Wayward
Lost in thought
- Joined
- Sep 3, 2010
Adv. lit | 3-5 paragraphs | third-person | +10GMT
I'm Wayward, in both name and nature.
I'm a 32y/o creature living in the Upside Down that is Australia.
I adore losing myself in fiction, whether that's high fantasy or a dystopian scifi, an 'inspired by' historical tale or something from my favourite setting. I want to fall into a story and create a world that exists only between us. The daylight hours are far too stressful for me to want modern slice-of-life stories, with the exception of those with a fantasy spin.
I adore romance and stories that feature erotic elements all the way through to full smut, however I prefer intimate scenes to happen naturally, and be part of a much larger story and relevant to the plot. My style would best be described as sensual, slow-burn lace and leather; I am interested in the tease, the desire and the lead-up, just as much as the act itself. I want to be led astray by my assumed hero, only to be utterly tormented by lust, fighting to remain composure. I want to be the rough hand around your throat, the growl in your ear and I want to be there when you realise my character is just as flawed as the enemy, and you're not so sure you made the right choice. Courtly romance, lust betwixt lace and despoiling the fair and virtuous lady are my drugs of choice, both giving and receiving. I am a dynamic switch, with no strong preference either way and a lot of experience in both the D and s type roles. Primary kinks are restraints and rope, predicaments, powerplay, knives, mild sadism and a few others, but we can discuss these more if relevant. I love power imbalances, negotiating the deep waters of love and lust and turmoil both in the world at large, and between our characters.
My F-list if you want a more structured idea of what interests me. Have an idea that's not mentioned? DM me and we can discuss it.
I play most things across the spectrum of gender and sexuality. I am comfortable and have experience in both masculine and feminine roles, cis or trans, kinky or vanilla, and enjoy playing everything in between. I will not play a gender role for the sake of fetishisation. Both het and queer relationships are fine, whatever form they take. I am just as comfortable to play an entirely PG storyline as I am to play something much more deviant. It's not about the destination, but the journey!
As mentioned above, I usually write somewhere between 3-5 paragraphs, depending on what's called for. I'd like you to be able to match my energy, but you are not required to match my word count - I know this isn't always possible, just try and give as good as you get. Due to the nature of my work, my schedule changes quite a bit from week to week. At the start of a game, I'll try to get a post or two out each day so we can set things up, but my average is a post every few days. I prefer the slower style of game, rather than rapid-fire posts, as it gives me time to think. I don't particularly care about face-claims either way. If you find them helpful, we can use them. I am in a long-term relationship with the Oxford Comma.
I prefer to write either on-site, on Discord in a private server with different channels set up, or on Gdocs with OOC supported by Discord.
OOC chatter is a must for me. I'd love to get to know you, even if it's purely RP-specific, but having an open line of communication for likes/dislikes, feedback and plotting is important. I keep chickens, so anyone who roleplays with me will also get a bounty of the fluffiest pictures. I love to tailor scenes to our particular penchants, and get a great deal of satisfaction from my partner's reactions, so indulge me a little.
I've included some plots and ideas that interest me below, but I'm also very much open to suggestion. Have something you've been dying to play and think I might be a good fit? DM me.
Fandoms
- The Witcher. Based on the games and the series. I'm in the process of reading the books, so I'm happy to absolutely draw from them, but my knowledge is still a work-in-progress. I'm happy to play Geralt or an OC Witcher in any scenario, queer or straight, male or female. I'm also keen to play an OC love interest of Geralt in a story set outside the timeline. I'd be very interested in either playing something with fairly heavy focus on sexual tension between characters, and as Geralt as a D-type to your character (Ciri or Yen as a hard no for main character, sorry), with some BDSM tones. I'm not hugely interest in one-shots, but would prefer somewhat of a slow-burn and having something develop over time. This being said, I'm also not against the idea of having something more long-term with a gratuitous sex scene fairly early on to set the tone.
