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Graverobber
Chaotic Neutral Rogue
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2018
Hello, folks!
I’m Graverobber, Grave, or whatever you wish to call me; I’ll respond to a surprisingly lot. I’m a college student who enjoys writing, gaming, and a lot of geeky things. Feel free to nerd out with me. I’m new to this site, but definitely not to roleplaying. Been at this for around six years, I believe, and was writing on my own before that. Currently, I’m looking for a few roleplays to fill my spare time, since it’s summer.
Before we get to the good stuff, let me lay out what you can expect from me as a writing partner, and what I’m looking for in return:
As promised, let me provide a few writing samples for you to peruse:
With all that out of the way, let’s move on to the fun stuff!
The following are my current ideas and characters. I’m always opened to hearing the ideas of my partner. If you see something you like, but want to tweak it, feel free to talk to me about that. Or if you have your own plot idea that you think I’d enjoy, pitch it!
Original Roleplay Characters:
Reinhard "Ryne" Rolfsen was the prodigy nephew of the Sons of Valkyries' president, Thomas. A motorcycle club heavily influenced by Norse mythology, SoV made their cash by running guns across the country. The Club ran through Ryne's veins; he was destined to take over once Tommy became unable to ride. He loved the road, his bike, his brothers, and the risk. The Club was his whole world, so when the world went to shit, it was what he turned to.
The infection started in a rural, small town hospital. By the first few days, the United States was in chaos, and by the first week, everything was already coming to an end. During the initial outbreak, as the Sons were regrouping at the club compound, Tommy was lost to an infected, leaving Ryne to take up the mantle he left behind. In the years that followed, he grew into the role, and would forge his club into a gang to be feared. Inspired by the Vikings of old, the Sons started raiding other survivors, tackling firmly established settlements. They would ride in, bring havoc and chaos, cut down anyone in their way, steal valuable resources, and set off, leaving destruction in their wake. Yet the raiders, while brutal, seem to have at least some sort of code. Those that surrender are spared, their settlements left untouched, as long as they tribute to the gang. Those that pass a trial by combat, where they're thrown in an arena with infected, are allowed to join the Club.
**While I don't have a specific plot in mind for this guy, would love to figure something out with someone.
Members of the Silver Order, an organization of Monster Hunters, are tolerated because they're needed. No one trusts them. No one wants them around. When they ride into town doors and windows shut, people scurry out of the way, children are ushered indoors by mothers, and curiously try to sneak looks while hidden behind skirts. To hunt evil, these men in black commune with evil, yet it is a necessity: the only way to protect humanity from dark forces outside their scope of understanding. They wield black magic, undergo rituals to gain their powers, and brandish weapons lined with silver to fight the beasts that lurk in the shadows. Vampires, werewolves, changelings: anything not human.
Jack has been part of his dying order for over two decades. He has known little else and isn't much interested in partaking in anything else. What he does is more than a profession. He has lived and will die by the blade, caring none for the consequences. He carries his silver-lined sword not to save lives, but to end them.
Jack Walker gets the job done before anything else. Like most of his kind, he lives by the philosophy of "the ends justify the means”.
Plot for Jack:
A shadow is falling over London, one that only the Silver Order can see approaching. People are disappearing at abnormal rates, werewolves are being spotted outside full moons, madness is spreading, and magic, which has become a rarity for the past century, is suddenly reappearing, manifesting once more in children. When the Crown extends a hand to the Order to offer resources, they cannot refuse. Yet at the diplomatic meeting, they’re betrayed; a powerful being that can only be labeled as a vampire, in the way a dragon can be described as a reptile, has worked her way into the political structure of London, claiming the minds of the rulers. The Silver Order diplomats are slaughtered, and the Order is forced to go underground, hunted by both the authorities and creatures of the shadows.
Jack's mentor was killed at the meeting, and the hunter now seeks revenge. Your character? Perhaps a sorceress who wants to help bring an end to the chaos, perhaps the daughter of one of the slain diplomats, who also wants revenge? Perhaps a defecting vampire, who wishes to live in harmony with humans? That bit’s up to you, yet I’d be happy to brainstorm ideas.
He was a soldier. War ran in his blood. He knew little else besides violence and chaos. Yet he found his place, purpose, beside his men. Jaxon Asher was a Navy SEAL sniper, one of the most successful and deadly in modern history, yet his name is hardly known. Working within "SEAL Team Six", he operated in the shadows, partaking in operations kept off file. One in particular, Operation Night Rider, was a mission that dealt heavily in wetwork, lead by a CIA agent; illegal drugs were smuggled and sold in the States, the profits used to fund the operation. And when the agent in charge needed to shut the whole thing down, wash his hands of blood and dirt, he had Jaxon's team ambushed and killed.
Yet Jaxon survived his wounds. Now he's waging war on the streets of New York City, taking out the mob and gangs that were used to traffic the drugs. Some call him a hero: a man willing to do what it's necessary to rid the city of those who prey on the weak and defenseless. Some call him a monster: a heartless murderer just short of being a serial killer.
