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Ludigraph
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Jun 28, 2022
First of all, hi hello, if you actually read this whole thing I already adore you and think you're amazing and great, thank you so much.
If I could summarize my request – I've been doing this long enough that I'm kinda over the whole process of sifting through the dross to find the golden nugget. I'm taking a leap of faith to find one awesome writer who's willing to join me on a sprawling long-term adventure through messages. I am happy to do the lion's share of the worldbuilding and plot progression (although would also be pleased to have my structures wrecked by daring decisions and wild pivots in tone and narrative alike; please, bring it on).
I don't mean to sound like a hardass (I'm a pretty goofy and lighthearted guy, honestly!), but I trust someone out there will understand what I mean when I say I've been burned a few too many times to want to deal with that too much more. I make no claims as to being the greatest writer ever. I just want that classic feeling back, that heart-flutter of excitement to see I have a new message in my inbox.
Some points of info about me as a writing partner:
• Varied Timing – Part of the beauty of messaging is flexibility in response times, yeah? Some days I am going to be chatty and get you multiple replies. Other times, I will need some patience from my partner (much of this is simply due to the nature of my job, which gets busier at some points than others). I'm fairly chill and low-pressure, I promise: Real life comes first, I don't hold people to deadlines, etc.
• Quality Primary, Quantity Secondary – Nobody needs to read 10,000 words describing a character's outfit, but I do want to read multiple great paragraphs each turn. I don't need novella-length replies (not at all!), but I'm definitely looking for a partner who truly relishes the opportunity to absolutely write the hell out of a story.
Dramatic twists, taut suspense, terrifying horror, intense action, humorous dialogue, multi-layered characterization and slow-burn chemistry… I'm a greedy bastard who wants it all, and I'm prepared to give it in return.
• Flexible Smut Ratio – This is an erotic roleplaying site after all, so I suppose this should be covered. I am fine with smut happening, I do enjoy it, but I want to make expectations clear that I am a story-first writer and any smut should occur as a part of the natural blooming of whatever relationship is building between characters. That being said, if they do get along and things get steamy and smut-heavy, I won't complain. I guess I'd say I'm in a mindset of aiming for 80-20 plot-to-smut ratio but if the scales tip one way or another in the course of writing, the door is open for that.
As far as kinks/limits go, this would be an area where I'd be happy to field questions if anyone is concerned, though I'd say my character(s) is fairly vanilla but definitely prefers taking the dominant role. While the tastes and boundaries are pretty unremarkable (no feet/toilet/furries, not really into bondage/toys/non-human pairings, bedroom interactions range from a praising and encouraging 'soft dom' to full-on hair-pulling/slapping around/degradation/etc.), I guess I should mention that any interested partners should play a human woman character who is submissive. She doesn't need to be an outright sex slave or enthusiastic slut, though those expressions of submission are fine and great, just that she's cool with him taking the lead when things do get intimate.
• Pantsing Over Plotting – I don't mind OOC chat, and especially once the story's started I welcome feedback and clarifications as we go. But I really do think the magical payoff of partnered writing is delivered when fewer details are settled upfront and more of it is discovered organically. I am a firm believer that vibing with the right partner is more important than agreeing on the details of a plot with someone, if that makes sense; the idea that if you put two writers together with good chemistry, they can weave a killer plot out of a simple one-line prompt like "old friends reconnect at a café and the ceiling begins making a strange sound." If we're a good fit for each other, I trust we'll have fun, simple as that.
• The Leap of Faith – Okay, here it is, the moment of truth. This might be a little bit unorthodox, but how I want this to work is for you to read the starter below… and if it sounds intriguing and fun to you, if something about it sparks a sense of adventure within you, if you think "oh what the hell" and want to give it a shot… then reply to it directly, in a message to me. Just send me a message with your direct response to the starter below. It doesn't have to be as long (we know how starters can go, to 'set the scene'), but I would love to get something in my inbox that launches us into a sprawling, unpredictable genre-bending adventure we'll both have a blast with. Here goes nothin':
###
“Gather ‘round, ladies and gentlemen! Feast your eyes upon the mystical sights and mysterious feats of the one and only Lucas Morrow, illusionist supreme – step up and see Luke the Spook! Dr. Morrow of Tomorrow! Yes folks, lend me your attention but for a few moments and I shall enrapture your minds and thrill your hearts… behold: The power of magic, on display for your viewing pleasure!”
