GENERIC RP REQUEST THREAD

[Defrahnz]

S T A T U S _ M E S S A G E

Defrahnz is not looking for new RPs right now.​

I N T R O D U C T I O N

Hi, 'tis Defrahnz. Call me however you like, though I would prefer Def.

First and foremost, I'm new here. So, if there's anything I've written that doesn't coincide with the website's house rules, please point it out! I'll get it changed pronto.

With that outta way, a brief into about myself: I am a twenty-two year old with a full-time job, and other engagements off-hours. So while I can promise to be around, I cannot say the same with roleplay replies -- because I'm a lazy piece of shit. Nothing to see here. Carry on.

I write at least three paragraphs per post. And while I'm a sorry sore of verbosity, I don't think I'm fluff-y enough to use an entire paragraph to describe a chair's upholstery, and its legs' craftsmanship on the next. I usually lose it when describing landscapes though, so I apologize.

Quality-wise, I place myself an Adept (see Writing Levels). But, considering I may be wrong, I provided samples of my writing at the bottom-most of this section so you may judge for yourself.

Speed: Slow As Molasses. I cannot stress enough that I am incredibly slow at making replies, and that with me, fat chance is on the roleplay frequently visiting the graveyard. To clarify, once a week is my definition of fast. So if you're fine with that, bless you.

As for characters, I can play both sexes, but prefer males (note that my characters will always be straight). And while I don't give a damn about about genders in pairings, in romance, I will only do hetero.

Last but not the least, know this: I stalk the people who show interest in RPing with me. And before you drive dagger glances at me, it's not in a creepy sort of way. xD I just want to read your writing before starting anything, because I'm a picky prick.​

Samples

Arranged from newest to oldest. Some of them are cut, as the entire post seems too long to be a sample.

Sample 1 Sample 2 Sample 3 Sample 4 Sample 5

• Swadian weather was ever bleak, as if cold itself had made residence in the great country and visits lazily other realms during the short days of their summers. The image beyond his window was, therefore, an orchestra of blues and damp leaves, as the embers burning in his fireplace roared their last crackle before dying as a whiff of smoke.
  
  Aedan observed himself on the mirror with the previously described scenery on the background, and adjusted his lace-edged cravat with adroitness so that it sat centered. Busied with vanity, his thoughts, however, were bent on the emissary of Grunwalder, their Crown Prince himself, and that while the reason for his asking of Queen Mary's hand was obvious as the sun on a clear day, his occupation had long embossed him with the mentality of seeking beyond the patina, that everything the eyes can plainly see was a treacherous diversion of the real plot -- although he has yet to find that in the present scenario.
  
  The spymaster lived with his servants, and none of them was close to his heart. A man of his profession should know well how to prevent being exploited through loved ones, therefore a cold, solitary person would be hardest to target by means of leverage. His family? The mother died at childbirth and the father by an assassin's blade; the uncle who raised him had long passed and cousins were privateers on distant shores. Friends were either useful or non-existent, while agents were tools who knew the dangers of their jobs even without the remotest order from their head. The love of his life? Swadia and his post.
  
  Albeit the lifestyle was depressing on many occasions, Aedan was mostly used to the silence of solitude and to the hearing of his own footsteps tapping on his estate. Those instances of grief, of loss and of defeat he dealt with either by drink, punching walls or crying alone -- the last he resorted to least. Yet for all what's worth, the tall prize a naturally social animal must pay, his home was indeed the sanctuary he designed it be, and about the only place he trusted enough where he can find a peaceful slumber.
  
  Yet for the moment, he departed his fortress for the Queen, for she had summoned her council to discuss the details of her impending marriage.
  
  The palace was more dazzling than its usual grandeur, as the bustling madness of people and designers, especially, rushed back and forth in tending to the decorations. Flowers grew where barren stone pillars once were, curtains and tapestries were freshened as ornaments as high as those carvings on the ceilings were dusted. The occasional speck fell on Aedan as he walked through the busy halls in a festive mood as he allowed his eyes the cheer of the activity, albeit his mind was ever reviewing what he shall speak before the council. Then he arrived minutes short before the Queen had, in time just barely enough for him to dust off and rearrange his garments.
  