Your character? Well, depends on what you want to play. A fellow veteran? A by-the-book cop? A find-the-truth reporter? A disgruntled PI? A hacker? We can tailor a story from there. I would like it if your character at least disagrees morally on some level with mine's methods; while I'm not a fan of Daredevil (the character weirdly, not the show), I do like the idea of that sort of reluctant partnership.
Hailing from another dimension called Chronos--home to an advanced civilization where genetic engineering is common, and technology has evolved at superior rates--Jett stepped into our universe with advanced technology, schematics, and the ability to create and manipulate magnetic fields (think Magneto from X-Men), which he used to build his own criminal business. As a inventor, he created and sold illegal, powerful weaponry on the streets, and partook in the occasional smuggling and mercenary job. While he didn't seem interested in world domination or anything of the sort, making him look like a lesser evil in comparison to other villains, his inventions still fed those more malicious than himself. Eventually TAROT, an organization like Marvel's S.H.I.E.L.D., decided to track him down, and succeeded in capturing him. He was given two options: spend the rest of his life in prison, or work for them. Naturally, since the idea of boredom loathes him, Jett chose the latter.
Plot for Jett:
Your character would be a hero assigned to be Jett's "handler", tasked with watching over him on missions, and making sure he doesn't try to escape, or compromise the organization. The two naturally don't get off on the right foot. Jett wants his freedom, and your character metaphorically has him on a leash, while your character probably sees Jett as self-serving, and would rather have him in prison than be forced to babysit. Yet when when high-tech, well-armed invaders from Jett's home dimension start storming Earth, the two are forced to shove their differences aside and work together.
Fandom-Specific Characters:
In stories, they call him The Mountain.
A Witcher who rides into town on a black stallion, covered from neck to toe in plate, with twin blades strapped across his back, and an axe hooped through his belt. When he steps from the saddle, boots kicking up dust, his height shadows all that come near. Golden eyes peer out from underneath a thick, arched brow, the left of which is marred by a scar, and his stern expression is motionless, as if carved from stone.
When he speaks to ask about the bounty, his low voice rumbles in his throat, and he fiddles with the bear head medallion chained to his neck, yet the habit is easily missed; the scar, three diagonal claw marks, running down his right eye and cheek makes for a grand distraction. The bards sing of how The Mountain obtained this scar during a battle with an archgriffin: an epic struggle that took place on the battlements of a lord's castle.
In person he is known as Dirk by most, a nickname that started as a way to amuse his mentor--who, while in a distant land to the East, claimed the unborn boy through the Law of Surprise--and keep the youngster grounded during his training. Like all Witchers, Dirk is known as a crude, unforgiving, traveling mutant, a necessary evil who makes coin off the misfortune of others: a freak that has no humanity left in his bones from the Trial of Grasses. He is simply a giant killer made of stone.
Few call him Darrek. Not even those he winters with on an island far north of the Skellige Islands, where the School of the Bear once trained Witchers in the halls of an aged castle. Yet the mages he found cornered by Witch Hunters hungry for blood know him by his birth name, and know him for more than a Witcher, more than most men.
Plots For Dirk:
A Nord and native of Skyrim, Skoll was born in the city of Whiterun, later left a war orphan, and so was taken in and raised as a Companion alongside his two siblings, Fenris and Hati. Differences in points of view, where he believed in practicality and logic, against the typical Nord view of life, led to boiling tensions between him and his brother. He left to seek his fortune elsewhere, and eventually found himself within the Thieves Guild. Now, years later, he has become known as The Gray Wolf, a play on the name of the legendary former leader of the organization: a mantle he now bears. With cleverness and a silver tongue, Skoll is once more making the Guild a force to be feared, tactfully bringing Riften under his hidden control by offering his friends silver, and his enemies steel.
**While I don't have a specific plot in mind for this guy, would love to figure something out with someone.
Did none of my premade characters catch your eye? Here's a list of my general interests. When it comes to fandoms, I prefer to play as OCs set in an original universe. If you’d like to play a canon character, I’d have no problem with that; I just lose interest when playing canons, even if I greatly enjoy the character.
Genres:
Make it through all that? Wish to roleplay with me? Drop me a PM with a writing sample!
Thanks for your time,
Your Friendly Neighborhood Graverobber
I’m Graverobber, Grave, or whatever you wish to call me; I’ll respond to a surprisingly lot. I’m a college student who enjoys writing, gaming, and a lot of geeky things. Feel free to nerd out with me. I’m new to this site, but definitely not to roleplaying. Been at this for around six years, I believe, and was writing on my own before that. Currently, I’m looking for a few roleplays to fill my spare time, since it’s summer.
Before we get to the good stuff, let me lay out what you can expect from me as a writing partner, and what I’m looking for in return:
- DETAIL: First and foremost, I love detail in a post. My average post probably sits around 500 words, but I’ve been known to go around 1000+, depending on the scene and how many characters are involved. I’m not going to say I want someone who matches my length, as I firmly believe quality is greater than quantity, but I would prefer to write with someone who loves taking their time with a post and pouring thought into it.
