L
LeRagester
Guest
Original poster
Hello! My name is Rage. Currently, I am seeking a plot buddy. I have a lot of plots, and like making them up as I write. Beware, however..... the world of plotting can be very feelsy or shocking. Prepare thyself!
Ahem. Anyway. I am 18, and an advanced writer. I'm seeking somebody with excellent grammar and posts between 2-4 paragraphs. I will also take novels, because I like them!
I am also seeking somebody with deep, original characters, not ones created on the fly. I prefer somebody with characters in stock, rather than created for a specific roleplay. This is just a personal preference, mostly due to character quality.
I am online at least once every two days, and I write quickly. I do like fandoms, I do.... but I'd prefer to create my own story.
I'm pretty open to a lot of genres, mostly fantasy and adventure. I like romance too, but smut isn't my thing. Noooope.
I currently have three characters. Pick and plot, as I say!
Let's create a wondrous work of fiction.
Here is a writing example.... But dear me, it doesn't have to be that long!
Ahem. Anyway. I am 18, and an advanced writer. I'm seeking somebody with excellent grammar and posts between 2-4 paragraphs. I will also take novels, because I like them!
I am also seeking somebody with deep, original characters, not ones created on the fly. I prefer somebody with characters in stock, rather than created for a specific roleplay. This is just a personal preference, mostly due to character quality.
I am online at least once every two days, and I write quickly. I do like fandoms, I do.... but I'd prefer to create my own story.
I'm pretty open to a lot of genres, mostly fantasy and adventure. I like romance too, but smut isn't my thing. Noooope.
I currently have three characters. Pick and plot, as I say!
Let's create a wondrous work of fiction.
Here is a writing example.... But dear me, it doesn't have to be that long!
Karoline didn't comprehend the chill of loneliness, but she did notice the absence of warmth. Like somebody accustomed to a cold climate, she lived in such a constant chill that it had become commonplace for her, an ordinary ache so dull that she was used to living with it. It had become so familiar a sensation that it was just another background pain. However, akin to when a healing wound is stretched, a simple sensation could quickly remind one of pain, or of a sensation they'd long forgotten.
Sitting upon a small stool, Karoline pondered quietly to herself, unaware to the passing of time. In instances like this, she existed outside of something so vague. Ordinarily, she would classify this silence as peaceful, or serene. Nothing but the tick of a grandfather clock, and her own unburdened breathing. The small girl sat before a window, draped in a cream wool shawl. Today, the garment was more for comfort than warmth. A finger of sunlight breached the ripped window pane to touch Karoline's face in a gentle caress, like a warm hand beckoning from beyond. It distracted Karoline from the canvas before her, and she lowered her paintbrush absentmindedly to turn her face towards the light, basking.
All at once, the warmth ceased to comfort her, and instead reminded her of just how chilly she was. The silence that engulfed her wasn't one of peace, though she often disillusioned herself of thinking so. In the past, she had dispelled it with falsely cheerful tunes, or conversations with the clock. Now, the silence was that of lifelessness. Despite being adorned in pictures, this room was devoid of cheer, of any emotional warmth. The pictures were too garish in color, less like works of art and more like desperate, childlike scribbles. The door wasn't a gateway, only a false option. The clock wasn't a friend, but a cruel reminder of the slowly passing time. The window wasn't a pretty spectacle: it was a glimpse from a prison. Karoline's breath hitched, and her green eyes gazed longingly toward the sun, that it might blind her from her surroundings.
All at once, she realized that she'd been painting a reflection of her surroundings: a cage, with a dead bird clutched within.
Sitting upon a small stool, Karoline pondered quietly to herself, unaware to the passing of time. In instances like this, she existed outside of something so vague. Ordinarily, she would classify this silence as peaceful, or serene. Nothing but the tick of a grandfather clock, and her own unburdened breathing. The small girl sat before a window, draped in a cream wool shawl. Today, the garment was more for comfort than warmth. A finger of sunlight breached the ripped window pane to touch Karoline's face in a gentle caress, like a warm hand beckoning from beyond. It distracted Karoline from the canvas before her, and she lowered her paintbrush absentmindedly to turn her face towards the light, basking.
All at once, the warmth ceased to comfort her, and instead reminded her of just how chilly she was. The silence that engulfed her wasn't one of peace, though she often disillusioned herself of thinking so. In the past, she had dispelled it with falsely cheerful tunes, or conversations with the clock. Now, the silence was that of lifelessness. Despite being adorned in pictures, this room was devoid of cheer, of any emotional warmth. The pictures were too garish in color, less like works of art and more like desperate, childlike scribbles. The door wasn't a gateway, only a false option. The clock wasn't a friend, but a cruel reminder of the slowly passing time. The window wasn't a pretty spectacle: it was a glimpse from a prison. Karoline's breath hitched, and her green eyes gazed longingly toward the sun, that it might blind her from her surroundings.
All at once, she realized that she'd been painting a reflection of her surroundings: a cage, with a dead bird clutched within.
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