Luke’s voice was the booming baritone of a seasoned showman, his white-gloved hands and violet velvet coat accompanied by a glossy emerald-green vest as marks of a professional performer. A keen observer may note more to the story, however, as his black slacks were beginning to fray at the bottom hem and his undershirt was stained with cheap ale.
The town of Hadley was among the larger burgs in the kingdom of Byloria, the perfect place for a man to set up a street-side card table on a Friday night by the Silver Serpent tavern if he wanted to catch the attention of a cluster of passersby. Lucas was a tall man, his build more ‘taut’ than ‘muscular,’ his beard a thin black bolt on the chin beneath a close-cropped crown of hair beginning to gray at the temples.
His dark eyes flitted from one pedestrian to another, watching as some would slow their pace and cast glances his direction while others would stride forward head-down with renewed dedication. The small table had a red felt surface, with a trio of brass cups sitting in a row.
“You there!” the magician said, thrusting a pointing finger toward a close-passing boy who could be no older than ten years. The boy froze in his tracks, casting a questioning look to the woman nearby (his mother, presumably) who gave a curt nod in return.
A small crowd, indeed, began to gather.
“Watch the ball,” Lucas began, producing from his right palm a small, gleaming brass ball. He dropped it into the right-hand cup with an audible ‘ka-plink!’
His skilled hands moved deftly to flip all three cups. Then with slow, steady movements he slid the cups along the felt surface of the table, until a stop.
He smiled at the boy, and gestured to the cups. Onlookers began to even shout the obvious answer.
“Under which cup is the ball, my friend?” Lucas asked.
The boy gulped, and tapped one.
Lucas pulled the top of the cup toward himself, exposing the bottom, the opening, and the ball-less result of course. Some in the crowd gasped, more began to gather. Others smiled almost condescendingly; it was an old trick, after all. A classic, one could say.
A couple quick flips later and all three cups laid on their side without a ball in sight. Some onlookers clapped while a couple cynics may have rolled their eyes instead.
“Why, how strange!” Luke said, furrowing his brow and stroking his beard to exaggerated effect. “But, young sir, if you’ll just examine your pocket, I think you’ll find…”
The magician leaned over the table with a gentle smile, and open-palm-patted the front pocket of the shirt the child was wearing. The boy blinked with confusion at the smooth-yet-sudden movement and looked down, shoving a hand into the pocket.
He withdrew his hand – and the metal ball slipped from his grasp, falling to the street below, tink-tink bouncing and rolling away.
Lucas winced slightly, his body rocking on one foot than the other as he tried to keep sight of the ball.
“Could you–” he began to ask the child, only to be interrupted by the cry of his mother.
“Did you just touch my son? What did you do?!” she protested.
The sleight-of-hand artist frowned, reeling back.
“What? I only–”
“PERVERT!!” someone in the crowd yelled, and within seconds the growing murmurs grew to something resembling an uproar. Lucas was not a complete idiot, and recognized a situation threatening to grow out of hand, as he worked to quickly fold up his tiny table and place it back into his leather bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder just in time to dodge a piece of errant fruit lobbed in his direction.
“Yes, well, thank you everyone! Have a good evening!” he gamely called out before turning on a heel and jogging away, looking over his shoulder with the relief of not being pursued (the would-be mob content to disperse, mostly just waving dismissive hands and muttering), but feeling the pang through his gut of yet another unsuccessful evening of business.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his other hand nervously fidgeting with the strap of his bag as he navigated a side street, then an alley. The evening was growing dim, and.
And as he rounded another turn, he stopped in his tracks. Straight ahead of him was a woman in a simple gray robe, the hood atop her head. Her skin was sickly pale, like moonlight with hints of veins running through it.
“Lucas Morrow,” she spoke, her eyes directly to his, her voice in full control without hesitation. “We have been watching you, and hope to recruit you to our cause. Have you heard of the Order of the Seed?”
The magician… shook his head, trying to brush by the woman as he walked. Although it was startling to hear her know his name, maybe she was just a crazed individual who’d seen his stopped-short performance moments ago. She certainly didn’t seem like the fun kind of stalkery fan.