- The world is dangerous, and you've heard stories that these strange inhuman creatures they call Witchers are the worst of the things that go bump in the night. You were saved from certain death by nothing more than luck, the white-haired man having heard your protests from the roadside. He was terrifyingly efficient with his blade, and seemed to be indifferent to your plight, beyond basic courtesy and tending to any immediate injuries you might have. After all, you have nothing to offer him, no coin to your name, and no weapon to defend yourself - even if you learned how to play at fighting once, right now you are a liability. That much is clear. But you are far from safety and right now it might just be better the devil you know - what choice do you have but to trust him? I would love to see this become a long-term adventure. Perhaps your character was sold off by her family of peasants, desperate to pay off the extortion as mercs hold your village to ransom. Maybe you were one of the brigands, right up until the point where you disagreed with the leader. Was your character was the wife of a wealthy merchant, targeted and then murdered as you traveled to the next city? As your character's skills, trust and personality become more visible, the pair go from protector and charge to something more like equals.
- The last Trial of the Grasses happened long enough ago that few remember its name, save those that still bear the mark of the treacherous ordeal. There hasn't been a new Witcher in many, many years, and they are now a dying breed like so many of the monsters they were tasked to kill. Winter is the time where those that remain find their way back to the familiar walls of Kaer Morhen to rest their weary bones, mourn their fallen, and count their gold in the relative peace of the crumbling stone walls. This time, however, as the gate remains down for the last few stragglers to make their way home, a woman with wild eyes and worn clothes rides her horse into the courtyard and begs for sanctuary. Something in her blood calls to you; an innate sense of power, something made from the same Old Magic you are, but what? Despite the sweat and dirt on her skin and her almost-threadbare clothes, she challenges your gaze. The snow will cut off the pass from Kaer Morhen too soon for her to make it back to the nearest village on that skinny horse. Perhaps Vesemir will know what to make of her?
- The Kushiels Legacy trilogies. I'm more familiar with the first three, and would love to play something full of politics and intrigue and adventure. Perhaps I'm a member of the Cassiline Brotherhood, under oath to protect a member of a noble house? Maybe you're attending your first visit to one of the great Houses? I am always interested in server/group roleplays for this.
- The Ephemera series, by Anne Bishop. I'd love to do something set in this world, or more specifically around the concept the incubus/succubus/otherworldly creatures, and how they're portrayed as spicy humans, rather than lustful, all-consuming entities. I love the juxtaposition between a very experienced partner who is quite kinky, versus someone with limited experience who discovers that they enjoy this through the course of the adventure.
OC Plots
These are less specific plots and more open-ended prompts. Some have specific roles to play, and others are entirely open to interpretation and can go a dozen different ways from what is written here. If any of these spark something in you, let me know and we can hash out some finer details.
-
Charlotte looked quickly over her shoulder before slipping through the rusted gate. The hinges screamed in protest as it was pried open. The red-haired woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steadying herself as she counted quietly.
"Five… Six… Seven…" and no footsteps came pelting across the courtyard. Leaning against the cold cobblestone wall, she surveyed the neglected garden before her. Long since closed off from the rest of the College, rumours surrounded this mismatched scrap of land. Everything from murder and burial of past teachers, through to strange and magical effects worked into the earth itself. From what Charlotte could see, however, it appeared that this was nothing more than a simply overgrown garden long since forgotten about. No black tendrils crawled forth from the earth, no marked graves stood in the moonlight. Still, the silence about this place was a little unnerving and she wasn't certain if there was something more to the tales about this place, or whether her own mind was simply playing tricks on her.
Carefully picking her way through the brambles and along what was once a stone footpath, she spied the door ahead. The woman cursed her own curiosity. Some uppity students from Red house had taken Stolas, her horned owl, for ransom. It was a stupid dare for the first year students; take the familiar of a final year student, leave a note that you'll return the creature in exchange for something ridiculous, hide the familiar somewhere in plain sight on campus. No harm, no foul. Charlotte pulled a face. You'd think that by the time you entered college, this sort of bullshit would have been stamped out. She had gotten her familiar back without issue, and Stolas clicked his beak reassuringly from where he sat on the wall behind her. But there was something odd about the ransom request for this prank. They wanted a splinter from the Door in the Locked Garden.
