bonesbo
certified corrupt circus creature
Heyo!
Looking for a partner to build a world and develop characters with! I'll tell you some things I'm looking for in a pal and what I'll bring to the table, as well as some ideas we can discuss further.
Currently looking to do some world building of a shit ton of high-fantasy. Hella magic, hella creatures. Regions warring with each other, high tension governments. Something along the lines of escaping, betrayal, and adventuring.
From me:
From you:
In general:
Here's two of my writing samples. The short one is usually shorter than I'll usually go, it was an excerpt for a little side check-in on this older character of mine. The longer one was a fantasy world building intro, so it is hefty.
If you are interested, please PM me with a bit about yourself! I would love to get a glimpse at your writing. If we think things will work out, we can start throwing down some brewskies of a world (o:
Looking for a partner to build a world and develop characters with! I'll tell you some things I'm looking for in a pal and what I'll bring to the table, as well as some ideas we can discuss further.
Currently looking to do some world building of a shit ton of high-fantasy. Hella magic, hella creatures. Regions warring with each other, high tension governments. Something along the lines of escaping, betrayal, and adventuring.
From me:
- I'm Marsh, 23, been writing for a while. Full time worker. EST. they/it pronouns
- I write multi-paragraph, semi-novella. My average is probably 400-1000 words/ 5 full-12 paragraphs, but I can reach up to 2500 words if it's a Big Occasion or world building moment.
- I love being active with my characters. I write up character sheets, make playlists, pin boards. I'm always happy and excited to share.
- Along with characters, I usually have 2-3 mains up at once per story, but it's like, a one Main main character, and two additional mains whose story will be heavily integrated into the main plot. They are all rounded as makes sense for them, and always dynamic.
- My main characters are mostly male or other, usually masc presenting or somewhere on the scale of "fuck off"
- I write on discord, which would be our own server, but I can work in the DMs here if that's what you prefer.
From you:
- please be 18+. I would prefer 21+ just so there's a little bit of closer in life experience but yknow everyone's different
- be queer. I prefer queer partners because I am queer and I write queer characters and queer stories. Don't like it, move on.
- be able to collaborate, world build, plot, and have dynamic characters. I cannot do weak-willed and weak-spined characters with that being their only trait.
- I ask that you also be able to play a "cast of supporting characters" and contribute to the npc/side characters of the story.
- one post ish per week ? you're busy, I'm busy, but goddamn I would love it to escape with my little critters and creatures as we can. Quality over quantity etc etc etc.
- this is a big one: I write big, I would ask that you would be someone that could match my novella writing style and energy in a post. Please don't be only reactive, be proactive. If there's not an action moment, you're developing character or world, etc, yknow. There's a time and place for reaction
- Would be super cool if you're an active person ooc, but if you're not that's fine. I really like being able to actively discuss our characters and world.
- I'll ask that you send a sample of you're writing, and below is some of mine. It's only fair to see the type of person we'll be working with.
In general:
- I write queer stories and queer characters. They will be unholy, fucked up, monstrous, unhuman, and unforgivable. I write dark themes, dark stories, trauma-inducing nightmares, etc. I ask that you're open to receive and or be able to contribute with a similar energy and manner
- OCs please. I don't mind if they spawn from a canon universe, but please be able to adjust them to a world that is our own. I don't want to have my character up against a Castiel or Loki, please
- As mentioned, I write lots of characters that are non-human. I love experimenting with what life isn't. I'm open to anthro characters. I like magic, both natural and supernatural and fantastical
- I enjoy romance! I love playing around with twisted relationships of trust and distrust and pain and breakup and murder and love. I will only do romance between a variation of m/ or nb/ . I will write fem mains on occasion, but I cannot do romance with them.
