- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Writing Levels
- Prestige
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Genres
- (grim)dark historical fantasy with romantic elements
Greetings!
*****
*****
I write dark historical fantasy (roughly on the level of ASOIAF/ GoT when it comes to violence), under the overall umbrella of the gay fiction genre. For an epic storyline set in the Witcher 3 universe, I'm looking for an experienced roleplayer who would write the role of Iorweth and who has both time capacity and perseverance for a complex and long roleplay.
I strive to treat my roleplay partner to high quality writing and I expect the same in return. My posts are usually rather lengthy and written in a deep POV. Click the spoiler to access a sample.
I strive to treat my roleplay partner to high quality writing and I expect the same in return. My posts are usually rather lengthy and written in a deep POV. Click the spoiler to access a sample.
*****
Somewhere near a drunk lost his liquor. The noises of his retching and coughing twined with shrill screams of fighting tomcats. It was spring, and a cat waited for the winner. Nearby, a dog barked, its harsh bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow warning its owner of dangers real or imagined. Someone cursed and dashed the contents of a chamberpot out of the window. Nightsoil and piss did not hush the dog.
To silence the cacophony, Francis withdrew his mind from the bustle of the city with all its noises. The sounds faded into the background until they became music of sorts – discordant, played with more enthusiasm than skill, but distant enough not to offend his ears anymore. He resumed the walk, plotting his course of action as he navigated the maze of Novigrad.
He would bide his time and make an approach only once both the dwarf and the minstrel sat in the taproom. It bore checking whether the fortune favored him so this very night, but he must needs stay unnoticed should he encounter only one half of the duo. It was to this purpose that he kept himself well in the shadows, slinking through them with ease acquired in another of his past lives. In all certainty, Satan meant that particular life when he said, "Your own past has spoken through your choice," Francis reflected. Perhaps His Radiance had been correct in the observation, for he now slipped into his old habits like a hand slips into a familiar, well-worn gauntlet. Unseen though no longer invisible, he threaded his way toward the Gate of the Hierarch with confidence in every quiet step. And the velvety shadows embracing his elusive presence tasted like freedom itself.
Sometimes, the price of freedom is steep, he mused. But it does not have to be paid immediately. One can live on a borrowed time. As the lord of the rogues in yet another city built on a mighty river he had known that all his time had been only borrowed. Still, he had seized the chance to live in full. The renaissance had blossomed everywhere in Europe then, sweeping under its rich gown the blood and dirt of battlefields as it joyfully danced in great candlelit halls and feasted on swans served at high tables. But men had lived and died in quite the same ways as ever before. To him, the doom had come on the blade of a sword, in a garden abloom. It was in spring, he realized.
"'Twas open till morn when old Whoreson ran it, it was." The complaint came loud and unexpected, in wailing tones that broke in his mind. He heard it as clear as if the grievance was cried next to his ear. And he knew it was his intuition that had let those words in. The past disappeared in one heartbeat. He focused on the here and now. Ahead reared The Rosemary and Thyme, a lofty three-story-tall establishment. But the eyes of its windows were closed, asleep behind sturdy wooden shutters. The street winded in a broad curve, and he could not yet see the entire building, much less the complainer.
"The tavern's closed," someone replied in a guttural accent common to dwarves.
"You'd better open it instead of pissing around," another voice demanded. A human, like the first – and unlearned at that, rolling the words like hot turnips in his mouth.
Francis sped his steps. The dwarf in trouble could hardly be anyone else but Zoltan Chivay, and it did not suit the demon's intentions to have him harassed by blackguards.
"Away with you!" the dwarf snapped. "No drinks for you here."
"Ya be gone, mongrel!" brayed another lowborn wretch, his voice cracking in hatred. 'Tis our city! Yer kind befouls it."
"Won't for long," the first louse wailed. "The Fire'll burn the likes of 'im."
Francis rounded the corner. A paved terrace coiled around the tavern. Nothing stirred there. Of the blackguards there was no sign but for their voices. "He'll scream for 'is mother," promised the mangler of words. "We'll drink to 'is death."