  Whispers were hushed upon her arrival, then there was absolute silence when Queen Mary spoke to mark the beginning of the meeting, for which councilors and ministers all fixated their eyes upon her who was a work of art for the morning, as their faces showed the attentiveness they resigned to, wherein Aedan was no exception.
  
  The Spymaster stood from her question, feeling obliged to answer even when he reckoned the Minister of Foreign Affairs was most fit to respond. Aedan therefore glanced at the man almost apologetically, although the affable minister merely waved his hand in suggestion that he had no qualms. Ergo: "The vessel of Prince Amshel Beswarick, the Grunwalderian Crown Prince, is birthing the Wessfold Port as we speak, my Queen." Sir Granborough started with his deep, rich voice and steady bearing as he addressed his monarch. "He shall be in two days if he brought his court; lesser if his party was smaller. Albeit if he kept what he announced from the latest correspondence, we should expect the former."
• Eyes of glowing crimson unveiled from the lids which earlier had shielded them, and those orbs of piercing starkness gazed at the angelic figure whence the ice which cradled her came. A devious smile then formed on her lips as her wings spread slowly to their farthest expanse, levitating her, before enveloping the valkyrian avatar completely as light emanated from beneath the immaculate white feathers.
  
  A towering figure revealed itself as the blinding light subsided, her body, lowering itself slowly to the ground, was clad in silver armor which carried an artistry not found among the artworks of Earth. The onii boy which she still held by her hand had grown so wee like a doll by her size, while the shadow she cast upon the gravelings was large and menacing in that it, by itself, seemed capable of consuming the feral creatures. Her face, meanwhile, harder than Sigrun's, was devoid of emotions as it swept to survey the surroundings, before it ultimately fixed on Mikhail with an expression that was difficult to discern whether welcome or hostile.
  
  "Greetings," she said, her voice held a rich, ethereal quality which seemed be a harmonious unison of many voices speaking at once, whilst her face had turned kinder. Her naked feet, pale and thin, at then began to pace forward towards the academy instructors, slowly and elegantly -- until her stride was abruptly stopped by something.
  
  "You do not interfere with a reunion of old friends!" Sigrun burst as her forehead bashed against an attacking imp with a force enough to impale it against the protruding surface which caught it. Aggravated by the sudden movement, the other gravelings also laid their blitz only to be crushed miserably by the valkyrie's lightning magic shaped as a wolf which spoke, even, rather teasingly: "Temper, temper." To which, Sigrun only glanced briefly with an amused expression then continued towards Mikhail, stopping only a few feet away from him. "Shall we go?"
• 
  There it was, the obvious telltale of the blonde Leviathan's duality and the seam of the mask he so flawlessly flaunts about the palace that none but those distrusting of him beforehand can see. The grimness of his tone as he spoke of Constance's welfare - there was not a hint of sincerity on it when he announced his insights, it was more an expression of the abhorrence he had towards the Silver Pendragon rather than concern for her whom he claims to feel protective towards.
  
  Idris had failed in stopping himself from grinning, his eyes narrowed in unison as his pearly teeth bared before his audience in such a manner a layman would have preferred not seen. He would not be relying on secondhand information from now, and the biased perspectives of Constance and Thatcher, but on the evidence of his own senses that his opponent indeed was both crafty as a snake and slippery as an eel - an existence good only as a corpse, although it was also vexing for Idris to admit that some forces are necessary evils to keep the world from paling to monotonous grey. Regardless, from his personal perspective, Teagan was nothing more but a thing painted with circles gradually increasing in size centered by a red dot, and made of thatch woven to a flat, round thing to be displayed before the archers - an existence, whether or not aligned to anything, must be skewered by the arrow for the reason of whoever drew the bow, and Idris was more the latter in the picture, and his skills simply the arrow.
  