- I’ll provide a sample of my writing, so you can see if our styles match, and I would appreciate if you did the same.
- CHARACTERS AND WORLD-BUILDING: What’s that saying? Every story has already been told, but it’s the characters that make each one unique. I’m into character-driven roleplays. I love writing with complex, deep, individual characters, and development is a must for me in a roleplay. While I mainly play male main characters, I will play a small zoo of NPCs of both genders from a variety of backgrounds and give them just as much thought. I love a world that seems alive within a roleplay and will do all I can to make that the case for ours.
- I also enjoy world-building. If we want to make our own setting together, I will spend an extraordinary amount of time coming up with lore. It’s something I enjoy doing. However, I’m not against playing in pre-established worlds: either fandoms, mine, or yours.
- ROMANCE: I enjoy romance and relationships between characters, yet it’s something that must develop naturally, and I will never force it. As stated above, I usually roleplay as male characters, and what gender I’m willing to play against will be determined by the orientation of the character I’m writing.
- When it comes to smut, I enjoy writing it, but it shouldn’t be the focus of the roleplay. I want to write compelling stories that I can sink my teeth into, and while I certainly enjoy smut being a part of those stories, I’ll quickly lose interest if it’s the main purpose of the roleplay.
- COMMUNICATION: I’m perfectly fine with, even enjoy, OOC chatter. Also, as with all human interactions, I believe communication is needed for smooth sailing. Not having fun? Did something make you uncomfortable? Did you not understand something in my post, or did I accidentally misunderstand yours? Got an interesting idea to add to the story? Let me know! I’ll always more than willing to work things out.
- ACTIVITY: To be honest, my activity can be sporadic. I can promise around two posts a week but will try for more. Anything less than a post a week, I tend to lose interest. I understand that real life comes first, and if you need to take a break, let me know. I’ll do the same for you.
- ADDITIONAL INFO:
- WHERE WILL I RP?: Over PMs, threads, or Discord. Doesn’t really matter to me. If you prefer Discord, please note that I would prefer to plot some over PMs first, before exchanging information.
- WHO WILL I RP WITH?: Being a female who enjoys playing male characters myself, and who separates characters from their writers, I will roleplay with anyone anywhere on the gender or sexuality spectrum, no matter the gender/orientation of the character they’re writing.
- WHAT ARE MY LIMITS?: In a non-sexual context, I am perfectly fine with violence, gore, vulgarity, heavier and darker themes, ect. When it comes to smut, I won’t do anything related to scat or toilet play. Anthros, furries, futas also aren’t really my thing.
As promised, let me provide a few writing samples for you to peruse:
Maverick, an ex-Navy SEAL sniper, is haunted by his dead brother's ghost:
Jack Walker, a Victorian monster hunter, attends a party:
Skoll, a fantasy thief, goes dungeon delving:
Fifty-seven.
Maverick had been counting. Not consciously, not deliberately, but somewhere in his mind something was keeping a tally, and with each added mark, he felt the burning underneath his skin intensify.
He lifted his hardened gaze from the counter to the picture that hung behind the bar, staring holes into the image as if it could conjure answers. The frame was wooden and carved, and held lovingly a photograph taken a few years back. He was in it with his dark brown hair trimmed, jaw clean shaven, and dressed in the uniform of the Navy. He was flanked by two others: on his left, the honey blond, blue-eyed, spitting image of a Viking named Leo, who, much like his name implied, had a mane of hair and massive beard that gave him the appearance of a lion, and on his right, the spitting image of Maverick himself with a bit more age, and a longer beard.
The chiseled image of his brother, whose green eyes shined with laughter, made his stomach turn, and his fingers twitch. He hadn't heard that sound for fifty-seven days.
"Fuck," he groaned, tugging at his beard-which now was only trimmed enough so it couldn't easily be grabbed-as if he were trying to rip it from his jaw.
He had to get out of here.
Tugging the bomber jacket flung over the back of his chair free, the giant, muscled, tattooed ex-soldier clambered outside the bar without so much as a word, and just started walking at a brisk pace. He didn't know where he was going; he just knew that sitting still had been getting to him. And with the anger behind his feet, people parted out of his way like the Red Sea. Or perhaps it was the perpetual scowl in his eyes, the way he marched with a defined military step, or a combination of everything that made him seem like a guy just asking for a bullet.
About half an hour later, he had wandered into a marketplace, which, due to the late time in the evening, wasn't as alive as he assumed it would be during the day. It was still noisy, however, as the city often was; he could hear cars on the street over, yelling from a floor of a building above him, and the chitchat of the merchants between the lines of tented stalls. It was a welcomed reprieve; quiet left him alone with his boiling thoughts.
He looked up at the darkened sky, taking a moment just to breathe. It was winter in the city, and each time he exhaled, the discarded air formed a shivering cloud of smoke.
