Post by Brownie on Jul 25, 2017 21:02:16 GMT -5
Because I'm bored and I have muse for once that must be harnessed and put to good use.
I have a few little requirements:
1. Advanced/literate style rp: it may not look it here but in rp I actually have grammar and spelling and I expect that from a partner. I'd like someone with a loose sense of length, but able to write 2-4 chunky paragraphs on average (longer posts in description and less in action scenes, like normal). I'd also rather have a partner that doesn't do the excess fluff trick? Like if you're using three or four adjectives per noun to get the count, that's not really anything to go off of.
2. Won't godmod/have sues: it's scary that I need to ask for this, but I've been seeing this too much in rp's and it scares me. I don't want someone passively going along with everything and not stepping up to do their fair share of plot creation, but I also don't want someone who will hog the spotlight and play my character without my permission. Also someone that won't mix character knowledge with author knowledge: if we discuss something for plot reasons, the characters wouldn't know that and would act oblivious to it until there are stimuli. Or when people's characters respond to the other character's inner thoughts like they're reading minds, just because the author read it in the post. It's no fun when the characters act as if they know everything.
3. I also don't want to do anything fandom based? Of course, there could be exceptions. I love doing things in the worlds of books or movies, but I won't do anything that has canon characters as playable characters. I just can't do that.
4. Anything else is up for debate. I love magic and fantasy, sci-fi is pretty cool too. I'm also up for some slice of life or historical fiction or anything along those lines.
4,5. A little more of a preference, but I prefer to do roleplay on a thread and not pm ^^ no editing in pm's and it feels more claustrophobic to me I just don't like them
4,75. Also you MUST be willing to speak up if you want to drop the plot. Don't just never post.
Also I'm going to need a sample post or something along those lines. I'm probably going to profile stalk you a bit and look at recent roleplays too just for compatibility reasons. this is NOT first come first serve and sorry if I say no but if I don't think it's going to work out I'd rather say something now than after all the time and work goes into planning something, so apologies in advance but that's how it's going to be.
And also plz post some topics/ideas/genres you would like to try out
Sample posts from me aka what to expect and what I'm expecting
1.
2.
I have a few little requirements:
1. Advanced/literate style rp: it may not look it here but in rp I actually have grammar and spelling and I expect that from a partner. I'd like someone with a loose sense of length, but able to write 2-4 chunky paragraphs on average (longer posts in description and less in action scenes, like normal). I'd also rather have a partner that doesn't do the excess fluff trick? Like if you're using three or four adjectives per noun to get the count, that's not really anything to go off of.
2. Won't godmod/have sues: it's scary that I need to ask for this, but I've been seeing this too much in rp's and it scares me. I don't want someone passively going along with everything and not stepping up to do their fair share of plot creation, but I also don't want someone who will hog the spotlight and play my character without my permission. Also someone that won't mix character knowledge with author knowledge: if we discuss something for plot reasons, the characters wouldn't know that and would act oblivious to it until there are stimuli. Or when people's characters respond to the other character's inner thoughts like they're reading minds, just because the author read it in the post. It's no fun when the characters act as if they know everything.
3. I also don't want to do anything fandom based? Of course, there could be exceptions. I love doing things in the worlds of books or movies, but I won't do anything that has canon characters as playable characters. I just can't do that.
4. Anything else is up for debate. I love magic and fantasy, sci-fi is pretty cool too. I'm also up for some slice of life or historical fiction or anything along those lines.
4,5. A little more of a preference, but I prefer to do roleplay on a thread and not pm ^^ no editing in pm's and it feels more claustrophobic to me I just don't like them
4,75. Also you MUST be willing to speak up if you want to drop the plot. Don't just never post.
Also I'm going to need a sample post or something along those lines. I'm probably going to profile stalk you a bit and look at recent roleplays too just for compatibility reasons. this is NOT first come first serve and sorry if I say no but if I don't think it's going to work out I'd rather say something now than after all the time and work goes into planning something, so apologies in advance but that's how it's going to be.