  The red-eyed man latched unto the flashy debate, wishfully thinking he had an apple, and remarking how the joint efforts of the Amberlains have been countering with a challenge against him who was a veteran in this ploy. If there was one striking resemblance on the siblings, it would be their skills with the tongue, for their physical appearances do not tell much of their relation by blood. To think aside from his comment, the exchange seethed with the stale air of tension and it squeezed for Idris' eyes what view this country's counsels see of Teagan: a fine, wise and clever gentleman of terrible temper towards those he should be crushing, a paragon ruler of nothing but ideal virtues for the sovereign good of Seraphina. Ultimately however, all were feints, and words were only lines delivered by an extremely capable actor this paragon can undoubtedly play as and execute in pristine fashion.
  
  Teagan left eventually from Constance's pretext of loathing to making the ruling Queen wait, albeit Idris lifted not his eyes from him that he did not pay the girl heed until his flower was snatched from his hand, over which he responded by looking at her with a great deal of question on his features. "If you will take it, yes," the man said flatly for his thoughts still were on Teagan, which pulled him to shift his attention towards where he last saw the man disappear into. He was perplexed of his rationale to waltz in into their den, seemingly confident none would free his head from his entirety given he had no escort from what Idris could determine. Did he, in a manner, trust the Amberlains and the rowdy assassin to be civil? Suppose they did kill him, given they had the facility, it would be easy for Idris to claim full responsibility of the murder and absolve the Amberlains, but the stain is bound to seep deeper through the patina to soil the royalties regardless - considering many was with Teagan's side and someone was bound to inherit his resources, that it should effect even at his death - which shall be the man's insurance. In other wordings, his death would be the weaving of the Amberlains' downfall. Yet was that enough? Would Teagan find that trustworthy? Idris knew he was yet overlooking some things, so he was certain to effort in uncovering the obscure until the princess chopped his train of thoughts.
• In diurnal days of tranquility, where silence seeps so deep in one's blood that it freezes over, clogging the veins and dampening the heart, where counting sheep was a far more ecstatic preoccupation than living itself does one often be struck with the reminisces of the past -- vivid memories, of natures angling toward both edges on the spectrum of quality.
  
  This was such a day, an hour of an empty-minded drive towards the point of rendezvous in an uptight district of the city.
  
  He was remembering the George Tower Incident, where many lost much, until his mind swayed, focusing little and little of the proud monument's visage until the subject was dissolved, gone and replaced by the one featuring his enlistment to the Agency. Specter 11 -- a name given him on the eleventh day of the eleventh month. He had recalled the first days he had been attached with it, his initial rebellious, antagonistic feelings toward it until the realization of its appropriateness to him dawned his then-foolhardy, youthful self.
  
  As his vehicle entered the premises of a tunnel, where all light was extinguished save from those fabricated, Gavin's thoughts returned to the road, and on the street lights installed on it to separate differing lanes from each other. The dim lighting of the structure cast dancing shadows on his face as he drove, while the darkness permitted him a clear view of himself on his windshield -- a brunette man, dressed with a white dress shirt of unfastened top two buttons, over which a dark-brown vest sat, and a plain black, loosely knotted tie prodded out from beneath the collar of his shirt. The sight of his picture, particularly on the garments he donned, reminded him to observe apropos decorum for the occasion, when he shall be meeting his Keres, and be acquainted with a new Hunter -- a spike in the rather monotonous line of days in the recency.
  
  Minutes passed, and the soaring skyscrapers of the capital were already faint into the distance, the noise and clamor of development no more, masked by the peaceful silence of a pseudo-country community and of its picturesque display of plains and low, rolling hills.
  
  Gavin found himself in the general area of the rendezvous. It was to be in the residence of a certain college professor, in an area of the city dominated by professionals from the academe. A neighbor of the 'University Belt', officially Mellow Hills, the area of well kept rows of houses and their vacant garages was mostly empty of its residents at the hour, with naught but caretakers, indisposed residents, and lazy landlords present within the vicinity. It was the part of St George where the last legacies of the old-fashioned, intellectual aura still lingers in this age, of which one was certain to wonder whether the quality of his mind was sufficient to grant him entrance and justify his presence in such a neighborhood. Given, it was in his sensibility to dress to blend since the beacon, as part of becoming as inconspicuous as a Hunter can get. Although, the imposing atmosphere of the place had as much effect to him as much as it had on anyone save the accustomed.
  
