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Sylvan Varain
Mortal-King
- Joined
- Dec 15, 2018
- Location
- Princehome.
None of these prompts involve my partner's IRL gender.
SHORT TERM PROMPTS I GM FOR: Medieval Fantasy
DOWNFALL
"GOD CAN EAT MY ASS."
"YOU DON'T HAVE AN ASS, PAUL."
Once upon a time it would have shocked onlookers to see blasphemy like this sprawled across the walls, but after twenty years it had become one with the city, one of a million imperfections that repeated in every hellish urban sprawl. Passerby saw it and either held their hands to their mouths in offense, laughed, or rolled their eyes before forgetting about it and moving on with the endless march of their lives.
All of them, moving on. Fifteen years ago and they would have formed a mob and the lynchings would've been well underway.
Instead all she has to work with are six-hundred underpaid, unenthusiastic, and tired looking laborers to scrub clean each section of the walls before the day of the victory parade, a particularly eventful one if the rumors were to believed. Mephisto the Black had supposedly been captured in battle, his citadel stormed before being torn down. He was the most senior of Ilya's Magi, and for that reason alone she doubted that he was truly a prisoner and not a pig that he'd weaved a mirage over while he escaped. The first parade they'd held he'd managed to get out of his cage, kidnap the mother of the Lord who held him captive, and put her in his place. Millions flocked to witness the humiliation of demonkind's most powerful mage, and instead they bore witness to a Lord's furious mother ragging him.
So far they hadn't brought to justice a single lieutenant of the Overlord's empire, and many peasants and Lords looked down at them for that, incredulous at their failure to truly defeat even a single one of a dozen demons who spent as much time killing one another as they killed humans and elves. "Ilya's empire is broken!" They yelled down their noses, "So how is it each of her underlings vexes us so?"
Well. Fuck them. Ilya had only been the most supreme of the litter of them, and before she was banished she'd managed to send to the grave hundreds of thousands of the world's finest soldiers, leaving the world with nothing to finish off her followers except sixth born sons and daughters who spent nearly as much time drunk and rutting as they did betraying their mortality and joining the enemy, adding one more headache to their mission.
Maybe if they actually paid them properly they could afford-...
"Savior?"
Blinking through her daily rant, her squire was looking up at her awkwardly, his half-blooded demonic eyes watching her with worry. He must've been trying to get her attention for who knows how long, and, sputtering out an apology, she asks, "Go on, Alfred. What is it?"
"A letter."
Two decades ago a Fellowship of heroines defeated Satan, saving the world from her attempts to end serfdom and the tyranny of theocracy. Entire kingdoms and empires were laid to waste in the wake of her invasion, and now they spend their days hunting down hoodlums and graffiti artists. Until, one day, each of them receive a letter to join one another for a celebration of their victory at the place they'd defeated their enemy- organized by the only man that had joined their ranks.
Don't care about your gender, but the foremost pairing(s) here are FxF and potentially MxF with myself playing the male; a disgruntled, betrayed male member of the Fellowship who has brought back Ilya (the Overlord, Satan, etc) to take their mutual revenge. You'll be playing one or multiple members of the Fellowship who decide to attend this gettogether.
Kinks; spankings, orgasm denial, internalized homophobia (demons casually accepting it, humans and elves not so much), fantasy interracial, hatesex, capture, cunnilingus, so on. Don't expect extreme kinks such as non-con, tentacles, animals, or anything of the sort.
LONG TERM PROMPTS I GM FOR - Original Med. Fantasy and Star Wars
Mortal Gods
Wandering Soul.
A Knights of the Old Republic 2 retelling using the established lore and a great deal of headcanoning for Meetra Surik; with myself as the GM, I'd consider this a Vanilla+ version of the original game, reusing a great deal of cut content, vanilla content, as well as a great many things you, my partner, and myself will make up. More planets, characters, adventures, and lesbianism.
A mildly sarcastic story of a shadow of Power Girl being let go from the Justice League because of automation but is offered a job by his old tutor. Shoutout to Seriousfic for inspiring this. I'm happy to play both sexes here.
No particular GM
Off-Route: Power Girl
A mildly sarcastic story of a shadow of Power Girl being let go from the Justice League because of automation but is offered a job by his old tutor. Shoutout to Seriousfic for inspiring this. I'm happy to play both sexes here.
Who'd ever heard of someone from the Justice League collecting unemployment?
Sylvan had been a member of the team, no matter what anyone said. People always told them they were just one of the lab geeks and technicians, the people they needed to keep the station from falling out of orbit, except even worse. They didn't even take care of that. From a backroom they managed the pay for all of those techies, all the cooks and janitors. Of a million different powers they could've been born with, they'd landed the superpower of a bookkeep. Maybe they could have a career in running horse racing bets, or work for Jeff Bezos or something- if they didn't all think they'd use their powers to hide their money from them as it made its way into Sylvan's pockets.