The door frame was made of old, discoloured grey marble, and it stuck out of the brambles and overgrown grass like a sore thumb. Ornate as it once was, moss and lichen reclaimed parts of the masonry, and the sun-bleached wood of the solid old door itself looked like it was one good kick from crumbling into splinters. The woman pulled a pocket knife and a handkerchief as she approached. The page the ransom was written on tingled with a strange magic she knew wasn't taught here at the college. The way the request was written was far too formal for a gaggle of giggling first-years. The seal on the back was curious, like one that might belong to one of the sprawling city's noble houses, but none that was on record. Something about it had piqued her interest, and the only way to get to the bottom of this mystery was with a piece of the door.
Carefully, she pried a wry shard from the spot near the door handle and wrapped it in the cloth. A faint shimmer of light washed over the tarnished bronze handle and, for the briefest moment, she could have sworn she could hear voices coming from the other side. This was impossible. The door was in them middle of a derelict old garden, it was well past midnight and as tired as she was, it was probably a figment of her own imagination. Stolas swooped down and nibbled her ear affectionately, chittering as he sensed her confusion. She had what she needed, and it was high time to leave. Getting to her feet, she pocketed the knife and handkerchief and- There it was again. This time the voice was closer, louder.
She scowled. This shouldn't be possible. There was nothing on the other side of the door, and she made certain with a peek around the stone framework. And yet, she could almost make out the words spoken by the deep male voice. And then, out of nowhere, there was a scream from beyond the door. A blood-curdling screech from a woman's voice rattled the fittings as they begged for help. Charlotte hesitated for the briefest moment, before she felt the door handle creak and then turn beneath her hand. As she pushed the door open, the woman was met with a wall of darkness. Almost as if the void itself were alive, tendrils of smoke reached out and surrounded her and Stolas. She barely had time to scream before the freezing clutches of darkness pulled them in.
And then, there was nothing.
-
There was a distinct tension in the air, something almost palpable like the static that clings to the back of your neck before a lightning strike. The murmurs and mutters of 60-odd men surrounded the white-walled tent where the raid leaders convened, the fighters waiting, watching, for a sign that had yet to be given. They were growing restless and uneasy by the hour, eager to add to their collection of riches and wealth for the journey home. This was no small raiding party, but the biggest one of the season, and the first occasion that the Jarl's son, Arvid Magnusson, was to spill blood on a foreign land. And so it came to be that the inhabitants of a foreign land were camped on the fair shores of Írland, with a thirst for blood and gold.
Arvid paced back and forth, the dirt having been worn into a rut under his feet as a grizzled old man watched on. The two could have been father and son in another life; both had ropey golden hair pulled back behind their head and shocking blue eyes, but many years separated them, and disdain separated them further.
"He won't return any faster with you wearing holes in your boots, boy," the old man grumbled, stretching his arms and cracking his knuckles. The pacing stopped.
"Call me boy again, Halvor…" The words hung in the air as Arvid set his piercing gaze on the old man. A hand crept up his side to rest on the hilt of his sword, as much a threat as it was habit. They were three nights into the raid already, and Arvid felt he had proven himself a capable raider on the field already, as if killing another man were all that counted.
"Arvid," the older man sighed. He sat up straight to return the stare, but there was a tiredness behind his eyes. "I took you as my charge because your father wants you to return safe, not because I want to be here. I would be stretched out and drunk as the night with a mug of mead in one and a pair of tits in the other if it weren't for you, and I wouldn't be here if you were able to prove you're any more than a whelp. So I will call you boy until the day you prove otherwise. In the mean time, do us both a favour and quit your barking so one of us can get some rest," he shot back.