Eleven more strides, and Francis laid his eyes on them. Yapping curs, they were. As vicious as dogs gone feral, they were closing in on the stocky dwarf from three sides, pressing him toward the entrance. Too craven to brawl fist to fist, they had ugly iron knives in their hands. But the dwarf did not wait to be bled like a lamb at Belleteyn. With the stripe of spiky hair on the crown of his head, he had more in common with an angry rooster, ready to fight for his life. In a clenched fist, he brandished a cleaver. Other than that, he carried no weapon – it looked that the scum had disturbed him from cooking. The commotion had roused no temple guards. The dwarven accent could not be mistaken, and the guards were unlikely to hasten to the defense of a dwarf against humans.
Francis discarded the intention to delay his approach until the circumstances favored him. He recognized Zoltan's face shown by the Source, and would not let his entire plan be undone by thugs thirsty for booze and blood. "Enough!" he boomed from the shadow cast by the turret of the tavern.
They snapped their heads toward him. Squinting, they strained to see him. Just a dark silhouette they could discern, he knew. Nothing obstructed his view though, and what he saw forced a snort of disgust out of him. Their clothes had turned into tatters long ago. The first blackguard must have misplaced his boots and even his skullcap. Strands of black greasy hair plastered to his skull served as a poor replacement of the latter, nothing covered his mud-splattered feet. The second had grown plump on addle eggs – judging from the reek of his breath. Two chins he had and a head as hairless as a suckling's arse. His baldness he hid under a headscarf that once might have been white, the stink of rotten teeth he could not conceal. And did not bother, either. The third had stolen himself some leathers that were not falling apart yet – on account of sticky grime that held them together. His mustache crawled with lice. Francis saw them creep through the bristly hair, and a shudder raked his spine.
"Begone before I make you scream for all your ancestors," he threatened, letting the unearthly timber of his voice do its work. Hard and warm, like steel wrapped in velvet, his voice was both. Now he pushed far more steel than velvet into its sound. There was still more to it – but mortals usually did not catch the subtle presence of darkness in its tones.
"A mangy elf!" the lice-infested wailer announced, advancing a step in Francis' direction. The assumption marked this thug as a man of some low cunning. While he could not place Francis' accent or the sound of his voice, it must have seemed rich and arrogant enough to him to either take the demon for a lord or for an elf. Since no lords would interfere in squabbles of lowborns, the scoundrel had arrived to a conclusion as logical as mistaken. "Smell his stink, lads?" he sniffed loud.
"I have not taken you for a troll," Francis answered the taunt. The thug was unlikely to understand the gibe. But it mattered not, so long as he caught its mocking tone. Men like him hated to be mocked. It made them lose their caution. And sure enough, this one edged closer.
Francis danced with him, circling to the left. There was a brazier on the terrace. A conveniently placed one at that. And the thugs had been eager to play with fire. He only needed to lure the wailer between himself and the flames. Then the play could commence.
"He's afeared o'us," the bald one brayed, advancing too. "Lingerin' in shadows."
"Come t' light!" Greasy Head rolled off his tongue. "We'll carve us some manners outa ya!"
"And outa the dwarf!" Wailer wailed, taking another step forth.
"Unlikely." Francis draped back his cloak so it would not hinder him. The thugs had ruined his plans, and he liked it not. Anger pulsed under his fingernails and his voice was all steel and no velvet when he asked, "Which of you wants to find enlightenment first?"
"What d'ya mean?" Wailer wanted to know.
Quick like a thought, Francis glided farther left.
Wailer turned after him. Slow on his feet, he took the step that aligned his back with the brazier. Crouching, he gripped the knife in his outstretched hand, sweeping the blade about him. Addle Eggs was coming too, his steps thudding against the stones.