They would. They absolutely would.
"Fucking AI," Sylvan mutters grimly to themselves, the cold night air of the city clinging to their face like a freezer, settling beneath their horrible unprepared clothes they'd worn for their social care agent. They tried their best, bless them, but all they could think to hook Sylvan up with was as an assistant to a supervillain. She hadn't said that, but the fact that she handed them a business card for the Legion of Doom with a conspiring finger against her lips to hush them wasn't exactly subtle. Nor, exactly, did they have any other options.
Minutes into looking up the dental plan for Lex Corps, an actual, honest to God limo slipped in front of Sylvan, coming to a cruising stop at a stereotypically perfect spot for its occupant to push open the door, revealing a familiar woman. Their thick, powerful muscles might've looked odd on anybody that didn't have their outstanding height.
"Sylvan," she beckons. "Get in."
"I'm sorry, who are you?"
She rolled her eyes.
"It's me. Seriously?"
Sylvan gave her a blank, uncomprehending stare as their finger danced over their phone screen, adding light to their dark face in addition to the lamppost that towered over the recently rained-in sidewalk.
HEAT WAVE & DEMONS
I'm content to play either character in this scenario. Names and details are subject to change, as is the gender of the employee and maybe the customer if someone wants a women-loving-women thing. This was fun to write, and I thought it'd be more fun to continue it with other people. Just a short, fun little thing.
Expected kinks? Meh. Mxm. MxF. FxF. Rough semi-public sex, maybe a cute twink, aggressive and pursuing dominants, spankings. I'm not super picky. My limits are non-con, fecal matter, toys, and the vast majority of other things you've probably seen in these lists.
Enjoy!
It's a dead night in the city of Black Harbor, hours past the sounds of rush hour traffic and evening parties thrown by feral college students from the nearby university. Gone is the blaring music, the cheers of men and women too deep in their cups, and the occasional blast of police sirens to stop them. All the marital arguments have turned to whispers or sex, the guard dogs rest easy in their stoops, and only the distant clatter of glass bottles or hushed midnight lovers walking past remains.
Worse than a dead night is a dead part of town, mired in the stale summer heat wave. No doubt there are better parts of town: prim neighborhoods closer to the university or slums too poor for police to care about shutting down parties, but Easy's Gas slouches in the shadow of a long-decaying industrial district. To its left is an abandoned cement factory, and to its right a quiet apartment block too busy in their own little worlds to make any interest in Morgan's.
No, Morgan's world is a dead one. Dim fluorescent lights glaring over the same displays he's seen for two months, ever since he'd gone too far at a holiday party and forced his father to crack down. Gone were those idle days and nights of depravity, passing around bottles before passing around bodies. Gone were those hellish dens of red light and too much cigarette smoke, the rap loud enough to make his teeth rattle and the bodies loose enough to make him forget himself.
Instead, his father had made a model citizen out of him. A responsible adult, a worker with a job, confined to the graveyard shift in a prison that didn't even have air conditioning. With the heat wave on, Black Harbor felt like the heart of Cyrus.
Now his nights were spent in a cell of scuffed tiled, grimy windows plastered in cigarette ads, and endless displays of hot dogs on roller grills and doughnuts under heat lamps. The last person he'd even seen inside Easy's Gas was his last coworker tiredly shuffling out the door and saying their goodbyes with one of Morgan's dad's favorite jokes.
"Don't let any demons in, kiddo."
It's a good night for a demon. With the dead heat and the monotony of it all, Morgan can convince himself he's in an outer circle of Hell.
A motorcycle breaks the silence in two, roaring down the nearby Princeway. Morgan knows enough to recognize the sound of speeding, and the dangerous momentum its driver carries through every twist and turn of the industrial sprawl around him. There's a particular purpose in the driver that rarely animates anyone in this dead place.
And he's getting closer.
Morgan watches the headlights spill off an intersection and onto his street, lighting up the sleeping apartments and Easy's Gas, pouring through the dirty windows. It's enough to make the display of cigarettes behind Morgan rattle as the motorcycle prowls past - turns - and lopes its way into the abandoned parking lot, pulling up next to a pump.
The driver flicks away a smoldering cigarette filter, watching it spark along the asphalt with sharklike eyes hidden behind his tinted visor. It's as if he likes petty dangers, and waits for the embers to ignite the gasoline smeared onto the concrete around him. When the seconds drag past and he still lives, he shrugs, takes off his helmet, and kicks the motorcycle stand down.