  The most disconcerting, however, is the caliber of the target - certainly a person of considerable intelligence, of sway, likely also charismatic, and of authority, taking into account the location of his house. Thus with such equipment, was he able of toppling the foundations of St George itself, if the saint was not kind enough to answer the prayers of the Imperator and its hunting companions.
  
  Minutes more of the drive, a few turns around corners and asking for directions passed. The residents of Mellow Hills lived up to their homestead's name - intelligent and civil, the directions they provided towards the address scribbled on scratch paper were crystal clear. In fact, the plural form had only meant two.
  
  He parked his car kerbside, outside the porch of a bungalow-styled house dominated by soft hues of brown, orange and red. It had, like its neighbors, a whitewashed fence, and an unattended mailbox of which letters and science journal subscriptions have filled the metal thing's brim. Gavin stepped out upon his engine dying, observed how the grasses on both sides of the stone pathway had overgrown, and the rose blooms beneath the window drowning in their own thorns - indicative of the owner's stretching absence, and perhaps of her gender. Likely a woman, was his thought, or a man with a penchant for roses and had just fired a gardener. Sweeping his head, observing further, he saw a girl in an suit, blocking the professor's doorway with her person in a slick stance, but uptight and uncomfortable. While for the eyes of a fellow Hunter her bearing had stood like a blotch of ink in an otherwise immaculate canvass, what was strangest with this girl was the fashion her hair was kept - hairclips about - an utterly curious resort for hair grooming, regardless of the necessity to be unremarkable.
  
  "There is such a thing as hair gel, you see." He said in approach, left hand in his pocket, the other reaching towards the door just above the girl's height, pushing the carved wood open with a sweep. The shadows of their legs cast upon the Turkish rug greeting the entrance, the sparse light from the outside creeping inside the room revealed the dusty fixtures and cluttered desks behind the deceitful grace of the pale yellow curtains hiding the disorder. A dry, dying plant there was also to their right, beside an empty coat hanger and an umbrella dispenser. To their front, the professor's daunting bookshelves overflowing with large books, and a coffee table over which sat a great number of printed materials, writing instruments and scribbled papers arranged haphazardly over its varnished, maple-coloured surface. To the wall beside the shelves was an uncleaned fireplace, decorated above by picture frames showing auroras, snowy mountains, sunken views, and the occasional hyper-realistic, miniature painting. To its opposite a mosaic of wood-framed clocks of varying sizes, and a lone desktop computer over a wooden desk, missing its hard drive and RAM card, from what view its sexy, see-through casing permitted Gavin's eyes. There was also a narrow arch on the far end of the wall, right next to the shelves, connecting to the rather modern-fashioned kitchen. Lastly, the professor also seemed unhospitable - her sofas and loveseats were all occupied by her possessions which she seemed to have housed permanently on where a guest was supposed to make himself comfortable in.
• It may well be doubted whether her survival was fortunate or no, yet Brynhild securely believed that it was an utter mortification, for she was spared by something so lavishly foul - unholy reason.
  
  The Warden's judgement was that she was of better use alive, than have to face death so prematurely in a carnage even before the taint had taken even the slightest of herself. Weighing the odds, there was no merit, she reasoned, save from misplaced honor which amounts very little in times of crises such as Blights. It was from that line of argument that she opted to watch from a good distance from Ostagar both Ferelden's King Cailan and the Fereldan Warden-Commander Duncan, along with all her brothers-in-arms, fall to the hands of the darkspawn. And as the brutality of the nemesis of her order unfolded in her eyes, as the numbers of men diminished so rapidly and so heart-wrenchingly, the conscience of Brynhild started to corrode her and force her hand into action only to be overrun by her will to survive. Instead, she vowed one day she shall claim vengeance, until she learned of the treason of the contemptible teryn which lead her to compromise her old resolve, and leave the land under the mercy of the Blight - not for the sake of following massacre with massacre, nor completely out of whimsicality. No. Rather, in a wrathful desire to be somehow partly responsible and witness such shallow forms of humans being devoured by the darkness of the taint she wished this, also to eliminate the world of beings of such low caliber which she believes are hardly useful for their cause. Traitors? Cowards? A company of without individual minds? The resistance needed them not.
  