“Uh, no thanks, I’m not really the type to join any sort of guild, more of an independent operato–”
And he was stopped in his steps, again. He looked down, to identify the pressure he felt on his chest. It was such a flash of motion, so fast; and there, pressed to his coat, was the point of a dagger-blade.
“I don’t think you understand, Lucas,” the woman said. Her eyes were deep, dark, and piercing. “We don’t wish to take you unwillingly, but will do so if we must.”
Her gaze flicked upward, at an angle, and Lucas turned his head slightly to follow her signal with his own gaze. Even in the dimming light of the evening, he spotted her subject: A second figure, on a nearby rooftop, offering a mock wave of one hand while holding a crossbow in the other.
The magician looked downward with a heavy sigh, as the robed woman smiled thinly.
“All right, I get it,” he said, pursing his lips as he nodded, looking to his would-be companion apparently. “I’ll go. Got nothin’ to lose, I guess.”
“That’s the spirit,” the woman said, lowering the blade and re-hiding it within her sleeve.
Only, as soon as she began to turn her frame and relax her posture, Lucas showed his own flash of hand-speed and punched her in the face.
She let out a vague sound of pain, her body reeling back unbalanced for the half-moment he needed to break into a dead-ahead sprint. The trickster knew there was a weapon aimed at him, but also knew he’d rather take his chances on this than even consider the alternative.
Maybe it was the failing light of the evening. Maybe it was the distance, the surprise of it, maybe a fault of the mechanism of the device. Whatever the factor, as luck would have it: The crossbow bolt tore through the air, only to clatter harmlessly at Luke’s feet as he dashed ahead.
He turned, panting, finding himself despising this stupid Hadley town as his sight flittered about, seeking any good escape route, any decent hiding spot, any sort of respite amid this area of town, a little outside the city center, the buildings a little farther apart than th–
He tried a door and found it unlocked, quickly moving inside the building, his chest heaving like a bellows with breath as he slapped down the small iron lock-bar and leaned himself against the wooden door, closing his eyes, trying to catch his breath albeit quietly.
He had no idea if this was a home, a business, some abandoned piece of property, or a mystical portal to his doom. He just knew that, for once, he wanted a measure of peace in his life, a moment to catch his breath and truly relax.
…
He had a bad feeling his respite would remain elusive.
If I could summarize my request – I've been doing this long enough that I'm kinda over the whole process of sifting through the dross to find the golden nugget. I'm taking a leap of faith to find one awesome writer who's willing to join me on a sprawling long-term adventure through messages. I am happy to do the lion's share of the worldbuilding and plot progression (although would also be pleased to have my structures wrecked by daring decisions and wild pivots in tone and narrative alike; please, bring it on).
I don't mean to sound like a hardass (I'm a pretty goofy and lighthearted guy, honestly!), but I trust someone out there will understand what I mean when I say I've been burned a few too many times to want to deal with that too much more. I make no claims as to being the greatest writer ever. I just want that classic feeling back, that heart-flutter of excitement to see I have a new message in my inbox.
Some points of info about me as a writing partner:
• Varied Timing – Part of the beauty of messaging is flexibility in response times, yeah? Some days I am going to be chatty and get you multiple replies. Other times, I will need some patience from my partner (much of this is simply due to the nature of my job, which gets busier at some points than others). I'm fairly chill and low-pressure, I promise: Real life comes first, I don't hold people to deadlines, etc.
• Quality Primary, Quantity Secondary – Nobody needs to read 10,000 words describing a character's outfit, but I do want to read multiple great paragraphs each turn. I don't need novella-length replies (not at all!), but I'm definitely looking for a partner who truly relishes the opportunity to absolutely write the hell out of a story.
Dramatic twists, taut suspense, terrifying horror, intense action, humorous dialogue, multi-layered characterization and slow-burn chemistry… I'm a greedy bastard who wants it all, and I'm prepared to give it in return.
• Flexible Smut Ratio – This is an erotic roleplaying site after all, so I suppose this should be covered. I am fine with smut happening, I do enjoy it, but I want to make expectations clear that I am a story-first writer and any smut should occur as a part of the natural blooming of whatever relationship is building between characters. That being said, if they do get along and things get steamy and smut-heavy, I won't complain. I guess I'd say I'm in a mindset of aiming for 80-20 plot-to-smut ratio but if the scales tip one way or another in the course of writing, the door is open for that.