And also plz post some topics/ideas/genres you would like to try out
Sample posts from me aka what to expect and what I'm expecting
1.
"Kaede Osborne"
- - -
- - -
Jasmine rested as she waited. She was awake, barely, but enjoyed the quiet and the chill of the walls. With her eyes closed and the whir of electricity buzzing lightly against the walls, she could almost imagine she was back home, sitting on the staircase while she waited for the Professor or Mikhail to wake. It had been Jasmine's duty to fetch the laundry from all the different living quarters scattered around the complex, and the Professor insisted that his be close to the laboratories instead of in the residential sector with most the others. Jasmine would wake early to wait on their doorstep. She loved the complex in the early morning, at four or five when everything was silent and no one was bustling through the hallways. It seemed like a ghost town then, but instead of being scary or intimidating, the stillness was peaceful. She'd make the hike over to the Professor's room, knowing that either he or Mikhail, his intern, would open the door to greet her, invite her in, and offer her breakfast. Coffee, if the Professor was around, but she and Mikhail preferred tea and would argue on what to brew on those days when the Professor had stayed late-- or early-- in the labs. Sometimes there would be pastries, other times eggs and fresh sausage.
Jasmine startled herself out of her daydreams by wetness on her chin, and had to wipe her face on her shirt. Food, real food. Her stomach growled with the memories. Surely not with the reality of breakfast, the mutant's special: a protein-shake blend that was both filling and nutritious but tasted like the guards just threw cardboard into the blender. She tried to forget the smell of fresh tea and focused on a small hole in the knee of her pants until she heard a knock on the door.
"Come in?" she asked, standing with a stretch. The door clicked open. The guard was a woman, standing a few inches taller than Jasmine with a halo of shiny black hair. She was tanned with dark eyes. Hispanic, maybe. Jasmine frowned, "no breakfast?"
The guard didn't answer. Most of them ignored when the mutants spoke. Instead she took out a pair of padded cuffs, the ones used for transport, and gestured for Jasmine to turn. She complied, crossing her wrists behind her back so the guard could clip them with cuffs. "Are we going to McDonalds? I really want some of those breakfast sandwich things," Jasmine asked with a smile. She was only prodded towards the door in response. Jasmine shrugged and let herself be led past the other cells. The guard swiped a card from her belt and opened the door on the far side. Two more halls, two more doors. Then we turned into a room on the left, one Jasmine did not think she'd entered before on all the times she'd been poked, prodded, and forced to run obstacle courses for lab testing.
When she stepped inside, she knew for certain she hadn't been her before. It was a cafeteria, like one you'd see in a high school. One of the walls had a window of metal in the side, and three round tables sat on the black-and-white checkered floor. The guard pushed a button on her belt to free the cuffs and prodded Jasmine further inside the room before using the card to exit.
Jasmine walked a few steps in the room, then paused, looking back at the door. This was not normal. Not at all. She was wary. Of all the things the scientists have done, testing the mutants before breakfast was not one of them. A trap? Jasmine looked to the corners of the ceiling, saw the cameras and speakers mounted there. Perhaps. She walked carefully to one of the tables, sat, and waited cautiously for something to happen.
Jasmine startled herself out of her daydreams by wetness on her chin, and had to wipe her face on her shirt. Food, real food. Her stomach growled with the memories. Surely not with the reality of breakfast, the mutant's special: a protein-shake blend that was both filling and nutritious but tasted like the guards just threw cardboard into the blender. She tried to forget the smell of fresh tea and focused on a small hole in the knee of her pants until she heard a knock on the door.
"Come in?" she asked, standing with a stretch. The door clicked open. The guard was a woman, standing a few inches taller than Jasmine with a halo of shiny black hair. She was tanned with dark eyes. Hispanic, maybe. Jasmine frowned, "no breakfast?"
The guard didn't answer. Most of them ignored when the mutants spoke. Instead she took out a pair of padded cuffs, the ones used for transport, and gestured for Jasmine to turn. She complied, crossing her wrists behind her back so the guard could clip them with cuffs. "Are we going to McDonalds? I really want some of those breakfast sandwich things," Jasmine asked with a smile. She was only prodded towards the door in response. Jasmine shrugged and let herself be led past the other cells. The guard swiped a card from her belt and opened the door on the far side. Two more halls, two more doors. Then we turned into a room on the left, one Jasmine did not think she'd entered before on all the times she'd been poked, prodded, and forced to run obstacle courses for lab testing.
When she stepped inside, she knew for certain she hadn't been her before. It was a cafeteria, like one you'd see in a high school. One of the walls had a window of metal in the side, and three round tables sat on the black-and-white checkered floor. The guard pushed a button on her belt to free the cuffs and prodded Jasmine further inside the room before using the card to exit.
Jasmine walked a few steps in the room, then paused, looking back at the door. This was not normal. Not at all. She was wary. Of all the things the scientists have done, testing the mutants before breakfast was not one of them. A trap? Jasmine looked to the corners of the ceiling, saw the cameras and speakers mounted there. Perhaps. She walked carefully to one of the tables, sat, and waited cautiously for something to happen.
2.
Jason swore as he slammed the door to the small apartment. The light fixture rattled ominously, threatening to pull off the ceiling and onto his head, but Jason was past caring as he threw his jacket --still dripping with rainwater-- over the old-time wooden coat hook in the corner. Let it fall, just another thing gone wrong with the day. He pulled his boots off with his heels and left them in the entryway. He wasted no time going directly to the kitchen and grabbed a tall glass from the ugly yellow-tiled counter top. Thus armed, he opened the freezer, grabbed a plastic ice holder and started popping cubes in the glass. The tinkling sound of ice clattering against the glass was familiar, soothing. He placed the half empty holder back in the freezer and closed it with his elbow, already reaching in the glass for a cube. He popped it in his mouth and let the chill numb his tongue.
It took three cubes before Jason felt rational enough to move. He knew his anger burnt hot and fast, but he also knew the cold and crunch of ice was able to sharpen his focus and --quite literally-- force him to chill. He set the glass of ice back on the counter only after placing another between his teeth and instead took a mason jar from atop the stove. It was embossed with grape leaves in honor of the previous substance it had once held, repurposed now and filled with fine grained salt. One might think it odd that Jason kept so much salt in the house at all, let alone why it wasn't in a shaker. But he had no intention of cooking with this salt. He brought the container over to the doorway and crouched beside it. He moved his boots away from the door and unscrewed the cap to the jar, taking pinches of salt to spread over the doormat. A white line was carefully marked, and Jason worked patiently to fill the gaps in the line with a fresh pinch from the jam jar, crunching his ice as he went.
It would be quite obvious now to any bystander that Jason was not a normal individual, and that conclusion would be correct to some extent. While Jason was just as human as anyone could be --and that, in his line of work, was as normal as normal could be-- because his job was to hunt down all sorts of mythical creatures when they began causing commotion in the human world. It was a job that forced him to spread his salt mixture at his doorstep to prevent any spirits from following him home and a job that marked Jason apart from other human beings, oblivious to the otherworldly beings right before their eyes.
His job was also the cause of Jason’s frustrations and the entire reason he was setting up his base in the top floor of a shady duplex apartment. The landlord had been happy to rent it out to him for a cheap price and while the furnishings were dated --the couch outright dangerous with prodding springs-- it was in a central location where he could respond quickly to any new information he might find.
“Even if all the information I’ve had lately were false leads,” Jason muttered to himself. The room was small, but well built for pacing, a sport Jason often obliged himself to. He paced, every so often reaching into the glass for another cube as the minutes stretched on. What had he missed? What vital fact did he neglect to take into account? He was convinced he had missed something big in his evaluation of this case. He’d been here for over three days and every lead he had followed until the tracks went stale, forcing him to find a new path.
His cell phone sat untouched on the coffee table. Jason had introduced himself as a special forces investigator to the locals and to the resident police that had been placed on the case. He even had the papers and badges to match his cover. Expensive, hence why he was in this place instead of a five star hotel. The station --and much of the town’s population-- were given his number to call if they had any sort of information on the case. It was silent as he paced, deep in thought.
How could he solve a case with no valid leads? He was forced to pause to refill his glass of ice. There was something missing, he could feel it. But knowing something was missing and finding the missing piece were two very different things. Jason paced and thought and crunched ice but he soon exhausted the limited information he had fought these three days for. Really all he knew could be summed up in three bullets:
1. There had been three murders, all found days after the act and all gruesome.
2. There had been no sign of any break in, nor of struggle, nor a clear sign of death.
3. On the last scene --the only one Jason had access to-- the victim’s skin reacted with powdered gold, a sure sign that he had recently come into contact with the supernatural.
Besides the last he knew nothing more than the local PD. He sighed and gave it up for the night. Since when had he fallen so far?
It took three cubes before Jason felt rational enough to move. He knew his anger burnt hot and fast, but he also knew the cold and crunch of ice was able to sharpen his focus and --quite literally-- force him to chill. He set the glass of ice back on the counter only after placing another between his teeth and instead took a mason jar from atop the stove. It was embossed with grape leaves in honor of the previous substance it had once held, repurposed now and filled with fine grained salt. One might think it odd that Jason kept so much salt in the house at all, let alone why it wasn't in a shaker. But he had no intention of cooking with this salt. He brought the container over to the doorway and crouched beside it. He moved his boots away from the door and unscrewed the cap to the jar, taking pinches of salt to spread over the doormat. A white line was carefully marked, and Jason worked patiently to fill the gaps in the line with a fresh pinch from the jam jar, crunching his ice as he went.
It would be quite obvious now to any bystander that Jason was not a normal individual, and that conclusion would be correct to some extent. While Jason was just as human as anyone could be --and that, in his line of work, was as normal as normal could be-- because his job was to hunt down all sorts of mythical creatures when they began causing commotion in the human world. It was a job that forced him to spread his salt mixture at his doorstep to prevent any spirits from following him home and a job that marked Jason apart from other human beings, oblivious to the otherworldly beings right before their eyes.
His job was also the cause of Jason’s frustrations and the entire reason he was setting up his base in the top floor of a shady duplex apartment. The landlord had been happy to rent it out to him for a cheap price and while the furnishings were dated --the couch outright dangerous with prodding springs-- it was in a central location where he could respond quickly to any new information he might find.
“Even if all the information I’ve had lately were false leads,” Jason muttered to himself. The room was small, but well built for pacing, a sport Jason often obliged himself to. He paced, every so often reaching into the glass for another cube as the minutes stretched on. What had he missed? What vital fact did he neglect to take into account? He was convinced he had missed something big in his evaluation of this case. He’d been here for over three days and every lead he had followed until the tracks went stale, forcing him to find a new path.
His cell phone sat untouched on the coffee table. Jason had introduced himself as a special forces investigator to the locals and to the resident police that had been placed on the case. He even had the papers and badges to match his cover. Expensive, hence why he was in this place instead of a five star hotel. The station --and much of the town’s population-- were given his number to call if they had any sort of information on the case. It was silent as he paced, deep in thought.
How could he solve a case with no valid leads? He was forced to pause to refill his glass of ice. There was something missing, he could feel it. But knowing something was missing and finding the missing piece were two very different things. Jason paced and thought and crunched ice but he soon exhausted the limited information he had fought these three days for. Really all he knew could be summed up in three bullets:
1. There had been three murders, all found days after the act and all gruesome.
2. There had been no sign of any break in, nor of struggle, nor a clear sign of death.
3. On the last scene --the only one Jason had access to-- the victim’s skin reacted with powdered gold, a sure sign that he had recently come into contact with the supernatural.
Besides the last he knew nothing more than the local PD. He sighed and gave it up for the night. Since when had he fallen so far?