The demon drew his blade. The hiss of steel against leather made Wailer flinch – he and his kind knew neither valor nor honor. Francis knew both, but was not going to waste the latter here. Wailer's eyes were glued on his blade. A grave mistake. The demon lashed out with his leg and kicked the thug in the bollocks. Hard enough to make them bleed.
Wailer shrieked. Agony doubled him over. His hands shot toward his crotch. Francis lunged and connected his forearm to the thug's jaw. He heard a sharp crunch as the bone broke under the blow. Stunned, Wailer tottered back. And the brazier stood in the way. He landed in the flames, arse first. His wail would put a lost soul to shame. It trembled on high, shrill and breathless and loud enough to make the glass in mullioned windows shake.
Francis put a boot to Wailer's chest. The rib-shattering kick was a mercy that toppled the thug over. Screaming for his mother, the human rolled on the hard stones, dousing the greedy fire. To his fortune – it was not eternal.
The demon pivoted to his left to face Addle Eggs.
The thug gave a hiss.
The stench of the thug's rotten breath puffed up Francis' nose. It made his anger pulse harder as if it was clawing its way from under his fingernails. His mouth stretched in an ugly smirk. He let his saberra slice the air as he tried a cut.
Faced with the Zerrikanian steel, Addle Eggs backed down a short flight of stairs onto the street. "We comes back!" he brayed in his hasty retreat.
"Like weeds," Zoltan spat after him.
In the corner of the eye, Francis saw Greasy Head spasming on the ground, his broken teeth scattered around him. Pearly they appeared in guttering firelight. But it was just saliva that glistened on them. Droplets of blood gleamed like rubies sprinkled on cobblestones. Beating jewels out of the swine, he thought.
Zoltan wiped his bloodstained fist against an equally bloodstained apron. So, the thugs had disturbed him from cooking after all.
On the way to the dwarf, Francis kicked the knife out of Wailer's hand. The scoundrel had his hide seared, but enough life remained in him to warrant caution.
The dwarf looked the demon up and down. "Enlightenment, huh?"
"It can occasionally be found even in a mundane brazier." Francis shrugged. "The haze of his stupidity surely must have burned away."
The dwarf chuckled. "I never knew dumbness sat in the arse."
"In the head, more like." Francis sheathed his saberra. "But I did not mean to kill."
The dwarf nodded. "Neither did I."
To silence the cacophony, Francis withdrew his mind from the bustle of the city with all its noises. The sounds faded into the background until they became music of sorts – discordant, played with more enthusiasm than skill, but distant enough not to offend his ears anymore. He resumed the walk, plotting his course of action as he navigated the maze of Novigrad.
He would bide his time and make an approach only once both the dwarf and the minstrel sat in the taproom. It bore checking whether the fortune favored him so this very night, but he must needs stay unnoticed should he encounter only one half of the duo. It was to this purpose that he kept himself well in the shadows, slinking through them with ease acquired in another of his past lives. In all certainty, Satan meant that particular life when he said, "Your own past has spoken through your choice," Francis reflected. Perhaps His Radiance had been correct in the observation, for he now slipped into his old habits like a hand slips into a familiar, well-worn gauntlet. Unseen though no longer invisible, he threaded his way toward the Gate of the Hierarch with confidence in every quiet step. And the velvety shadows embracing his elusive presence tasted like freedom itself.
Sometimes, the price of freedom is steep, he mused. But it does not have to be paid immediately. One can live on a borrowed time. As the lord of the rogues in yet another city built on a mighty river he had known that all his time had been only borrowed. Still, he had seized the chance to live in full. The renaissance had blossomed everywhere in Europe then, sweeping under its rich gown the blood and dirt of battlefields as it joyfully danced in great candlelit halls and feasted on swans served at high tables. But men had lived and died in quite the same ways as ever before. To him, the doom had come on the blade of a sword, in a garden abloom. It was in spring, he realized.