Bad news. Bad man.
Morgan knows the type. A gangster, probably, or some devil wandering in from the harbor. Handsome, hard-bodied, and glass-eyed, with wind swept hair and full road leathers. He reaches into his jacket, taps the handle of his pistol for reassurance, and walks to the entrance.
Instead of enter, he surveys the interior, ignoring the two separate closed-circuit cameras he sees watching everything inside. His eyes rake over Morgan with wretched intent, but only for a second. He's looking for something else, for someone else, and doesn't find them.
With a shrug, the shark enters, the entrance bell rattling.
He carries with him more heat, and the stench of gasoline and cigarette smoke. There's deeper musks on him, but for the moment Morgan's senses can't get past the leathers.
"Fine evening, heat excluded." He says without looking at Morgan, in an aristocrat's money-drunk drawl. "Liquor?"
He answers his own question by locating a nearby display of travel-sized liquors no more than four ounces apiece, and strides confidently over to them. With a moment to find the vodka, he picks two slim bottles out, opens both, and slams them back in rapid order. Grunting, he sets the empty bottles on Morgan's checkout counter.
"Don't worry, kid. It's on my tab." The shark says, leaning over the counter and still not looking at him. His eyes are fixed on a camera just above them, blinking its red light at them both to show that they're being surveilled. That just seems to amuse him, and at last his wicked eyes fall on Morgan. When they do, they stay, poring over Morgan's ragged, half-donned attire. "I'm gonna guess that camera's wired to the back office?"
There's something odd about the way he says 'back office'. A certain spite, as if he expected there was a wretched thing inside.
RPs THAT MY PARTNER GMs - Star Wars, Anbennar, WH40K, fantasy, ASOIAF, etc.
DRAGON AGE: UNBOUND
Looking for a GM interested in a retelling that takes place during the events of Inquisition or Origins with a similar starting stage of the games; we'd be following the road of a runaway elven slave from Tevinter. I'm an advanced-novella writer and will provide writing samples. My aim with this is to be much more thorough and methodical with our storytelling than the RPGs; less whitewashing during Inquisition, etc. Below serves as the loose opener I had in mind for an Origins story, but I'm very much not married to it and will abandon it entirely.
-=-
Dark figures haunted the cliffs around them, hazily falling in and out of sight as they drew close before disappearing into the far distance, what little she could hear from them draining away into the cool, midnight air. Her and her companions had started running into other caravans three nights ago, Duncan's presence alone keeping them from being absorbed into any of the other troupes even when they far outsized her own. Some decided to tag along, but most decided to keep their distance when they spotted the Qunari, or the blood mage, or one of their elves- especially her. None dared to speak outloud what their eyes said, and, whether they joined them or not, just as few refused to trade words or supplies. The good word from the front was everchanging and plentiful. Many wished to know whether their Lord had arrived and would slink away if Sylvan's crew had nothing to offer them.
'What about the skirmish at Fuck-all-Woods? Did you hear anything about a knight with a powderkeg on his shield? He's my cous, and I fret for him so. My wife ran off to join the Wardens, have you seen her?'
Some of the Wardens would step away to speak quietly with Duncan. Not seeing fit to tell her commander her secrets, she hadn't bothered to tell him about how keen her hearing was. Perhaps he knew, considering she'd never managed to hear anything interesting. Deaths, mostly. Names she didn't recognize and sullen looks on faces with practiced, comforting words to stem some of the heartache.
The Wardens had, nearly to a man and woman, stuck around. They littered around the campfires like debris, enjoying one another's company with the scattered few faces she recognized joining them. Looking for advice, maybe. Wisdom from their elders. Or for whoever had the best beer.
In the distance, her eyes caught the faintest peaks of Ostagar. She'd joined the crowds when the sun had fallen, but she could only tolerate soldiers for so long, and she'd already talked a frizzy haired, pleasantly shaped serving girl two taverns back into handing over a few bottles of the 'good stuff.'
It was good. Shit at getting her drunk, and barely passable for piss back north, but it teased her taste buds and left a pleasant buzz in her eyes that made the colors on the horizon form into colors she was trying to fall asleep to. They hadn't succeeded yet, but there was half a bottle left until she could decide she'd been swindled.
THE OVERLORD'S PEACE
(Prompt 1.)
This will be a recent addition that I haven't come up with an appropriate exposition for; in short, the gist of it is that a conniving business owner in a crestfallen city, once a jewel, now a banana republic with its republican roots rotted away. A legendary group of heroes arrives in the city, having already saved the world once before, and now experiencing a crisis of faith as they realize the world they saved has not been worth it- they discover Ilya, a populist with a mission of improving living conditions and restoring the glory of her homeland. Except, of course, she's actually an underhanded tyrant who takes advantage of them for her own interests, sending them out on 'quests' to undermine her enemies. I expect this to be a slow burn RP that grows increasingly complex as it goes on.