- Here are some plot schemes/settings I enjoy:
Cyber/steam punk
sci-fi western
space exploration
any range of low->high fantasy
medieval type adventures
extra/deep terrestrial worlds
supernatural worlds
dystopian of the so-called utopia
quest based adventures
anything conflict driven, as that is what drives a story. If we do not know where we're going, it usually spins in circle so I like to have a decent plan. - I will check in before delving in dark areas of our plot, talking and communicating is super important to me. I will of course always respect your boundaries and triggers. I ask you do the same. I don't ghost, but sometimes I will disappear– I will tell you before hand my silly little excuse
Here's two of my writing samples. The short one is usually shorter than I'll usually go, it was an excerpt for a little side check-in on this older character of mine. The longer one was a fantasy world building intro, so it is hefty.
Saul Von Stein stepped outside of his hut, gazing into the bleeding morning sun. The blackened morning sky in turmoil. The heated winds tussled his long mane, the red sands kicking up and scraping his ankles. This was the morning that marked another century. Nine centuries. He pondered upon the nature of his reincarnation, whether this would reset his years or not, but landed on the solution that his soul remained of age. He has died many of times that never saw his true end.
Nine hundred years. He’s seen much. And yet perhaps his retirement failed to bring peace. Many of his students seeking vengeance, guidance, or perhaps mere reunion. A vast majority passed to their next life, their beyond years, however a great amount persisted with their conscious soul. And it was no secret that a connection can be found between past pupils held dragon hearts, whether they knew or not. Von Stein called them forth with subconscious beacons. Alas, the magick of his own was aging. With what he would consider the most recent significant life event, of his Gatimore Grove couple-decade hut burning with him inside, he used much of his remaining power to escape through the Betweens and rebuild himself from inside out. And before that, pulling his pupil from the Prismatic Realm, Yyx…
And here he stood on his beach, feeling that constant pull of a higher eye searching for him. They would not find him. He leads them astray. He calls them only to redirect attention, akin to a magician waving a faux hand to draw study from the shuffled cards. He did not want to be found. Nevertheless, with how the South winds now gusted East… Eldritch magick called for the convergence… He feared his begrudging departure of haven.
Nine hundred years. He’s seen much. And yet perhaps his retirement failed to bring peace. Many of his students seeking vengeance, guidance, or perhaps mere reunion. A vast majority passed to their next life, their beyond years, however a great amount persisted with their conscious soul. And it was no secret that a connection can be found between past pupils held dragon hearts, whether they knew or not. Von Stein called them forth with subconscious beacons. Alas, the magick of his own was aging. With what he would consider the most recent significant life event, of his Gatimore Grove couple-decade hut burning with him inside, he used much of his remaining power to escape through the Betweens and rebuild himself from inside out. And before that, pulling his pupil from the Prismatic Realm, Yyx…
And here he stood on his beach, feeling that constant pull of a higher eye searching for him. They would not find him. He leads them astray. He calls them only to redirect attention, akin to a magician waving a faux hand to draw study from the shuffled cards. He did not want to be found. Nevertheless, with how the South winds now gusted East… Eldritch magick called for the convergence… He feared his begrudging departure of haven.
A salty breeze blew in their face, gold coins filled their pouch… What more could be ever in their favor? Back in Omnipool, the Shimmering City. Was it wise to return to a place that Oz had ventured before? Most likely not. But they were free. Untouchable. And here in the city? He was practically invisible. So many outcasts and wanderers mingled within the wealthy and merchants. As long as they stayed away.
Oz passed by a plethora of faces on the streets. Ranging from gilled and scaled, to deep rich colors and horned, or to shimmering and zoomorphic. Large, strained muscles on some, to slender and dainty squeezing past them. Everyone had a role here, and it was to blend in and be the city culture. To take part in the exquisite market of sea-life, of imported spices and fabrics, to dance and to drink, to relish in life. Oh, but the nights here, the nights were a different beast entirely. The waterways that snaked through the city came alive with bioluminescent creatures, stars speckling in the crystalline conduits. Golden bowls hung besides doorways and from the undersides of the tents, gold and blue light cascading out as if it was water itself. People laughed and clung to each other in drunken dazes as they stumbled from one theatre to the next dance house. Their faces painted with blush and makeup alike, shimmering resplendent echoed by the swirling waters beneath.