  Nevertheless, it had always felt to her that the blood of all those valiant who fell in Ostagar was on her hands.
  
  Her head split when the visions of the battle's aftermath appeared in her dreams, and in so many nights it had haunted her in her sleep. What, supposedly, was most strange though, would be how these nightmares occurred to her now that even the occasion of Fort Drakon has long lost its momentum, and not on the days after the devastation in the South. Truly, otherwise would have warranted these nightmares. Yet, wherefore now? A foreboding warning? Hopefully no.
  
  The woman sat up straight from the comfort of her bed and rubbed her palm against the grim of her weary face. Yes, she was physically rejuvenated from the luxury of having to sleep over cotton and under a roof, but what shambles of a thatch her state of mind had been reduced to was moot, a subject to debate. In compensation though, the inn was far more comfortable than any rock the Deep Roads can offer but frankly, she had been married to and found the most comfort with her tent. Why stay at the inn, then, if it was neither best nor free? Brynhild was disinclined to surrender to ignorance and not know of how proper lodging feels.
  
  She raised to her feet and scaled across the room and towards an armor stand from which all her armor rested for the night and tthe Grey Warden made herself presentable by putting on the heavy armor she had always donned on her waking hours, then, as finale, ruffled her short, normally unkempt raven hair. It was vastly unnecessarily, but it was habit-forming and lately, it was but instinct that puts her to do so. Nonetheless, it was far less alarming than how her addiction to lyrium seemed to have worsened - in a manner that her attempts to control it only render her a shaking paranoid who sees a darkspawn in a gathering of Wardens, only to find that monster use blood magic to punch her on the cheek. An odd haphazard, but other templars would second and understand such a sinking feeling.
  
  Skipping the diurnal trivialities, it was time for Brynhild to leave and continue on in her journey to the Frostback, and unto Orzammar to replenish her depleting, personal lyrium stock. However, if she was by any chance fortunate to come across a chest or two of the potion along the path, she would not have to take the long road and simply go straight to her queued destination.
  
  Light filled her eyes once she went on the business of leaving the door, and the day was bright and still young, but the townsfolk were up and the streets already bustling in activity. It was a refreshing view to contrast the gloom and desolation of the underground dwarven highways, truly, and Brynhild sniffed the scentless air with closed eyes. It was in the darkness she caught the noise of what sounded like social disorder, to which she followed and eventually saw.
  
  It was a woman being harassed, and a young man - a mage, says the templar in her - came to her rescue only to be surrounded by templars. Then, a scrawny lad joins to the aid of the first lad, reducing five to four at his pace until there were three of them when a lady decided to enter the fray who, finally, shaved the numbers to even. A small smirk on her face, but it hid her questioning over how templars are vastly disliked these days insofar strangers band against them. No matter, it was a fair fight and the order she left was no sitting duck. Back to reality, Brynhild found no necessity to involve herself in this brawl. That aside, the square had gotten crowded - too crowded - but not one had remembered the core of the mess, which left her to inevitably sigh at the overlook. So, languidly, she took off and hunted the company of four who originally caused all the commotion; a grin on her face in spite of the sluggish movements, until it had turned snappy, ready for the pursuit - which came to fruition when four half-dead men were turned to the knights of the town, limbs bound and captor unknown.

W H A T _ I _ E X P E C T

These are the things I expect from my partners. The important parts are colored to ease your passing (wtf Def).​

No one-liners, because I personally find them boring, and extremely difficult and frustrating to respond to.

Please try your best with grammar, spellings, etc. I am not perfect myself, but I'd rather not see mistakes at an extent I'd have troubles understanding what was written. In turn, I promise to keep my mistakes at minimum.

Please make realistic characters that one can empathize with: Mary Sue and Gary Stu are no-no. They infuriate me, to be blunt.