-=-
(Prompt 2.)
"Your life is the Overlord's to spend. Allow her to spend it wisely - with a rifle in hand."
It was a good slogan. All manner of lords and republican families wished that they'd thought of it first, or that they carried the same willful personality of its author that had lead so many to take her words to heart. Thousands had seen posters bearing those words and flocked to the creature's banner, drawing the same inevitable conclusion that too many before them had ignored.
The time of Men and Fay and Magic had come to an end, and as these things often go, it ends in bitter tears for the vanquished.
Ilya the Tyrant was a monster of vanity and pride, unbecoming of one so humbly brought up in the world. A simple waitress for a wayside tavern, she ought to have been ashamed of her origins as a commoner, and better yet, stayed where she belonged- demons paid little attention to such things though. Amongst their kind, cleverness and the drive to see their ambitions through is oft all that mattered. Where the denizens of Hell saw only a lowly wench dutifully serving drinks and meals, Ilya dreamt of conquest, of a world below and above bound together by the same tightly clenched hand. A new world built upon glorious war as much as legal codes and paved roads that all lead to the same place- her.
How she came to unite Hell is warped in mysticism as much as propaganda and metaphor. All manner of embellished stories exist that detail her rise from pettiness to empire, likely all of them false, only the most accomplished and academic of novelists sincerely knowing how she came to the world. For those who would form the bulkwark of the resistance against her, it mattered very little how she came to be in comparison to how they could strive to unmake her. To send her back to her home.
They couldn't.
Not for lack of effort. The charge of plated cavalry was devastating when put forward effectively, and the men-at-arms of the noble families of the world fought valiantly for their home and lieges, lifetimes of war and training and natural talent put to the test in the most grueling months of war in written history. It simply wasn't enough. Nothing could ever be enough, for as much earnesty and faith as they put in their blade-arms, the roaring of artillery and the lethal, drilled points of halberds and pikes was simply too much. Each defeat spread the trauma, the idea, blasphemous as it was, that this was to be their new world. Each raised levy and coalition of holy forces was swatted away, left in the mud as the war host moved on, inspiring a new flock of mortal volunteers with the promises of liberation, of the end of the slavery of the masses and the right to work one's own land. The means to resist was shrinking, and her invasion only grew, until, finally, when the clouds did clear, few knew why. Criers and riders carried word that Ilya was gone, banished from their world, and though it made little sense, and the causes for her exile ran rampant; all that mattered was that amongst those that remained, they were given a reprieve. A chance for breath.
Ilya the Tyrant was gone. Her lieutenants, generals, and warmasters were not.
A story of military strategy, the intricacies of governance and policy, statecraft, with Ilya's return to the world being the centerpiece of the story. Her removal from the world is one shrouded in mystery to be filled in as we see fit, and her attempt to retake the reins of her empire, to bind it back together after a catastrophic breakdown in leadership sees it shattered, forcing her into an underdog's tale of having to combat her former subjects and vassals as well as compete with the realms of the world who know that if she is to return to power, then it would spell doom for their chances of independence.
WARHAMMER 40,000: THE ANGELIC HOST.
The Great Wound tortures the sky above them, warpfire and demons spilling out of it like an open wound shorn across the sky. Like a falling star, the blade that had split the galaxy was gone just as it had appeared, disappearing into the infinite, unfathomable distance of the Milky Way and outside all of the sensors they were legally allowed. A billion impossible colors dance in front of their eyes, most of them not warp entities eager to sate themselves on mortal souls, and others...
Well. It may have been the single most beautiful thing Kaithe had ever seen, but, like all beautiful things in this galaxy, that often meant it was trying to kill them somehow. This time was different, however.
Not many things delivered a Living Saint to her planet- Saints that had decided to nest inside her body to nest and heal. The spirit had explained that the Rift had disassembled her body, scattered it across the Warp and Realspace, leaving its most sentient parts to find refuge in loyal, devout followers.
"Commander?"
The softness to their voices still manages to surprise her even after all this time. Eternally polite and amenable, the affability of the T'au had become tolerable for her now, but she suspected the visitor inside her would disagree once she awoke.
Once she realized the host she'd chosen had betrayed her planet to the T'au.
-=-
I'm an advanced-novella writer looking for a GM. I have writing samples on my profile and will appreciate my partners having their own prepared to share. The plot of this surrounds a mutinous member of the Planetary Defense Forces surrendering her planet the T'au in the absence of a liberation force. Details TBD; I have more, but don't want to get carried away. Thanks.