When the tension finally relaxed in his shoulders as much as it could, given who he was, he began strolling through the stalls. He spotted a fruit vendor, and reached into his pocket. As he was pulling out a few bucks to pay for an apple, he felt it. Again.
It was like he was being watched; he knew that feeling on a first name basis, given his history. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, alarms triggered throughout his id, his senses went on high alert, and his body stiffened. Yet there was also a chill around him, running down his spine, and it wasn't the kind of cold produced from the weather. That he wasn't used to it. That he couldn't explain.
Unable to help himself, his head turned swiftly to scan the area behind him. Once more, nothing out of the ordinary was there. Though, as he stared motionless, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye: a sliver of a silhouette. But as he tried to focus on it, as he had foolishly tried to do many times before, he found nothing.
He was left standing and frozen with a bitter taste on his tongue, wondering if he was losing his mind.
"Sir?"
The merchant jolted him back to life, and with a shake of his head, Maverick took his change, stumbled off to lean against a wall, and bit into the apple, keeping watch on the spot where the sensation had occurred, and resenting the fact that he couldn't shake it.
Maverick had been counting. Not consciously, not deliberately, but somewhere in his mind something was keeping a tally, and with each added mark, he felt the burning underneath his skin intensify.
He lifted his hardened gaze from the counter to the picture that hung behind the bar, staring holes into the image as if it could conjure answers. The frame was wooden and carved, and held lovingly a photograph taken a few years back. He was in it with his dark brown hair trimmed, jaw clean shaven, and dressed in the uniform of the Navy. He was flanked by two others: on his left, the honey blond, blue-eyed, spitting image of a Viking named Leo, who, much like his name implied, had a mane of hair and massive beard that gave him the appearance of a lion, and on his right, the spitting image of Maverick himself with a bit more age, and a longer beard.
The chiseled image of his brother, whose green eyes shined with laughter, made his stomach turn, and his fingers twitch. He hadn't heard that sound for fifty-seven days.
"Fuck," he groaned, tugging at his beard-which now was only trimmed enough so it couldn't easily be grabbed-as if he were trying to rip it from his jaw.
He had to get out of here.
Tugging the bomber jacket flung over the back of his chair free, the giant, muscled, tattooed ex-soldier clambered outside the bar without so much as a word, and just started walking at a brisk pace. He didn't know where he was going; he just knew that sitting still had been getting to him. And with the anger behind his feet, people parted out of his way like the Red Sea. Or perhaps it was the perpetual scowl in his eyes, the way he marched with a defined military step, or a combination of everything that made him seem like a guy just asking for a bullet.
About half an hour later, he had wandered into a marketplace, which, due to the late time in the evening, wasn't as alive as he assumed it would be during the day. It was still noisy, however, as the city often was; he could hear cars on the street over, yelling from a floor of a building above him, and the chitchat of the merchants between the lines of tented stalls. It was a welcomed reprieve; quiet left him alone with his boiling thoughts.
He looked up at the darkened sky, taking a moment just to breathe. It was winter in the city, and each time he exhaled, the discarded air formed a shivering cloud of smoke.
When the tension finally relaxed in his shoulders as much as it could, given who he was, he began strolling through the stalls. He spotted a fruit vendor, and reached into his pocket. As he was pulling out a few bucks to pay for an apple, he felt it. Again.
It was like he was being watched; he knew that feeling on a first name basis, given his history. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, alarms triggered throughout his id, his senses went on high alert, and his body stiffened. Yet there was also a chill around him, running down his spine, and it wasn't the kind of cold produced from the weather. That he wasn't used to it. That he couldn't explain.
Unable to help himself, his head turned swiftly to scan the area behind him. Once more, nothing out of the ordinary was there. Though, as he stared motionless, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye: a sliver of a silhouette. But as he tried to focus on it, as he had foolishly tried to do many times before, he found nothing.
He was left standing and frozen with a bitter taste on his tongue, wondering if he was losing his mind.
"Sir?"
The merchant jolted him back to life, and with a shake of his head, Maverick took his change, stumbled off to lean against a wall, and bit into the apple, keeping watch on the spot where the sensation had occurred, and resenting the fact that he couldn't shake it.
Jack Walker, a Victorian monster hunter, attends a party:
He smelled burning smoke, faint, yet the scent was strong, and underlined with another more tainted and vile. Shifting his jaw (not out of revulsion), he slightly parted his lips, and let the air sink into his mouth, so he could taste the bitter ash on his tongue to confirm--even if he already knew--what was near. A grunt rumbled from his throat, before he subtly cast a glance out of the corner of his single, visible, pale blue eye (the other of which was covered by a patch) to examine the wall mirror within the corner of the room.
He saw what he one might expect to see at a royal party such as the likes of this: well-dressed women and men, dancing and laughing, parading around the ballroom in which he stood on the edge of, pockets of the people taking up post to talk and gossip, and a few wary, yet interested gazes thrown in his direction, which, if he cared enough to, he could pick up their whispered conversations of the savage within their King's walls. But all that hardly interested him at all.