Tinkers and bells and chimes swayed lovingly in the breeze as the smells of spices and water salts alike passed through the open air markets. Taut tent canopies were strung above, providing occasional shade from the direct and dry sun. Street vendors shouted about their wares as people passed: the freshest fruit, freshest catch, finest silks, sweetest wines. All of it a prolific overstimulation of luxury and life.
Where you find beauty and life, of course, you find the dejected and cowardice. The mix of people along the shelled cobblestones created enough clutter of foot traffic to hide those that hung their heads and slipped their fingers where they didn’t belong. City guards remained stationed in occasional whereabouts– their plume of teal atop of silver helms and embroidered sashes allowed them visibility in the crowd when needed. They didn’t so much as interfere or bother with smaller threats, they were positioned mostly as a visual of order and control. The guards themselves were often lackadaisical and easily bribed.
Oz had caught the eye of guards a couple too many times to bribe their way from anything they might be caught with. The pouch of coin on his hip was not in fact his, nor many of the coin inside. Gambled and slyly slid from game vendors, watches or jewelry snagged and pawned off. Breads and fruits too, dining and dashing. Anything they could slip by and not get caught. Oz had some practice, both with getting away as well as lack of consequences for doing so.
Being the son of some high and powerful leaders of course had its perks and downfalls. Not that they mattered anymore, not when Oz had been fucking banished from his rightful place as a king. Didn't matter. To hell with kings, to hell with the leaders of magic. It was all garbage, a flaming puddle of horse piss. Oz had been old enough to enjoy the luxuries of being a prince, and when they were banished, they were aware enough to accept the teachings of those that grumbled around in. Soon enough Oz had surrounded themself with people of like minds– down with the kingdoms, pull apart the borders that restricted magic and intermingling of peoples. Kill the kings.
And so Oz took the first step in flight. Physically and socially. The news wasn't more than a month old. The death of House Calasmei. Brutal explosions linked across the Peaks which fell the High Courts, a distraction for the rogues inside. A swift killing front by what seemed a flurry of bandits. No, just one. One, very angry bastard of the House.
It wasn't certified, of course, that the former son, ex-prince was the one to deliver the killing blows. But, of course there was family that survived and escaped. A brutal distant aunt and even crueler cousin had stepped to the power void. Immediately, a front sent out to known enemies of the house. The Bastard son being number one. They just had no idea how close they were.
Oz brushed past the crowds that strode opposite to them. They held in their wings tight against their back, rather their shoulders take the brunt forces instead. The highest point of their wings, a joint with sported the cruel glimmering black talons, rested an easy 2 feet above their head, the tips of their wings barely meeting their ankles. Taut and delicate skin and muscles made up their wings, the sun seeping through the warm charcoal coloration whenever they expanded. Oz wanted to think that here in the city, people would ignore or at least glaze over the site of different folk, but they couldn't help but note that sometimes people steered a clear path from him.
There was a heavy weight in their vest pocket. An artifact, a treasure. Taken from the Gilded Hall at House Calasmei. A fit of rage and nothing more to smash the random dark green stained glass case before they pocketed it on their way. An orb that fills their palm, bronze and etched in. Lines and runes and patterns that overlapped in a messy labyrinth of an ancient puzzle.
Oz had spent some time with the orb, attempting to twist it, press whatever symbols, speak to it in a forgotten spell high fae language. Right now it was a useless and unsolvable paperweight. It could probably sell for a pretty penny– the right merchant would know its weight in metal, and they were hoping to find who.