SHORT TERM PROMPTS I GM FOR: Medieval Fantasy
DOWNFALL
"GOD CAN EAT MY ASS."
"YOU DON'T HAVE AN ASS, PAUL."
Once upon a time it would have shocked onlookers to see blasphemy like this sprawled across the walls, but after twenty years it had become one with the city, one of a million imperfections that repeated in every hellish urban sprawl. Passerby saw it and either held their hands to their mouths in offense, laughed, or rolled their eyes before forgetting about it and moving on with the endless march of their lives.
All of them, moving on. Fifteen years ago and they would have formed a mob and the lynchings would've been well underway.
Instead all she has to work with are six-hundred underpaid, unenthusiastic, and tired looking laborers to scrub clean each section of the walls before the day of the victory parade, a particularly eventful one if the rumors were to believed. Mephisto the Black had supposedly been captured in battle, his citadel stormed before being torn down. He was the most senior of Ilya's Magi, and for that reason alone she doubted that he was truly a prisoner and not a pig that he'd weaved a mirage over while he escaped. The first parade they'd held he'd managed to get out of his cage, kidnap the mother of the Lord who held him captive, and put her in his place. Millions flocked to witness the humiliation of demonkind's most powerful mage, and instead they bore witness to a Lord's furious mother ragging him.
So far they hadn't brought to justice a single lieutenant of the Overlord's empire, and many peasants and Lords looked down at them for that, incredulous at their failure to truly defeat even a single one of a dozen demons who spent as much time killing one another as they killed humans and elves. "Ilya's empire is broken!" They yelled down their noses, "So how is it each of her underlings vexes us so?"
Well. Fuck them. Ilya had only been the most supreme of the litter of them, and before she was banished she'd managed to send to the grave hundreds of thousands of the world's finest soldiers, leaving the world with nothing to finish off her followers except sixth born sons and daughters who spent nearly as much time drunk and rutting as they did betraying their mortality and joining the enemy, adding one more headache to their mission.
Maybe if they actually paid them properly they could afford-...
"Savior?"
Blinking through her daily rant, her squire was looking up at her awkwardly, his half-blooded demonic eyes watching her with worry. He must've been trying to get her attention for who knows how long, and, sputtering out an apology, she asks, "Go on, Alfred. What is it?"
"A letter."
Two decades ago a Fellowship of heroines defeated Satan, saving the world from her attempts to end serfdom and the tyranny of theocracy. Entire kingdoms and empires were laid to waste in the wake of her invasion, and now they spend their days hunting down hoodlums and graffiti artists. Until, one day, each of them receive a letter to join one another for a celebration of their victory at the place they'd defeated their enemy- organized by the only man that had joined their ranks.
Don't care about your gender, but the foremost pairing(s) here are FxF and potentially MxF with myself playing the male; a disgruntled, betrayed male member of the Fellowship who has brought back Ilya (the Overlord, Satan, etc) to take their mutual revenge. You'll be playing one or multiple members of the Fellowship who decide to attend this gettogether.
Kinks; spankings, orgasm denial, internalized homophobia (demons casually accepting it, humans and elves not so much), fantasy interracial, hatesex, capture, cunnilingus, so on. Don't expect extreme kinks such as non-con, tentacles, animals, or anything of the sort.
LONG TERM PROMPTS I GM FOR - Original Med. Fantasy and Star Wars
Wandering Soul.
A Knights of the Old Republic 2 retelling using the established lore and a great deal of headcanoning for Meetra Surik; with myself as the GM, I'd consider this a Vanilla+ version of the original game, reusing a great deal of cut content, vanilla content, as well as a great many things you, my partner, and myself will make up. More planets, characters, adventures, and lesbianism.
A mildly sarcastic story of a shadow of Power Girl being let go from the Justice League because of automation but is offered a job by his old tutor. Shoutout to Seriousfic for inspiring this. I'm happy to play both sexes here.
No particular GM
Off-Route: Power Girl
A mildly sarcastic story of a shadow of Power Girl being let go from the Justice League because of automation but is offered a job by his old tutor. Shoutout to Seriousfic for inspiring this. I'm happy to play both sexes here.
Who'd ever heard of someone from the Justice League collecting unemployment?
Sylvan had been a member of the team, no matter what anyone said. People always told them they were just one of the lab geeks and technicians, the people they needed to keep the station from falling out of orbit, except even worse. They didn't even take care of that. From a backroom they managed the pay for all of those techies, all the cooks and janitors. Of a million different powers they could've been born with, they'd landed the superpower of a bookkeep. Maybe they could have a career in running horse racing bets, or work for Jeff Bezos or something- if they didn't all think they'd use their powers to hide their money from them as it made its way into Sylvan's pockets.