As far as kinks/limits go, this would be an area where I'd be happy to field questions if anyone is concerned, though I'd say my character(s) is fairly vanilla but definitely prefers taking the dominant role. While the tastes and boundaries are pretty unremarkable (no feet/toilet/furries, not really into bondage/toys/non-human pairings, bedroom interactions range from a praising and encouraging 'soft dom' to full-on hair-pulling/slapping around/degradation/etc.), I guess I should mention that any interested partners should play a human woman character who is submissive. She doesn't need to be an outright sex slave or enthusiastic slut, though those expressions of submission are fine and great, just that she's cool with him taking the lead when things do get intimate.
• Pantsing Over Plotting – I don't mind OOC chat, and especially once the story's started I welcome feedback and clarifications as we go. But I really do think the magical payoff of partnered writing is delivered when fewer details are settled upfront and more of it is discovered organically. I am a firm believer that vibing with the right partner is more important than agreeing on the details of a plot with someone, if that makes sense; the idea that if you put two writers together with good chemistry, they can weave a killer plot out of a simple one-line prompt like "old friends reconnect at a café and the ceiling begins making a strange sound." If we're a good fit for each other, I trust we'll have fun, simple as that.
• The Leap of Faith – Okay, here it is, the moment of truth. This might be a little bit unorthodox, but how I want this to work is for you to read the starter below… and if it sounds intriguing and fun to you, if something about it sparks a sense of adventure within you, if you think "oh what the hell" and want to give it a shot… then reply to it directly, in a message to me. Just send me a message with your direct response to the starter below. It doesn't have to be as long (we know how starters can go, to 'set the scene'), but I would love to get something in my inbox that launches us into a sprawling, unpredictable genre-bending adventure we'll both have a blast with. Here goes nothin':
###
“Gather ‘round, ladies and gentlemen! Feast your eyes upon the mystical sights and mysterious feats of the one and only Lucas Morrow, illusionist supreme – step up and see Luke the Spook! Dr. Morrow of Tomorrow! Yes folks, lend me your attention but for a few moments and I shall enrapture your minds and thrill your hearts… behold: The power of magic, on display for your viewing pleasure!”
Luke’s voice was the booming baritone of a seasoned showman, his white-gloved hands and violet velvet coat accompanied by a glossy emerald-green vest as marks of a professional performer. A keen observer may note more to the story, however, as his black slacks were beginning to fray at the bottom hem and his undershirt was stained with cheap ale.
The town of Hadley was among the larger burgs in the kingdom of Byloria, the perfect place for a man to set up a street-side card table on a Friday night by the Silver Serpent tavern if he wanted to catch the attention of a cluster of passersby. Lucas was a tall man, his build more ‘taut’ than ‘muscular,’ his beard a thin black bolt on the chin beneath a close-cropped crown of hair beginning to gray at the temples.
His dark eyes flitted from one pedestrian to another, watching as some would slow their pace and cast glances his direction while others would stride forward head-down with renewed dedication. The small table had a red felt surface, with a trio of brass cups sitting in a row.
“You there!” the magician said, thrusting a pointing finger toward a close-passing boy who could be no older than ten years. The boy froze in his tracks, casting a questioning look to the woman nearby (his mother, presumably) who gave a curt nod in return.
A small crowd, indeed, began to gather.
“Watch the ball,” Lucas began, producing from his right palm a small, gleaming brass ball. He dropped it into the right-hand cup with an audible ‘ka-plink!’
His skilled hands moved deftly to flip all three cups. Then with slow, steady movements he slid the cups along the felt surface of the table, until a stop.
He smiled at the boy, and gestured to the cups. Onlookers began to even shout the obvious answer.
“Under which cup is the ball, my friend?” Lucas asked.
The boy gulped, and tapped one.
Lucas pulled the top of the cup toward himself, exposing the bottom, the opening, and the ball-less result of course. Some in the crowd gasped, more began to gather. Others smiled almost condescendingly; it was an old trick, after all. A classic, one could say.
A couple quick flips later and all three cups laid on their side without a ball in sight. Some onlookers clapped while a couple cynics may have rolled their eyes instead.