"'Twas open till morn when old Whoreson ran it, it was." The complaint came loud and unexpected, in wailing tones that broke in his mind. He heard it as clear as if the grievance was cried next to his ear. And he knew it was his intuition that had let those words in. The past disappeared in one heartbeat. He focused on the here and now. Ahead reared The Rosemary and Thyme, a lofty three-story-tall establishment. But the eyes of its windows were closed, asleep behind sturdy wooden shutters. The street winded in a broad curve, and he could not yet see the entire building, much less the complainer.
"The tavern's closed," someone replied in a guttural accent common to dwarves.
"You'd better open it instead of pissing around," another voice demanded. A human, like the first – and unlearned at that, rolling the words like hot turnips in his mouth.
Francis sped his steps. The dwarf in trouble could hardly be anyone else but Zoltan Chivay, and it did not suit the demon's intentions to have him harassed by blackguards.
"Away with you!" the dwarf snapped. "No drinks for you here."
"Ya be gone, mongrel!" brayed another lowborn wretch, his voice cracking in hatred. 'Tis our city! Yer kind befouls it."
"Won't for long," the first louse wailed. "The Fire'll burn the likes of 'im."
Francis rounded the corner. A paved terrace coiled around the tavern. Nothing stirred there. Of the blackguards there was no sign but for their voices. "He'll scream for 'is mother," promised the mangler of words. "We'll drink to 'is death."
Eleven more strides, and Francis laid his eyes on them. Yapping curs, they were. As vicious as dogs gone feral, they were closing in on the stocky dwarf from three sides, pressing him toward the entrance. Too craven to brawl fist to fist, they had ugly iron knives in their hands. But the dwarf did not wait to be bled like a lamb at Belleteyn. With the stripe of spiky hair on the crown of his head, he had more in common with an angry rooster, ready to fight for his life. In a clenched fist, he brandished a cleaver. Other than that, he carried no weapon – it looked that the scum had disturbed him from cooking. The commotion had roused no temple guards. The dwarven accent could not be mistaken, and the guards were unlikely to hasten to the defense of a dwarf against humans.
Francis discarded the intention to delay his approach until the circumstances favored him. He recognized Zoltan's face shown by the Source, and would not let his entire plan be undone by thugs thirsty for booze and blood. "Enough!" he boomed from the shadow cast by the turret of the tavern.
They snapped their heads toward him. Squinting, they strained to see him. Just a dark silhouette they could discern, he knew. Nothing obstructed his view though, and what he saw forced a snort of disgust out of him. Their clothes had turned into tatters long ago. The first blackguard must have misplaced his boots and even his skullcap. Strands of black greasy hair plastered to his skull served as a poor replacement of the latter, nothing covered his mud-splattered feet. The second had grown plump on addle eggs – judging from the reek of his breath. Two chins he had and a head as hairless as a suckling's arse. His baldness he hid under a headscarf that once might have been white, the stink of rotten teeth he could not conceal. And did not bother, either. The third had stolen himself some leathers that were not falling apart yet – on account of sticky grime that held them together. His mustache crawled with lice. Francis saw them creep through the bristly hair, and a shudder raked his spine.
"Begone before I make you scream for all your ancestors," he threatened, letting the unearthly timber of his voice do its work. Hard and warm, like steel wrapped in velvet, his voice was both. Now he pushed far more steel than velvet into its sound. There was still more to it – but mortals usually did not catch the subtle presence of darkness in its tones.
"A mangy elf!" the lice-infested wailer announced, advancing a step in Francis' direction. The assumption marked this thug as a man of some low cunning. While he could not place Francis' accent or the sound of his voice, it must have seemed rich and arrogant enough to him to either take the demon for a lord or for an elf. Since no lords would interfere in squabbles of lowborns, the scoundrel had arrived to a conclusion as logical as mistaken. "Smell his stink, lads?" he sniffed loud.
"I have not taken you for a troll," Francis answered the taunt. The thug was unlikely to understand the gibe. But it mattered not, so long as he caught its mocking tone. Men like him hated to be mocked. It made them lose their caution. And sure enough, this one edged closer.