They would. They absolutely would.
"Fucking AI," Sylvan mutters grimly to themselves, the cold night air of the city clinging to their face like a freezer, settling beneath their horrible unprepared clothes they'd worn for their social care agent. They tried their best, bless them, but all they could think to hook Sylvan up with was as an assistant to a supervillain. She hadn't said that, but the fact that she handed them a business card for the Legion of Doom with a conspiring finger against her lips to hush them wasn't exactly subtle. Nor, exactly, did they have any other options.
Minutes into looking up the dental plan for Lex Corps, an actual, honest to God limo slipped in front of Sylvan, coming to a cruising stop at a stereotypically perfect spot for its occupant to push open the door, revealing a familiar woman. Their thick, powerful muscles might've looked odd on anybody that didn't have their outstanding height.
"Sylvan," she beckons. "Get in."
"I'm sorry, who are you?"
She rolled her eyes.
"It's me. Seriously?"
Sylvan gave her a blank, uncomprehending stare as their finger danced over their phone screen, adding light to their dark face in addition to the lamppost that towered over the recently rained-in sidewalk.
HEAT WAVE & DEMONS
I'm content to play either character in this scenario. Names and details are subject to change, as is the gender of the employee and maybe the customer if someone wants a women-loving-women thing. This was fun to write, and I thought it'd be more fun to continue it with other people. Just a short, fun little thing.
Expected kinks? Meh. Mxm. MxF. FxF. Rough semi-public sex, maybe a cute twink, aggressive and pursuing dominants, spankings. I'm not super picky. My limits are non-con, fecal matter, toys, and the vast majority of other things you've probably seen in these lists.
Enjoy!
It's a dead night in the city of Black Harbor, hours past the sounds of rush hour traffic and evening parties thrown by feral college students from the nearby university. Gone is the blaring music, the cheers of men and women too deep in their cups, and the occasional blast of police sirens to stop them. All the marital arguments have turned to whispers or sex, the guard dogs rest easy in their stoops, and only the distant clatter of glass bottles or hushed midnight lovers walking past remains.
Worse than a dead night is a dead part of town, mired in the stale summer heat wave. No doubt there are better parts of town: prim neighborhoods closer to the university or slums too poor for police to care about shutting down parties, but Easy's Gas slouches in the shadow of a long-decaying industrial district. To its left is an abandoned cement factory, and to its right a quiet apartment block too busy in their own little worlds to make any interest in Morgan's.
No, Morgan's world is a dead one. Dim fluorescent lights glaring over the same displays he's seen for two months, ever since he'd gone too far at a holiday party and forced his father to crack down. Gone were those idle days and nights of depravity, passing around bottles before passing around bodies. Gone were those hellish dens of red light and too much cigarette smoke, the rap loud enough to make his teeth rattle and the bodies loose enough to make him forget himself.
Instead, his father had made a model citizen out of him. A responsible adult, a worker with a job, confined to the graveyard shift in a prison that didn't even have air conditioning. With the heat wave on, Black Harbor felt like the heart of Cyrus.
Now his nights were spent in a cell of scuffed tiled, grimy windows plastered in cigarette ads, and endless displays of hot dogs on roller grills and doughnuts under heat lamps. The last person he'd even seen inside Easy's Gas was his last coworker tiredly shuffling out the door and saying their goodbyes with one of Morgan's dad's favorite jokes.
"Don't let any demons in, kiddo."
It's a good night for a demon. With the dead heat and the monotony of it all, Morgan can convince himself he's in an outer circle of Hell.
A motorcycle breaks the silence in two, roaring down the nearby Princeway. Morgan knows enough to recognize the sound of speeding, and the dangerous momentum its driver carries through every twist and turn of the industrial sprawl around him. There's a particular purpose in the driver that rarely animates anyone in this dead place.
And he's getting closer.
Morgan watches the headlights spill off an intersection and onto his street, lighting up the sleeping apartments and Easy's Gas, pouring through the dirty windows. It's enough to make the display of cigarettes behind Morgan rattle as the motorcycle prowls past - turns - and lopes its way into the abandoned parking lot, pulling up next to a pump.
The driver flicks away a smoldering cigarette filter, watching it spark along the asphalt with sharklike eyes hidden behind his tinted visor. It's as if he likes petty dangers, and waits for the embers to ignite the gasoline smeared onto the concrete around him. When the seconds drag past and he still lives, he shrugs, takes off his helmet, and kicks the motorcycle stand down.
Bad news. Bad man.