Arvid's eyes narrowed in anger, but before he could so much as blink in protest, the door of the tent was thrown open and a beast of a man just barely ducked inside. Far taller than either of the two already present, the newcomer was covered in a shock of ginger hair so wild that you could scarce tell where his beard began and his eyebrows ended. His broad shoulders barely fit through the doorway, and he surely couldn't stand upright in the tent, so he leaned on the table that sat square in the middle. Udvig Iron-Swinger was his name, and it was as well-earned a name as any. The mountain of a man would wade into battle with little more than a pole of iron with a giant spiked ball on the end, and screamed like the hounds of hell. He was a ferocious man and a good leader.
"We've had word back from the scouts. Half a day's trek inland is a territory ripe for the picking. Noble household," he grunted.
Halvor stood up with a groan. "And they're defended, no doubt?"
"Wooden walls, and surrounded by peasants and fields," the man bear grunted. "It would be easy enough to take with some torches and steel. It would be stupid to attack by daylight, though. They're atop a hill and would see us coming a mile out and shut the gates."
"Unless we attack by nightfall," Arvid chimed in, enthusiastically. Halvor sighed, as if the implication were not immediately obvious. "We come in under the cover of darkness, just before dawn. If we have our main forces assault the front gate, we can have a small group attack the rear palisades and gut them from within before they know what's happening."
Udvig nodded again and looked at Arvid with a grimace. "You've been listening to the returning parties, haven't you? It's good. You're learning, but now you get to learn how to shut the fuck up while we plan, until you have more sense than you have hair around your cock."
Halvor scoffed. "And I suppose the boy here is volunteering himself for the rear attack?" A vague gesture was cast Arvid's way along with a derisive look. "A fine way to get himself killed. Something his father could finally be proud of."
"Then it's settled," Udvig said, leaving no room for argument. "We attack at dawn. Arvid, you lead the rear assault. Halvor, you keep his guts inside him where they belong. I'll tell the men."
-
From somewhere in the swirling darkness, she was roused by the smell of blood and wet earth. A trickle of water hit her forehead and dribbled down her cheek, and she felt her body pressed into the soil as the first wave of pain crashed over her like a breaking wave. She was no longer sitting at the front of the wagon. There was no sing-song from the wagon in front, either. There was no laughing. No chatter of voices. Only the ringing in her ears.
The sounds of crackling fire, the racking chill of ice and distant screams came into focus. She spat out a mouthful of mud, and a strangled cry followed as a searing pain lanced through her torso. In that moment, Celleste knew that she was injured and something horrible had happened; the knife-like pain through her body screamed that there were at least broken ribs. The rest of her body ached and burned as if she had molten bones, but she was alive and that was enough for now.
As Celeste opened her eyes, she knew in that instant that a deep-seated fear had come to pass – the caravan had been attacked. For four years this meandering groups of mismatched artists and creaking carriages had been her home. Singers, musicians and tumblers alike, they had all found peace and some kind of fortune here, but most of all they had solidarity – a scarce thing in this world, now broken beyond repair like the carriages and wagons around. The wooden forms were toppled onto their side, both whole and broken. The horses had either torn themselves from their harnesses or lay in the mud with them, deathly still with legs splayed at unnatural angles. The gaudy wagons decorated the road like a discarded child's playthings, thrown down and stepped on in a fit of anger. A light dusting of snow covered some of the wagons she could see through the narrow gap between the wreckage that pinned her, and the chaos of whatever happened had turned the dirt road into slush. The oil lanterns that lit their way had been tossed, flames eagerly licking at the wooden frames and canvas tops of the other wagons. Some of them were well alight by now – she had no idea how long she had been unconscious – and the screams within grew only more frantic by the passing moment.
Desperate to help her kindred and to get away from the wreckage, she tried to raise herself from the dirt only to scream aloud as she found both legs pinned and the wreckage unwilling to move. Celeste cried out for help, for anyone, but nobody came. She screamed until her throat was raw, until the pain of her ribs and legs consumed her. A great, wracking sob tore through her body, and she pressed her face back into the cold, wet earth. Where were the others? Why was nobody coming to help? Why had nobody called warning? She had a hundred questions, and answers to none. If Celeste were to die here tonight, at least let it be quick.