Francis danced with him, circling to the left. There was a brazier on the terrace. A conveniently placed one at that. And the thugs had been eager to play with fire. He only needed to lure the wailer between himself and the flames. Then the play could commence.
"He's afeared o'us," the bald one brayed, advancing too. "Lingerin' in shadows."
"Come t' light!" Greasy Head rolled off his tongue. "We'll carve us some manners outa ya!"
"And outa the dwarf!" Wailer wailed, taking another step forth.
"Unlikely." Francis draped back his cloak so it would not hinder him. The thugs had ruined his plans, and he liked it not. Anger pulsed under his fingernails and his voice was all steel and no velvet when he asked, "Which of you wants to find enlightenment first?"
"What d'ya mean?" Wailer wanted to know.
Quick like a thought, Francis glided farther left.
Wailer turned after him. Slow on his feet, he took the step that aligned his back with the brazier. Crouching, he gripped the knife in his outstretched hand, sweeping the blade about him. Addle Eggs was coming too, his steps thudding against the stones.
The demon drew his blade. The hiss of steel against leather made Wailer flinch – he and his kind knew neither valor nor honor. Francis knew both, but was not going to waste the latter here. Wailer's eyes were glued on his blade. A grave mistake. The demon lashed out with his leg and kicked the thug in the bollocks. Hard enough to make them bleed.
Wailer shrieked. Agony doubled him over. His hands shot toward his crotch. Francis lunged and connected his forearm to the thug's jaw. He heard a sharp crunch as the bone broke under the blow. Stunned, Wailer tottered back. And the brazier stood in the way. He landed in the flames, arse first. His wail would put a lost soul to shame. It trembled on high, shrill and breathless and loud enough to make the glass in mullioned windows shake.
Francis put a boot to Wailer's chest. The rib-shattering kick was a mercy that toppled the thug over. Screaming for his mother, the human rolled on the hard stones, dousing the greedy fire. To his fortune – it was not eternal.
The demon pivoted to his left to face Addle Eggs.
The thug gave a hiss.
The stench of the thug's rotten breath puffed up Francis' nose. It made his anger pulse harder as if it was clawing its way from under his fingernails. His mouth stretched in an ugly smirk. He let his saberra slice the air as he tried a cut.
Faced with the Zerrikanian steel, Addle Eggs backed down a short flight of stairs onto the street. "We comes back!" he brayed in his hasty retreat.
"Like weeds," Zoltan spat after him.
In the corner of the eye, Francis saw Greasy Head spasming on the ground, his broken teeth scattered around him. Pearly they appeared in guttering firelight. But it was just saliva that glistened on them. Droplets of blood gleamed like rubies sprinkled on cobblestones. Beating jewels out of the swine, he thought.
Zoltan wiped his bloodstained fist against an equally bloodstained apron. So, the thugs had disturbed him from cooking after all.
On the way to the dwarf, Francis kicked the knife out of Wailer's hand. The scoundrel had his hide seared, but enough life remained in him to warrant caution.
The dwarf looked the demon up and down. "Enlightenment, huh?"
"It can occasionally be found even in a mundane brazier." Francis shrugged. "The haze of his stupidity surely must have burned away."
The dwarf chuckled. "I never knew dumbness sat in the arse."
"In the head, more like." Francis sheathed his saberra. "But I did not mean to kill."
The dwarf nodded. "Neither did I."
The story will focus on adventure, battles, drama, and intrigue. The ability to write convincing fight scenes is therefore a must. That said, my lead characters are men whose desires are after men. I'm looking for an Iorweth who can see himself in a romantic and sexual relationship with a man. I write about sex openly, with the same care and level of detail that go to other parts of the story, and am seeking a parter who will happily do the same.
If you are interested in writing Iorweth, please PM me and attach a writing sample of yours (it can feature another male character, of course. It's just for me to see if our writing styles would mesh well).
If you are interested in writing Iorweth, please PM me and attach a writing sample of yours (it can feature another male character, of course. It's just for me to see if our writing styles would mesh well).
Last edited: