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Sylvan Varain
Mortal-King
- Joined
- Dec 15, 2018
- Location
- Princehome.
Gonna compile all my prompts in this post with some categories to help sort them, meaning I can just bump this every few weeks or something. I consider all of my prompts entirely open until I'm RPing with somebody using them, which means they'll get struck out. I've got a writing sample attached to my profile.
Warhammer Fantasy Vampires
SHORT TERM PROMPTS I GM FOR: Medieval Fantasy
Misery; found down below.
Sale of Being- Conquered Royalty.
Brazen Glory. (ASOIAF RP.)
LONG TERM PROMPTS I GM FOR - Original Med. Fantasy and Star Wars
Welcome to Mortal Gods.
Knights of the Old Republic 2: The Last Jedi.
RPs THAT MY PARTNER GMs - Star Wars, Anbennar, WH40K, fantasy, ASOIAF, etc
The Inheritance Cycle / Eragon: The Quest For Love.
New Vegas: My Father Rode A Horse, I Ride A Cadillac, But My Children Shall Ride Horses.
Baldur's Gate 3: Control.
Unbound. (Dragon Age).
Remember You Are Hunter (Star Wars).
The Heart of Darkness: Noblebright Gone Awry.
The Angel's Host: TLDR, a PDF woman becomes a newly integrated member of the T'au Auxillaries, except, plot twist, she's a Living Saint.
MISERY.
Don't care about my partner's IRL gender or sex. Not relevant to me. Those interested would be playing the captured (Emperor/Prince/Empress/Queen/Princess) for a short-term, albeit high quality smut plot. Details can be discussed between us, but the presumed explanation is that they were taken prisoner amidst a battle several months ago by a slave rebellion leader. I do have a larger universe that this takes place in, but the importance of worldbuilding is tenuous at best. I'm happy to waffle on about it, but it isn't crucial to know anything in particular.
"Magnificent." Sylvan says matter-of-factly, eyes cast up from where he delicately cuts out ice from a solid block. His attentions are admirably divided between his diligent work at a mahogany sideboard emblazoned with at least twenty golden and silver eagles, each one taken from a Legion he'd defeated, and the object of his admiration crowning the back wall. To him the sideboard is nothing at all, nor the pair of crystal goblets he'd set atop it whose inscriptions date them back three centuries. God only knows what the immaculate tentroom they were in was worth, but Sylvan suspects he could buy all of Marlas with it. For him, all the gold in the world meant nothing now.
"She'll be alright," Sylvan says, distracted, sitting in fine composure on a velvet-lined recliner whose owner had retreated not five miles away, unaware of what company was occupying his throne. That thought pleased him to no end, as did what had lay between the two rivals draped haphazardly over the stately round table like a dining cloth. The actual dining cloth, priceless muslin, lay shredded in drifts around the freshly-scratched legs, along with broken porcelain and dropped table silver. Sylvan had cleared it all with the shuddering body of one of your handmaidens, Molly, who now served as the room's centerpiece. He smirked when he realized her ass was redder than the mahogany. "She's Thessian. They're sturdy, as you know."
It reminded you of a long weekend he'd put her through who-knows how many seasons ago, of the effect one wound-up, sadistic boy could have on a masochistic slave. In the case of Molly she really was a slave, at least until Sylvan had cracked her collar open as he used her on the table, and bade her cum as a free woman. Now it seemed he'd gone a touch too far, and left Molly tremoring in her sleep from the aftershocks of pleasure.
He'd fucked her so hard he'd cracked the table, and spanked her so deeply that thin lines of blood pooled along her well-tanned ass, and yet her stamina - and that look in her eyes when he'd let her cum - told him all he needed to know. He'd entered the room hiding his refined, wolven nature in plain northern wool dyed charcoal gray, making him look more like a mercenary or a roving druid than what he is. Not that anybody knew whatever he was. Nor does the Empress know what he's hiding behind her, though to look up and see would mean surrendering to his mind games. Now his clothes lay scattered across the floor, leaving him distractingly bear and looking no less for wear because of it.
Not even he can drink so much imperial vintage brandy straight, and, so, dashing it with coffee and apportioning ice, offers both of them a gauntlet.