His attention was stolen by the specter reflected back at him in the silver surface of the mirror: a woman in her twenties with a simple dress singed to pieces, exposing bits of her blackened skin. Her eyes were hollow sockets of coal, and smoke rose from her form like she was a dying fire, minutes away from fading into oblivion. And he had no time nor patience to deal with a wraith, and no fondness for the stench of burnt flesh.
Jack Walker had always been sensitive--or as his father had described it, cursed and marked by the devil--to the other side, the great darkness that stretched motionless between time. He had seen things that no living man should see, and bore scars on his muscular body from lingering spirits' wrath from when he was young and green, possessing no knowledge of how to deal with such things.
Lifting his beaded chin, his eye bore into the stare of the specter's, challenging in the calmest of ways, yet threatening the might of a storm should it push him. To stare into an abyss of hate and pain, one must be carved from immovable stone, and just as empty.
I have no fear for you to feed from, thing.
The words not only resonated unspoken within his mind, but also within the stance of his body: back and shoulders kept straight as an arrow, hefting him to his frightening full height, and left, gloved hand kept clutched at his belt, near the hilt of the silver-lined dagger hidden beneath the black overcoat he wore, which also concealed the tribal-like markings that covered his body.
And should you try, I will send you to a place worse than Hell.
He had been given to the Silver Order out of fear as a boy, by a desperate leech that could barely call itself a man, nonetheless his father, and the hunters of darkness had taught him how to commune with the same powers he now fought against, to fight fire with fire. Jack had taken quickly to it, perhaps at a frightening pace, but that was what made him valuable to the Order, his innate penchant for violence.
The charred outline of the wraith vanished from his view in response to his warning, collapsing in on itself in a pillar of sudden, bright flame, and leaving behind a puff of dark smoke only visible to those touched with the same curse. Soon, the smell of burnt flesh faded from underneath his nose, and Jack grunted once more in satisfaction. Lifting the top hat held against his side by his right hand, he settled it upon his head, before turning swiftly to exit the zoo of upright-walking animals.
He held just as little patience for the living as he did the dead, particularly those that lived locked inside gilded cages, blinded by choice to the chaos that ate away at the bars keeping them captive. If he had it his way, he would not be here, but the superiors above him within the Order would not pass up the opportunity to gain backing from the Crown, not with the visions plaguing their Grand Master. With a threat on the horizon, Jack preferred to close ranks, but his disagreements with the hierarchy had distinguished him from others of his kind.
One might ask why the Order had sent a lone wolf into a den of sheep. Uncouthly shoving past a few other guests, who muttered in disapproval under their breathes, Jack made his way toward the side entrance of the palace, and his gaze fell upon the answer. Due to the color of his skin, Abbot Deming, Jack's mentor and partner for many years, could not move around unnoticed as easily as he could.
"The place has a few lingerers," Jack spoke, his voice a low, both in volume and tone, rumble, once he had reached Abbot, and made sure no one was eavesdropping. "But they warrant no attention. The envoy is waiting for us on the second floor balcony."
He saw what he one might expect to see at a royal party such as the likes of this: well-dressed women and men, dancing and laughing, parading around the ballroom in which he stood on the edge of, pockets of the people taking up post to talk and gossip, and a few wary, yet interested gazes thrown in his direction, which, if he cared enough to, he could pick up their whispered conversations of the savage within their King's walls. But all that hardly interested him at all.
His attention was stolen by the specter reflected back at him in the silver surface of the mirror: a woman in her twenties with a simple dress singed to pieces, exposing bits of her blackened skin. Her eyes were hollow sockets of coal, and smoke rose from her form like she was a dying fire, minutes away from fading into oblivion. And he had no time nor patience to deal with a wraith, and no fondness for the stench of burnt flesh.
Jack Walker had always been sensitive--or as his father had described it, cursed and marked by the devil--to the other side, the great darkness that stretched motionless between time. He had seen things that no living man should see, and bore scars on his muscular body from lingering spirits' wrath from when he was young and green, possessing no knowledge of how to deal with such things.
Lifting his beaded chin, his eye bore into the stare of the specter's, challenging in the calmest of ways, yet threatening the might of a storm should it push him. To stare into an abyss of hate and pain, one must be carved from immovable stone, and just as empty.
I have no fear for you to feed from, thing.
The words not only resonated unspoken within his mind, but also within the stance of his body: back and shoulders kept straight as an arrow, hefting him to his frightening full height, and left, gloved hand kept clutched at his belt, near the hilt of the silver-lined dagger hidden beneath the black overcoat he wore, which also concealed the tribal-like markings that covered his body.
And should you try, I will send you to a place worse than Hell.
He had been given to the Silver Order out of fear as a boy, by a desperate leech that could barely call itself a man, nonetheless his father, and the hunters of darkness had taught him how to commune with the same powers he now fought against, to fight fire with fire. Jack had taken quickly to it, perhaps at a frightening pace, but that was what made him valuable to the Order, his innate penchant for violence.
The charred outline of the wraith vanished from his view in response to his warning, collapsing in on itself in a pillar of sudden, bright flame, and leaving behind a puff of dark smoke only visible to those touched with the same curse. Soon, the smell of burnt flesh faded from underneath his nose, and Jack grunted once more in satisfaction. Lifting the top hat held against his side by his right hand, he settled it upon his head, before turning swiftly to exit the zoo of upright-walking animals.
He held just as little patience for the living as he did the dead, particularly those that lived locked inside gilded cages, blinded by choice to the chaos that ate away at the bars keeping them captive. If he had it his way, he would not be here, but the superiors above him within the Order would not pass up the opportunity to gain backing from the Crown, not with the visions plaguing their Grand Master. With a threat on the horizon, Jack preferred to close ranks, but his disagreements with the hierarchy had distinguished him from others of his kind.
One might ask why the Order had sent a lone wolf into a den of sheep. Uncouthly shoving past a few other guests, who muttered in disapproval under their breathes, Jack made his way toward the side entrance of the palace, and his gaze fell upon the answer. Due to the color of his skin, Abbot Deming, Jack's mentor and partner for many years, could not move around unnoticed as easily as he could.
"The place has a few lingerers," Jack spoke, his voice a low, both in volume and tone, rumble, once he had reached Abbot, and made sure no one was eavesdropping. "But they warrant no attention. The envoy is waiting for us on the second floor balcony."
Skoll, a fantasy thief, goes dungeon delving:
Standing upon a snow-covered rock in the far reaches of Skyrim, nothing but the occasional howl of a lone wolf to break the serene silence of the blanketed hills, Skoll found himself stricken for a moment, mistaking himself for the last soul on Nirn. With moonlight streaking across his fair face, and his bright blue eyes scanning the massive stone structure before him, the Nord smiled. It wasn't an expression he often wore genuinely, but the quiet within the wilderness was a welcome reprieve from the rustle underneath Riften. He loved the city, the band of miscreants he called family, the work he did, yet a man sometimes needed to feel the burning cold chill of a breeze against his exposed skin, breathe in air that was fresh and smelled of ice.
Running a finger across his bearded jaw, the thief dropped his hand to rest against the pommel of the sword sheathed at his hip; the coolness of the metal seeped through his gloves, causing his fingers to move to grip the leather-bound grip. With an exhalation that formed mist, he began his ascension, keeping his footsteps soft as to not disturb the quiet surrounding him. The stairs he climbed were massive and gilded, leading him upward toward a gray tower, decorated with the bronze-colored bits of gears and pipes known only to these Dwemer ruins, that jutted out of the mountainside.
It had taken him a handful of days to travel from his home to Winterhold. He had left his mare within the splotch that could barely be called a town, and made the rest of the journey southwest on foot; it had been arduous and long, a constant battle against the elements. Once or twice he had slipped against ice hidden beneath snow, and had to quickly catch himself before he tumbled down the slope of the mountain. Even with the protection the dull black leather his Guild's armor provided him, layered over additional warm clothing, and his blood's natural resistance to the harshness of his homeland's climate, the cold rattled his bones, threatening to claim him.
The hefty amount of gold paid up front for the retrieval of whatever artifact residing within these ruins now made sense. The stout and grizzled Imperial had been a middleman; Skoll had known not because his client had stated so, but because he appeared disinterested in the conversation, his face set sternly as if it had been carved. The cloaked man had given Skoll a location, a promise of enough septims to make even the nobles in Cyrodiil bulk, and that payment that made the thief's brow quirk. After hashing out a few more details about where to meet after the job was done and price negotiations (for the fun of it), the nameless Imperial had taken his leave with as much enthusiasm as he had shown during the meeting.
And now Skoll was here, standing before the entrance of a lost city hidden within the mountainside. Usually he gave these sort of fetch jobs to one of his underlings; they required extended time away from Riften, which meant limited contact with the Guild. But the circle of thieves that helped run operations were competent, and this was a special case. Besides, the Nord was simply curious.
He thought about taking time to rest outside, and delve in when dawn broke, but the chill at his back drove him forward. He had spent too much time in the cold, and while the inside was sure to be guarded by remnant machinery, he was confident in his skills. He could clear out a spot to take a rest, and it would be warmer than if he made camp on the mountain. The metal door was heavy, but gave easily with a shove of his shoulder; as it closed behind him, the thief was cloaked in darkness. Pulling back his hood, Skoll ran his palms through his light brown hair, freeing the strands of the wet snow that clung to them.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he carefully moved forward, trying to discern any noise from the sound of releasing steam and clanging metal around him.
Running a finger across his bearded jaw, the thief dropped his hand to rest against the pommel of the sword sheathed at his hip; the coolness of the metal seeped through his gloves, causing his fingers to move to grip the leather-bound grip. With an exhalation that formed mist, he began his ascension, keeping his footsteps soft as to not disturb the quiet surrounding him. The stairs he climbed were massive and gilded, leading him upward toward a gray tower, decorated with the bronze-colored bits of gears and pipes known only to these Dwemer ruins, that jutted out of the mountainside.