Morgan knows the type. A gangster, probably, or some devil wandering in from the harbor. Handsome, hard-bodied, and glass-eyed, with wind swept hair and full road leathers. He reaches into his jacket, taps the handle of his pistol for reassurance, and walks to the entrance.
Instead of enter, he surveys the interior, ignoring the two separate closed-circuit cameras he sees watching everything inside. His eyes rake over Morgan with wretched intent, but only for a second. He's looking for something else, for someone else, and doesn't find them.
With a shrug, the shark enters, the entrance bell rattling.
He carries with him more heat, and the stench of gasoline and cigarette smoke. There's deeper musks on him, but for the moment Morgan's senses can't get past the leathers.
"Fine evening, heat excluded." He says without looking at Morgan, in an aristocrat's money-drunk drawl. "Liquor?"
He answers his own question by locating a nearby display of travel-sized liquors no more than four ounces apiece, and strides confidently over to them. With a moment to find the vodka, he picks two slim bottles out, opens both, and slams them back in rapid order. Grunting, he sets the empty bottles on Morgan's checkout counter.
"Don't worry, kid. It's on my tab." The shark says, leaning over the counter and still not looking at him. His eyes are fixed on a camera just above them, blinking its red light at them both to show that they're being surveilled. That just seems to amuse him, and at last his wicked eyes fall on Morgan. When they do, they stay, poring over Morgan's ragged, half-donned attire. "I'm gonna guess that camera's wired to the back office?"
There's something odd about the way he says 'back office'. A certain spite, as if he expected there was a wretched thing inside.
RPs THAT MY PARTNER GMs - Star Wars, Anbennar, WH40K, fantasy, ASOIAF, etc.
DRAGON AGE: UNBOUND
Looking for a GM interested in a retelling that takes place during the events of Inquisition or Origins with a similar starting stage of the games; we'd be following the road of a runaway elven slave from Tevinter. I'm an advanced-novella writer and will provide writing samples. My aim with this is to be much more thorough and methodical with our storytelling than the RPGs; less whitewashing during Inquisition, etc. Below serves as the loose opener I had in mind for an Origins story, but I'm very much not married to it and will abandon it entirely.
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Dark figures haunted the cliffs around them, hazily falling in and out of sight as they drew close before disappearing into the far distance, what little she could hear from them draining away into the cool, midnight air. Her and her companions had started running into other caravans three nights ago, Duncan's presence alone keeping them from being absorbed into any of the other troupes even when they far outsized her own. Some decided to tag along, but most decided to keep their distance when they spotted the Qunari, or the blood mage, or one of their elves- especially her. None dared to speak outloud what their eyes said, and, whether they joined them or not, just as few refused to trade words or supplies. The good word from the front was everchanging and plentiful. Many wished to know whether their Lord had arrived and would slink away if Sylvan's crew had nothing to offer them.
'What about the skirmish at Fuck-all-Woods? Did you hear anything about a knight with a powderkeg on his shield? He's my cous, and I fret for him so. My wife ran off to join the Wardens, have you seen her?'
Some of the Wardens would step away to speak quietly with Duncan. Not seeing fit to tell her commander her secrets, she hadn't bothered to tell him about how keen her hearing was. Perhaps he knew, considering she'd never managed to hear anything interesting. Deaths, mostly. Names she didn't recognize and sullen looks on faces with practiced, comforting words to stem some of the heartache.
The Wardens had, nearly to a man and woman, stuck around. They littered around the campfires like debris, enjoying one another's company with the scattered few faces she recognized joining them. Looking for advice, maybe. Wisdom from their elders. Or for whoever had the best beer.
In the distance, her eyes caught the faintest peaks of Ostagar. She'd joined the crowds when the sun had fallen, but she could only tolerate soldiers for so long, and she'd already talked a frizzy haired, pleasantly shaped serving girl two taverns back into handing over a few bottles of the 'good stuff.'
It was good. Shit at getting her drunk, and barely passable for piss back north, but it teased her taste buds and left a pleasant buzz in her eyes that made the colors on the horizon form into colors she was trying to fall asleep to. They hadn't succeeded yet, but there was half a bottle left until she could decide she'd been swindled.
THE OVERLORD'S PEACE
(Prompt 1.)
This will be a recent addition that I haven't come up with an appropriate exposition for; in short, the gist of it is that a conniving business owner in a crestfallen city, once a jewel, now a banana republic with its republican roots rotted away. A legendary group of heroes arrives in the city, having already saved the world once before, and now experiencing a crisis of faith as they realize the world they saved has not been worth it- they discover Ilya, a populist with a mission of improving living conditions and restoring the glory of her homeland. Except, of course, she's actually an underhanded tyrant who takes advantage of them for her own interests, sending them out on 'quests' to undermine her enemies. I expect this to be a slow burn RP that grows increasingly complex as it goes on.