Their leather vest fluttered as they hurried along the crowd. A vest that draped over their front with slits in the back to accommodate for wings. A loose linen shirt underneath, and faded harlequin slacks that perhaps were at one point in their life nice and worth of wearing on stage, now torn at the knees and patched over with coarse canvas. His shoes were heavy boots that would be seen more for combats in mud rather than elegant soaring through clouds; nevertheless, his steps were silent and quick. Silent and quick did the bastard prince train to be all those years in the castle without consequence.
Good. She wasn't watching, his target. The seller of an exotic fruit stand with a treasured yellow stone fruit with rich flesh and sweet skin. Oz took their chances, swooping in for the fourth day in a row. His hand pulled of the three largest of the fruits from the unprotected cart before darting off into the crowd.
"There!"
Ah. A set up.
And the chase was on. The partner to the woman at the stand leapt over their cart and wheels and dashed into the crowd. Mostly humanoid man of scruffy brown hair and beard. He tore his apron off in the midst of the crowd and roared, transforming into a tiger-sized were-hound.
Oz cursed the Mists under his breath and bolted into a sprint, clutching the golden fruits against their chest. Weaving in and through and about the people, causing some yelps of alarm as they were pushed from the way, only to yield way to a much bigger threat chasing behind. A glance behind over their shoulder cost them speed, as the werehound was already gaining space.
Another string of curses as they lost their footing into the channel of water. Splashing with each step, now slower, they crossed the couple meters of the river to the other side of the market. Weaving in and through carts and alleyways. Their wings remained tight against their back. In and through, in and through, about and around, turn turn turn. Oz found himself along a thin street, calmer of patrons but sharper eyes. He slowed to a stop, looking around and behind him to tuck the fruits inside his vest. A chuckle before he turned and started to run again in whatever direction this street took.
Oz passed by a plethora of faces on the streets. Ranging from gilled and scaled, to deep rich colors and horned, or to shimmering and zoomorphic. Large, strained muscles on some, to slender and dainty squeezing past them. Everyone had a role here, and it was to blend in and be the city culture. To take part in the exquisite market of sea-life, of imported spices and fabrics, to dance and to drink, to relish in life. Oh, but the nights here, the nights were a different beast entirely. The waterways that snaked through the city came alive with bioluminescent creatures, stars speckling in the crystalline conduits. Golden bowls hung besides doorways and from the undersides of the tents, gold and blue light cascading out as if it was water itself. People laughed and clung to each other in drunken dazes as they stumbled from one theatre to the next dance house. Their faces painted with blush and makeup alike, shimmering resplendent echoed by the swirling waters beneath.
Tinkers and bells and chimes swayed lovingly in the breeze as the smells of spices and water salts alike passed through the open air markets. Taut tent canopies were strung above, providing occasional shade from the direct and dry sun. Street vendors shouted about their wares as people passed: the freshest fruit, freshest catch, finest silks, sweetest wines. All of it a prolific overstimulation of luxury and life.
Where you find beauty and life, of course, you find the dejected and cowardice. The mix of people along the shelled cobblestones created enough clutter of foot traffic to hide those that hung their heads and slipped their fingers where they didn’t belong. City guards remained stationed in occasional whereabouts– their plume of teal atop of silver helms and embroidered sashes allowed them visibility in the crowd when needed. They didn’t so much as interfere or bother with smaller threats, they were positioned mostly as a visual of order and control. The guards themselves were often lackadaisical and easily bribed.
Oz had caught the eye of guards a couple too many times to bribe their way from anything they might be caught with. The pouch of coin on his hip was not in fact his, nor many of the coin inside. Gambled and slyly slid from game vendors, watches or jewelry snagged and pawned off. Breads and fruits too, dining and dashing. Anything they could slip by and not get caught. Oz had some practice, both with getting away as well as lack of consequences for doing so.
Being the son of some high and powerful leaders of course had its perks and downfalls. Not that they mattered anymore, not when Oz had been fucking banished from his rightful place as a king. Didn't matter. To hell with kings, to hell with the leaders of magic. It was all garbage, a flaming puddle of horse piss. Oz had been old enough to enjoy the luxuries of being a prince, and when they were banished, they were aware enough to accept the teachings of those that grumbled around in. Soon enough Oz had surrounded themself with people of like minds– down with the kingdoms, pull apart the borders that restricted magic and intermingling of peoples. Kill the kings.