It had taken him a handful of days to travel from his home to Winterhold. He had left his mare within the splotch that could barely be called a town, and made the rest of the journey southwest on foot; it had been arduous and long, a constant battle against the elements. Once or twice he had slipped against ice hidden beneath snow, and had to quickly catch himself before he tumbled down the slope of the mountain. Even with the protection the dull black leather his Guild's armor provided him, layered over additional warm clothing, and his blood's natural resistance to the harshness of his homeland's climate, the cold rattled his bones, threatening to claim him.
The hefty amount of gold paid up front for the retrieval of whatever artifact residing within these ruins now made sense. The stout and grizzled Imperial had been a middleman; Skoll had known not because his client had stated so, but because he appeared disinterested in the conversation, his face set sternly as if it had been carved. The cloaked man had given Skoll a location, a promise of enough septims to make even the nobles in Cyrodiil bulk, and that payment that made the thief's brow quirk. After hashing out a few more details about where to meet after the job was done and price negotiations (for the fun of it), the nameless Imperial had taken his leave with as much enthusiasm as he had shown during the meeting.
And now Skoll was here, standing before the entrance of a lost city hidden within the mountainside. Usually he gave these sort of fetch jobs to one of his underlings; they required extended time away from Riften, which meant limited contact with the Guild. But the circle of thieves that helped run operations were competent, and this was a special case. Besides, the Nord was simply curious.
He thought about taking time to rest outside, and delve in when dawn broke, but the chill at his back drove him forward. He had spent too much time in the cold, and while the inside was sure to be guarded by remnant machinery, he was confident in his skills. He could clear out a spot to take a rest, and it would be warmer than if he made camp on the mountain. The metal door was heavy, but gave easily with a shove of his shoulder; as it closed behind him, the thief was cloaked in darkness. Pulling back his hood, Skoll ran his palms through his light brown hair, freeing the strands of the wet snow that clung to them.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he carefully moved forward, trying to discern any noise from the sound of releasing steam and clanging metal around him.
With all that out of the way, let’s move on to the fun stuff!
The following are my current ideas and characters. I’m always opened to hearing the ideas of my partner. If you see something you like, but want to tweak it, feel free to talk to me about that. Or if you have your own plot idea that you think I’d enjoy, pitch it!
Original Roleplay Characters:
The infection started in a rural, small town hospital. By the first few days, the United States was in chaos, and by the first week, everything was already coming to an end. During the initial outbreak, as the Sons were regrouping at the club compound, Tommy was lost to an infected, leaving Ryne to take up the mantle he left behind. In the years that followed, he grew into the role, and would forge his club into a gang to be feared. Inspired by the Vikings of old, the Sons started raiding other survivors, tackling firmly established settlements. They would ride in, bring havoc and chaos, cut down anyone in their way, steal valuable resources, and set off, leaving destruction in their wake. Yet the raiders, while brutal, seem to have at least some sort of code. Those that surrender are spared, their settlements left untouched, as long as they tribute to the gang. Those that pass a trial by combat, where they're thrown in an arena with infected, are allowed to join the Club.
**While I don't have a specific plot in mind for this guy, would love to figure something out with someone.
Jack has been part of his dying order for over two decades. He has known little else and isn't much interested in partaking in anything else. What he does is more than a profession. He has lived and will die by the blade, caring none for the consequences. He carries his silver-lined sword not to save lives, but to end them.
Jack Walker gets the job done before anything else. Like most of his kind, he lives by the philosophy of "the ends justify the means”.
Plot for Jack:
A shadow is falling over London, one that only the Silver Order can see approaching. People are disappearing at abnormal rates, werewolves are being spotted outside full moons, madness is spreading, and magic, which has become a rarity for the past century, is suddenly reappearing, manifesting once more in children. When the Crown extends a hand to the Order to offer resources, they cannot refuse. Yet at the diplomatic meeting, they’re betrayed; a powerful being that can only be labeled as a vampire, in the way a dragon can be described as a reptile, has worked her way into the political structure of London, claiming the minds of the rulers. The Silver Order diplomats are slaughtered, and the Order is forced to go underground, hunted by both the authorities and creatures of the shadows.
Jack's mentor was killed at the meeting, and the hunter now seeks revenge. Your character? Perhaps a sorceress who wants to help bring an end to the chaos, perhaps the daughter of one of the slain diplomats, who also wants revenge? Perhaps a defecting vampire, who wishes to live in harmony with humans? That bit’s up to you, yet I’d be happy to brainstorm ideas.
Yet Jaxon survived his wounds. Now he's waging war on the streets of New York City, taking out the mob and gangs that were used to traffic the drugs. Some call him a hero: a man willing to do what it's necessary to rid the city of those who prey on the weak and defenseless. Some call him a monster: a heartless murderer just short of being a serial killer.
Your character? Well, depends on what you want to play. A fellow veteran? A by-the-book cop? A find-the-truth reporter? A disgruntled PI? A hacker? We can tailor a story from there. I would like it if your character at least disagrees morally on some level with mine's methods; while I'm not a fan of Daredevil (the character weirdly, not the show), I do like the idea of that sort of reluctant partnership.
Hailing from another dimension called Chronos--home to an advanced civilization where genetic engineering is common, and technology has evolved at superior rates--Jett stepped into our universe with advanced technology, schematics, and the ability to create and manipulate magnetic fields (think Magneto from X-Men), which he used to build his own criminal business. As a inventor, he created and sold illegal, powerful weaponry on the streets, and partook in the occasional smuggling and mercenary job. While he didn't seem interested in world domination or anything of the sort, making him look like a lesser evil in comparison to other villains, his inventions still fed those more malicious than himself. Eventually TAROT, an organization like Marvel's S.H.I.E.L.D., decided to track him down, and succeeded in capturing him. He was given two options: spend the rest of his life in prison, or work for them. Naturally, since the idea of boredom loathes him, Jett chose the latter.
Plot for Jett:
Your character would be a hero assigned to be Jett's "handler", tasked with watching over him on missions, and making sure he doesn't try to escape, or compromise the organization. The two naturally don't get off on the right foot. Jett wants his freedom, and your character metaphorically has him on a leash, while your character probably sees Jett as self-serving, and would rather have him in prison than be forced to babysit. Yet when when high-tech, well-armed invaders from Jett's home dimension start storming Earth, the two are forced to shove their differences aside and work together.
Fandom-Specific Characters:
A Witcher who rides into town on a black stallion, covered from neck to toe in plate, with twin blades strapped across his back, and an axe hooped through his belt. When he steps from the saddle, boots kicking up dust, his height shadows all that come near. Golden eyes peer out from underneath a thick, arched brow, the left of which is marred by a scar, and his stern expression is motionless, as if carved from stone.
When he speaks to ask about the bounty, his low voice rumbles in his throat, and he fiddles with the bear head medallion chained to his neck, yet the habit is easily missed; the scar, three diagonal claw marks, running down his right eye and cheek makes for a grand distraction. The bards sing of how The Mountain obtained this scar during a battle with an archgriffin: an epic struggle that took place on the battlements of a lord's castle.
In person he is known as Dirk by most, a nickname that started as a way to amuse his mentor--who, while in a distant land to the East, claimed the unborn boy through the Law of Surprise--and keep the youngster grounded during his training. Like all Witchers, Dirk is known as a crude, unforgiving, traveling mutant, a necessary evil who makes coin off the misfortune of others: a freak that has no humanity left in his bones from the Trial of Grasses. He is simply a giant killer made of stone.
Few call him Darrek. Not even those he winters with on an island far north of the Skellige Islands, where the School of the Bear once trained Witchers in the halls of an aged castle. Yet the mages he found cornered by Witch Hunters hungry for blood know him by his birth name, and know him for more than a Witcher, more than most men.
Plots For Dirk:
- The Witcher and the Sorceress: Since I adore the dynamic between Geralt and Yen, I would love to write Dirk to a sorceress. Perhaps they both get employed by a monarch to solve a particular problem? Lift a curse from the royal family? Since I immensely enjoyed Master Mirror, the curse could be due to a deal made with a similar entity, and our characters, who start off on the wrong foot, soon realize they're going to have to work together to be able to contend with this foe.
- Silver Tongues, Silver Swords: We have one inspired by Hearts of Stone, why not another by Blood and Wine? The basis of this plot would be a Duchess, or similar ruler of a land, hires Dirk to deal with a complicated monster problem (higher vampires, maybe?). Not being a typical ruler, the Duchess insists on tagging along with Dirk as he hunts the beast, which will also require wading through politics, since the monster seems to have woven a web across those that hold influence. Political intrigue, backstabbing, and the occasional murder: just another day in the court.
**While I don't have a specific plot in mind for this guy, would love to figure something out with someone.
Did none of my premade characters catch your eye? Here's a list of my general interests. When it comes to fandoms, I prefer to play as OCs set in an original universe. If you’d like to play a canon character, I’d have no problem with that; I just lose interest when playing canons, even if I greatly enjoy the character.
Genres:
- Fantasy
- Sci-fi
- Post-Apocalyptic
- Modern Supernatural (Werewolves and Monster Hunters, mostly)
- Motorcycle Clubs (think Sons of Anarchy)
- Historical:
- Viking Era
- Prohibition Era
- World War II
- Skyrim
- Fallout
- Mass Effect
- Dragon Age
- The Witcher
- The Last of Us
- The Walking Dead
- Mad Max
- Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire
Make it through all that? Wish to roleplay with me? Drop me a PM with a writing sample!
Thanks for your time,
Your Friendly Neighborhood Graverobber