“Why, how strange!” Luke said, furrowing his brow and stroking his beard to exaggerated effect. “But, young sir, if you’ll just examine your pocket, I think you’ll find…”
The magician leaned over the table with a gentle smile, and open-palm-patted the front pocket of the shirt the child was wearing. The boy blinked with confusion at the smooth-yet-sudden movement and looked down, shoving a hand into the pocket.
He withdrew his hand – and the metal ball slipped from his grasp, falling to the street below, tink-tink bouncing and rolling away.
Lucas winced slightly, his body rocking on one foot than the other as he tried to keep sight of the ball.
“Could you–” he began to ask the child, only to be interrupted by the cry of his mother.
“Did you just touch my son? What did you do?!” she protested.
The sleight-of-hand artist frowned, reeling back.
“What? I only–”
“PERVERT!!” someone in the crowd yelled, and within seconds the growing murmurs grew to something resembling an uproar. Lucas was not a complete idiot, and recognized a situation threatening to grow out of hand, as he worked to quickly fold up his tiny table and place it back into his leather bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder just in time to dodge a piece of errant fruit lobbed in his direction.
“Yes, well, thank you everyone! Have a good evening!” he gamely called out before turning on a heel and jogging away, looking over his shoulder with the relief of not being pursued (the would-be mob content to disperse, mostly just waving dismissive hands and muttering), but feeling the pang through his gut of yet another unsuccessful evening of business.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his other hand nervously fidgeting with the strap of his bag as he navigated a side street, then an alley. The evening was growing dim, and.
And as he rounded another turn, he stopped in his tracks. Straight ahead of him was a woman in a simple gray robe, the hood atop her head. Her skin was sickly pale, like moonlight with hints of veins running through it.
“Lucas Morrow,” she spoke, her eyes directly to his, her voice in full control without hesitation. “We have been watching you, and hope to recruit you to our cause. Have you heard of the Order of the Seed?”
The magician… shook his head, trying to brush by the woman as he walked. Although it was startling to hear her know his name, maybe she was just a crazed individual who’d seen his stopped-short performance moments ago. She certainly didn’t seem like the fun kind of stalkery fan.
“Uh, no thanks, I’m not really the type to join any sort of guild, more of an independent operato–”
And he was stopped in his steps, again. He looked down, to identify the pressure he felt on his chest. It was such a flash of motion, so fast; and there, pressed to his coat, was the point of a dagger-blade.
“I don’t think you understand, Lucas,” the woman said. Her eyes were deep, dark, and piercing. “We don’t wish to take you unwillingly, but will do so if we must.”
Her gaze flicked upward, at an angle, and Lucas turned his head slightly to follow her signal with his own gaze. Even in the dimming light of the evening, he spotted her subject: A second figure, on a nearby rooftop, offering a mock wave of one hand while holding a crossbow in the other.
The magician looked downward with a heavy sigh, as the robed woman smiled thinly.
“All right, I get it,” he said, pursing his lips as he nodded, looking to his would-be companion apparently. “I’ll go. Got nothin’ to lose, I guess.”
“That’s the spirit,” the woman said, lowering the blade and re-hiding it within her sleeve.
Only, as soon as she began to turn her frame and relax her posture, Lucas showed his own flash of hand-speed and punched her in the face.
She let out a vague sound of pain, her body reeling back unbalanced for the half-moment he needed to break into a dead-ahead sprint. The trickster knew there was a weapon aimed at him, but also knew he’d rather take his chances on this than even consider the alternative.
Maybe it was the failing light of the evening. Maybe it was the distance, the surprise of it, maybe a fault of the mechanism of the device. Whatever the factor, as luck would have it: The crossbow bolt tore through the air, only to clatter harmlessly at Luke’s feet as he dashed ahead.
He turned, panting, finding himself despising this stupid Hadley town as his sight flittered about, seeking any good escape route, any decent hiding spot, any sort of respite amid this area of town, a little outside the city center, the buildings a little farther apart than th–
He tried a door and found it unlocked, quickly moving inside the building, his chest heaving like a bellows with breath as he slapped down the small iron lock-bar and leaned himself against the wooden door, closing his eyes, trying to catch his breath albeit quietly.
He had no idea if this was a home, a business, some abandoned piece of property, or a mystical portal to his doom. He just knew that, for once, he wanted a measure of peace in his life, a moment to catch his breath and truly relax.
…
He had a bad feeling his respite would remain elusive.
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