Do tell me if you can't post for the RP. Whether it be for a planned vacation, or exams, drop me a message. But if you can't (due to emergencies), it's also fine! Just update me afterwards. Moreover, you can also come to me about not being able to reply because of writer's block or lack of motivation. I completely understand that. ^^

And since we're in this line, I don't expect my partners to be very active, not that I am in any position to demand. But honestly, a post a month will do for me so long as the opposite person remains in contact.​

P L O T S

Archetypal Nuisance (taken) The Subsiding of Old Mists St George and the Dragon The Garden of Gethsemane Grey_Matters Echo the Ballad

• The Princess was born with the soul of an ancient being who, in the old days, was worshiped as a god throughout the stretch of the continent. This soul, along with the wisdom of long ages, possesses a power beyond reckoning that it is long believed whoever masters this being will hold dominion over all of the world.
  
  She was therefore a secret at birth, and only the most trusted ranks of the king's guard, the Arcalaevre, knew of her existence. For so long as she can remember, she has transferred from place to place, visiting only to see her family sparsely. However, on the day she returned, only the castle ruins remained of the kingdom -- and a man who introduced himself to be the last of the Arcalaevre.
  
  genre: medieval, fantasy, action, drama
• After the war which involved the majority of the world's nations, in which all forms of lethal means were employed, humanity was reduced to unhealthy, nomadic populations of a few hundred doomed to roam the rubble that was left of Earth. And as the last of the world's once apex race began dying, their robotic children began exploring what it meant to become human.
  
  genre: post apocalyptic; sci-fi
• Some were born with power. Yet despite the fantastical advantage of others, the ordinary and magic stood at a delicate balance in the city of St George; a balance which promises to capsize at the slightest tip.
  
  One such thorn to order are Harbingers: individuals of superior magical aptitude whose gift cursed them with the narrow choice between a life of secrecy and flight. However, some of such gifted people saw a third option: insurrection.
  
  As the fragile Georgian balance is perpetually threatened by the fires of mutiny, one covert government wing stands between disorder and society -- The Agency.
  
  genre: modern; fantasy; action; detective; crime
• An assassin was blinded and mortally wounded; to add insult to the injury, it happened in a failed attempt at the life of a ruler. After miraculously escaping from certain death, he was found and nursed by a woman back to health, and she was adamant to preserve him and rekindle his will to live. However, things complicate as the tyrant sends hunters after the assassin, and when he discovers that his rescuer and the person behind his assignment to assassinate the said man is none other than the despot's wife.
  
  genre: medieval/historical, drama
• A new case landed atop the investigator's lap: a murder brought to the attention of the force by a witness, who is no less than the closest friend of the murdered. Standard routine for the officer, until the witness began to show signs of mental instability, and things stopped becoming what they seem.
  
  genre: modern, police, crime, psychological
• The creature took the shape of a corrupted bulk of a man, and whoever met his touch was cursed to become his brainless, disposable servant forever and in no time, the foul army rose to slowly overwhelm the lands of its blight.
  
  The knight-commander, frustrated at the seemingly hopeless cause, began chasing fantasies and old legends in hopes of a remedy, until a crone presented herself a master of magical arts, and promised her aid to the knight in exchange for his soul. A man of duty, he accepted the deal without second guesses.
  
  With a snap, she proceeded to draining his life force as concurrently, far away, violent lightning began descending upon the dark army, tearing its soldiers to pieces and burning their flesh at the cost of the knight's life. However, the lady of the castle, having overheard everything, tore the knight away from the woman's magic and gave herself instead. The spell continued even after having been forced to a new quarry, yet for some reason, felt differently for its caster and fizzled right before completion. It perplexed the witch, and grew thoughtful as she slowly vanished as a mist over the peculiarity of the event and the young woman's capacity to interfere with her magic.
  
  The knight, witnessing all, rushed to the lady's side only to find that her fingertips have began to blacken and her skin cold, as the creature - half its army lost - found where to bear his might next.
  
  genre: fantasy; action; medieval

*All plots are flexible. Don't hesitate to ask about it.​

F A N D O M S

Either we completely follow the plot or simply adopt the world, I don't mind. I can't play canon characters though, so don't ask.​

A N I M E​

Mononoke / Ayakashi Classic Japanese Horror
Bleach
Zoids
Trinity Blood
Psycho Pass​

G A M E S​

Dragon Age
Undead Knights
God Eater
Assassin's Creed​

M O V I E S​

Lord of the Rings
Pacific Rim
Stoker​