be killed. Eat-or-be-eaten. Still, at least he had moved with honor. His opponent had utilized magicks he'd never seen in his life- A desperate ploy to maintain his chiefship. Technically cheating, but really, there were no rules in the arena. Who would dare referee? The goal was one. Just to kill the one in front of you. That simple. And Étienne had done just that. For this period, of five minutes, awaiting if Leo would rise. Held in silence. As if Leonardo surely had a final trick up his sleeve. But it wasn't looking so. The man, if it were even accurate to name him one, was dead. Deader than dead. And soon enough, the land would take him right back under the earth. Losers were not to be buried- But rather, left to rot in the colosseum. For the briefest of moments, he wondered to whom the Ex-Chief had been borne to. Where their parents were.
The shrill ring of a bell pulled him out of all thoughts. That was the ring of Chiefship. Étienne Ulysse is the victor! Rung out that familiar speaker, though for once, it bore his own name, rather than the Ex-Chief Leonardo. For years, he had studied the reigning champion. The man had to have been seven feet, minimum, in comparison to his own size of 5'4. Small fry, wasn't that what the champion had insisted on calling him? All boasting and posturing, like men often did. All chest-beating, no grace. But Étienne was not there to participate in such methods of excessive, self-obsessed masculinity. He was there for one reason, and one reason alone. To claim a title he'd felt was always meant to be his to hold.
He had labored hard to get here. And for what? Title. A word, in every day speech, just before his name. Officially. Chief Étienne Ulysse. Ulysse, meaning, the Wrathful. A fitting family name, even if it didn't quite fit him quite right. Or, maybe it did. The condition of his opponent spoke to such an ability enough, hadn't it? Torn up, barely recognizable. That was the cost of victory. Especially when he intended to be a victor over Leo, one who was thought to be unkillable. Immortal. Immoral too, but that was another story.
Suppose today had proved differently. For he was finally dead, motionless on the Earth. Deader than dead. To be consumed by the bugs and whatever avian could find themselves upon him. It was half-impossible to tell what, exactly, Leo had been, with the five-hundred layers of past challenger's clothing upon him. Legends spoke to a Dragonkin sort of character. It'd make sense, for he bled this blue-green. Indeed, that was half what covered Étienne. The other half being his own. Red, red, red.
It was a familiar color, that red. He thought about just what had gotten him here, standing in this spot, in the land and under Leo's rule. After he had liberated himself from his kin? Thievery. It had been thievery, with him and his nimble fingers. Nimble body, too. Knew how to slip through a crowd, and slip right out. It'd been his life, for years. Years and years. He was fully human, as far as he knew. He never knew his mother, but he'd seen art of her. She looked human enough. Ish. The art wasn't exactly the full image... But there were a million and one species among them, especially in the Wasteland. Seen as a lawless land of chaos, when in reality, it was the best shot for most. To make something of themselves. So long as they had the grit for it, that was.
Thievery and lust, for he'd had his fair share of fun along the years, too. He had his own connections in his climb to Chief, or rather, in his preparation to challenge the standing chief. Though, he was most decidedly Queer, and knew this with certainty. He only enjoyed sex, and romantic pursuit too, with non-women. His father had never really approved of those early predilections, but who cared what he thought! He was dead! Most of his family was. And so, here he was. Standing alone. Alone, alone. He had people he knew here and there, a few connections, but not nearly as many as Leo had. But, there was a process. He'd reacquaint himself, and he'd situate himself to absorb and inherit all that power. There would be dissent, shock even. There would be relief. This was the beginning of a new era, and all the denizen's eyes were upon him. Eyes of every kind, shape, color. A human, of all things, had toppled Leo. With just his sword. Against Leo's every magic, every scale, every-thing. People had seen methods of battle that Leo had not needed to use in a century. Not since he beat the Chief before him.
Ah, but first, before Étienne thought further upon any of those things. A shower. He finally exit the dome that contained challengers, reaffixing his mask to which he was still panting in, his goggles strapped along his forehead. Helped with the sweat, as well as holding his coiled hair back, more than with eye protection funnily enough. Besides, his brows and lashes did a good enough job of that in this heat, against that sun, and above that sand. His sabre sheathed, hung at his hip, too, swaying with his movements. Bloodied as well. Right. He was far overdue for a proper bath. He'd be moved to Leo's old headquarters, hm? Perfect. The housing was certainly an upgrade, even if he were going to get rid of every servant in the place as soon as possible. What use would that bring, other than spies? Besides, the idea of women bathing him made his spine crawl. Leo was inhuman, but certainly lived like a human. Like a human man, at that. Or perhaps men, regardless of their species, acted like beasts?
A shame he had such a fondness for them, then. His thoughts, half out of order, reminded himself of all the customs he was meant to take on, given his victory. Unprecedented victory. There was the speech, that victory speech. The speech that was contemporary to give once victorious was not given, nor even attempted, by himself. He hadn't the energy, and what would it even contain? He planned for this moment, down to the letter, but what was he meant to tell a people, who had been under the iron fisted rule of Leo for a century? There was a lot of work to do, and he needn't a whole speech to communicate that. The people knew that. The trophy, meant to be taken from the corpse of the Ex-Chief, or of the challenger, he had also not taken. Corpse looting seemed... A tad dishonorable. And he would participate in no such thing. It wasn't right, he'd leave that work to the birds and bugs. Even if Leo had it coming. Decay was punishment enough. Death, itself, was the final verdict.
Some of the traditions were a bit fucked. But Étienne knew better to throw every single norm out. One, such a thing would not win any points with the people. And two, many of those norms were there for a reason. There was wisdom in them. Some of them. Others, well, they appeared to only be established from brutality and mercilessness. Étienne himself, had absolutely no leadership experience. Even if he was skilled in relations with peoples, that did not guarantee a translation into leadership. He'd have to figure shit out as they came. As he stood outside that dome, in the silence that had overtaken the onlookers who would run home to tell their families the outcome of the match, he heard the beating of hooves against Earth.
Oh, right. This part. Geez, his history lessons could use some work... A brush up, at least. Yes, he was Chief Étienne, but that didn't mean there weren't ample opportunities to embarrass himself in front of the people. Leo's horse. Well, people thought it was a horse. Looked like a horse. It was an unnerving animal of transport. He knew how to ride a horse, but this was barely a horse. The temperament was completely unpredictable. But this was the being that would take him places. That would guide him 'home'. To the new home. To move his things. Hell, he had nothing to move. Everything he owned was on him, and in a scuffed up bag left outside the arena.
He took a deep breath, mounting the horse with all the grace he could muster following such an exhausting battle. Affixing the bag to the side of the mare. He waited for an outburst, for some vapid reaction from the horse itself. But they were silent. Motionless. Hands easing on the reins, to which the horse tensed up. Okay, okay... So, no reins. What kind of puzzle was he being affronted with? Leo just got onto this thing, and it went where he wanted to go. He half-abused this thing. Hm. He could handle it roughly, as Leo had. Or, alternatively. Patting the side of the alleged horse's neck, he reached into his bag. A half-rotten carrot, but it was all he'd had! He offered the fresher side.
As the horse accepted his peace offering, Étienne eased back with a sigh. There! They were just hungry. Not everything needed violence and brute force. Some things could have a softer touch. A kinder one. Even if it wasn't often the solution in these lands, it was the solution this time. Under the eyes of all the people. With that, the horse got moving, unperturbed by when Étienne took the reins in hand, this time. To the lavish home of the Ex-Chief, with his head raised high. Chief Étienne Ulysse.
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