And so Oz took the first step in flight. Physically and socially. The news wasn't more than a month old. The death of House Calasmei. Brutal explosions linked across the Peaks which fell the High Courts, a distraction for the rogues inside. A swift killing front by what seemed a flurry of bandits. No, just one. One, very angry bastard of the House.
It wasn't certified, of course, that the former son, ex-prince was the one to deliver the killing blows. But, of course there was family that survived and escaped. A brutal distant aunt and even crueler cousin had stepped to the power void. Immediately, a front sent out to known enemies of the house. The Bastard son being number one. They just had no idea how close they were.
Oz brushed past the crowds that strode opposite to them. They held in their wings tight against their back, rather their shoulders take the brunt forces instead. The highest point of their wings, a joint with sported the cruel glimmering black talons, rested an easy 2 feet above their head, the tips of their wings barely meeting their ankles. Taut and delicate skin and muscles made up their wings, the sun seeping through the warm charcoal coloration whenever they expanded. Oz wanted to think that here in the city, people would ignore or at least glaze over the site of different folk, but they couldn't help but note that sometimes people steered a clear path from him.
There was a heavy weight in their vest pocket. An artifact, a treasure. Taken from the Gilded Hall at House Calasmei. A fit of rage and nothing more to smash the random dark green stained glass case before they pocketed it on their way. An orb that fills their palm, bronze and etched in. Lines and runes and patterns that overlapped in a messy labyrinth of an ancient puzzle.
Oz had spent some time with the orb, attempting to twist it, press whatever symbols, speak to it in a forgotten spell high fae language. Right now it was a useless and unsolvable paperweight. It could probably sell for a pretty penny– the right merchant would know its weight in metal, and they were hoping to find who.
Their leather vest fluttered as they hurried along the crowd. A vest that draped over their front with slits in the back to accommodate for wings. A loose linen shirt underneath, and faded harlequin slacks that perhaps were at one point in their life nice and worth of wearing on stage, now torn at the knees and patched over with coarse canvas. His shoes were heavy boots that would be seen more for combats in mud rather than elegant soaring through clouds; nevertheless, his steps were silent and quick. Silent and quick did the bastard prince train to be all those years in the castle without consequence.
Good. She wasn't watching, his target. The seller of an exotic fruit stand with a treasured yellow stone fruit with rich flesh and sweet skin. Oz took their chances, swooping in for the fourth day in a row. His hand pulled of the three largest of the fruits from the unprotected cart before darting off into the crowd.
"There!"
Ah. A set up.
And the chase was on. The partner to the woman at the stand leapt over their cart and wheels and dashed into the crowd. Mostly humanoid man of scruffy brown hair and beard. He tore his apron off in the midst of the crowd and roared, transforming into a tiger-sized were-hound.
Oz cursed the Mists under his breath and bolted into a sprint, clutching the golden fruits against their chest. Weaving in and through and about the people, causing some yelps of alarm as they were pushed from the way, only to yield way to a much bigger threat chasing behind. A glance behind over their shoulder cost them speed, as the werehound was already gaining space.
Another string of curses as they lost their footing into the channel of water. Splashing with each step, now slower, they crossed the couple meters of the river to the other side of the market. Weaving in and through carts and alleyways. Their wings remained tight against their back. In and through, in and through, about and around, turn turn turn. Oz found himself along a thin street, calmer of patrons but sharper eyes. He slowed to a stop, looking around and behind him to tuck the fruits inside his vest. A chuckle before he turned and started to run again in whatever direction this street took.
If you are interested, please PM me with a bit about yourself! I would love to get a glimpse at your writing. If we think things will work out, we can start throwing down some brewskies of a world (o:
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