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(Prompt 2.)
"Your life is the Overlord's to spend. Allow her to spend it wisely - with a rifle in hand."
It was a good slogan. All manner of lords and republican families wished that they'd thought of it first, or that they carried the same willful personality of its author that had lead so many to take her words to heart. Thousands had seen posters bearing those words and flocked to the creature's banner, drawing the same inevitable conclusion that too many before them had ignored.
The time of Men and Fay and Magic had come to an end, and as these things often go, it ends in bitter tears for the vanquished.
Ilya the Tyrant was a monster of vanity and pride, unbecoming of one so humbly brought up in the world. A simple waitress for a wayside tavern, she ought to have been ashamed of her origins as a commoner, and better yet, stayed where she belonged- demons paid little attention to such things though. Amongst their kind, cleverness and the drive to see their ambitions through is oft all that mattered. Where the denizens of Hell saw only a lowly wench dutifully serving drinks and meals, Ilya dreamt of conquest, of a world below and above bound together by the same tightly clenched hand. A new world built upon glorious war as much as legal codes and paved roads that all lead to the same place- her.
How she came to unite Hell is warped in mysticism as much as propaganda and metaphor. All manner of embellished stories exist that detail her rise from pettiness to empire, likely all of them false, only the most accomplished and academic of novelists sincerely knowing how she came to the world. For those who would form the bulkwark of the resistance against her, it mattered very little how she came to be in comparison to how they could strive to unmake her. To send her back to her home.
They couldn't.
Not for lack of effort. The charge of plated cavalry was devastating when put forward effectively, and the men-at-arms of the noble families of the world fought valiantly for their home and lieges, lifetimes of war and training and natural talent put to the test in the most grueling months of war in written history. It simply wasn't enough. Nothing could ever be enough, for as much earnesty and faith as they put in their blade-arms, the roaring of artillery and the lethal, drilled points of halberds and pikes was simply too much. Each defeat spread the trauma, the idea, blasphemous as it was, that this was to be their new world. Each raised levy and coalition of holy forces was swatted away, left in the mud as the war host moved on, inspiring a new flock of mortal volunteers with the promises of liberation, of the end of the slavery of the masses and the right to work one's own land. The means to resist was shrinking, and her invasion only grew, until, finally, when the clouds did clear, few knew why. Criers and riders carried word that Ilya was gone, banished from their world, and though it made little sense, and the causes for her exile ran rampant; all that mattered was that amongst those that remained, they were given a reprieve. A chance for breath.
Ilya the Tyrant was gone. Her lieutenants, generals, and warmasters were not.
A story of military strategy, the intricacies of governance and policy, statecraft, with Ilya's return to the world being the centerpiece of the story. Her removal from the world is one shrouded in mystery to be filled in as we see fit, and her attempt to retake the reins of her empire, to bind it back together after a catastrophic breakdown in leadership sees it shattered, forcing her into an underdog's tale of having to combat her former subjects and vassals as well as compete with the realms of the world who know that if she is to return to power, then it would spell doom for their chances of independence.
WARHAMMER 40,000: THE ANGELIC HOST.
The Great Wound tortures the sky above them, warpfire and demons spilling out of it like an open wound shorn across the sky. Like a falling star, the blade that had split the galaxy was gone just as it had appeared, disappearing into the infinite, unfathomable distance of the Milky Way and outside all of the sensors they were legally allowed. A billion impossible colors dance in front of their eyes, most of them not warp entities eager to sate themselves on mortal souls, and others...
Well. It may have been the single most beautiful thing Kaithe had ever seen, but, like all beautiful things in this galaxy, that often meant it was trying to kill them somehow. This time was different, however.
Not many things delivered a Living Saint to her planet- Saints that had decided to nest inside her body to nest and heal. The spirit had explained that the Rift had disassembled her body, scattered it across the Warp and Realspace, leaving its most sentient parts to find refuge in loyal, devout followers.
"Commander?"
The softness to their voices still manages to surprise her even after all this time. Eternally polite and amenable, the affability of the T'au had become tolerable for her now, but she suspected the visitor inside her would disagree once she awoke.
Once she realized the host she'd chosen had betrayed her planet to the T'au.
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I'm an advanced-novella writer looking for a GM. I have writing samples on my profile and will appreciate my partners having their own prepared to share. The plot of this surrounds a mutinous member of the Planetary Defense Forces surrendering her planet the T'au in the absence of a liberation force. Details TBD; I have more, but don't want to get carried away. Thanks.