"The Colosseums used to run on coffee, you know," he muses, almost sounding tender about his old profession. "They don't run on much of anything anymore. Shocking how little bloodsport there can be during a war. Except here."
The great tide of mercenaries and enlistees swirls outside as if a storm wracked the world, both distant and impossibly atop them, readying to be swept by her armies into the Rhine and liberate her- or execute her. It was impossible to say in these times.
And he was impossibly confident, unconcerned, sipping on aristocratic drink as he admires each of the beautiful things he's gathered in the room- he's too respectful to leer at the sleeping woman, so he chooses to admire you instead, revealing at least one of the things he was referring to when he said magnificent.
(Kinks? Nearly every single vanilla and lukewarm one there is. Limits? Non-con, tentacles, the usual fanfare.)
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.
I'm a novella writer who appreciates colorful, verbose styles of writing. I don't care what gender my partner is. Additional details will be discussed with people who're interested. I go by Kaithe and write upwards of 4-5 paragraphs a post barring dialogue-heavy scenes and/or action. I'm partial to Discord for OC and Google Documents for actual writing. Writing sample below.
docs.google.com/document/d/1JKv6Uy-3L…
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.
Warhammer Fantasy Vampires
SHORT TERM PROMPTS I GM FOR: Medieval Fantasy
Misery; found down below.
Brazen Glory. (ASOIAF RP.)
LONG TERM PROMPTS I GM FOR - Original Med. Fantasy and Star Wars
Knights of the Old Republic 2: The Last Jedi.
RPs THAT MY PARTNER GMs - Star Wars, Anbennar, WH40K, fantasy, ASOIAF, etc
The Inheritance Cycle / Eragon: The Quest For Love.
New Vegas: My Father Rode A Horse, I Ride A Cadillac, But My Children Shall Ride Horses.
Baldur's Gate 3: Control.
Unbound. (Dragon Age).
Remember You Are Hunter (Star Wars).
The Heart of Darkness: Noblebright Gone Awry.
The Angel's Host: TLDR, a PDF woman becomes a newly integrated member of the T'au Auxillaries, except, plot twist, she's a Living Saint.
MISERY.
Don't care about my partner's IRL gender or sex. Not relevant to me. Those interested would be playing the captured (Emperor/Prince/Empress/Queen/Princess) for a short-term, albeit high quality smut plot. Details can be discussed between us, but the presumed explanation is that they were taken prisoner amidst a battle several months ago by a slave rebellion leader. I do have a larger universe that this takes place in, but the importance of worldbuilding is tenuous at best. I'm happy to waffle on about it, but it isn't crucial to know anything in particular.
"Magnificent." Sylvan says matter-of-factly, eyes cast up from where he delicately cuts out ice from a solid block. His attentions are admirably divided between his diligent work at a mahogany sideboard emblazoned with at least twenty golden and silver eagles, each one taken from a Legion he'd defeated, and the object of his admiration crowning the back wall. To him the sideboard is nothing at all, nor the pair of crystal goblets he'd set atop it whose inscriptions date them back three centuries. God only knows what the immaculate tentroom they were in was worth, but Sylvan suspects he could buy all of Marlas with it. For him, all the gold in the world meant nothing now.
"She'll be alright," Sylvan says, distracted, sitting in fine composure on a velvet-lined recliner whose owner had retreated not five miles away, unaware of what company was occupying his throne. That thought pleased him to no end, as did what had lay between the two rivals draped haphazardly over the stately round table like a dining cloth. The actual dining cloth, priceless muslin, lay shredded in drifts around the freshly-scratched legs, along with broken porcelain and dropped table silver. Sylvan had cleared it all with the shuddering body of one of your handmaidens, Molly, who now served as the room's centerpiece. He smirked when he realized her ass was redder than the mahogany. "She's Thessian. They're sturdy, as you know."
It reminded you of a long weekend he'd put her through who-knows how many seasons ago, of the effect one wound-up, sadistic boy could have on a masochistic slave. In the case of Molly she really was a slave, at least until Sylvan had cracked her collar open as he used her on the table, and bade her cum as a free woman. Now it seemed he'd gone a touch too far, and left Molly tremoring in her sleep from the aftershocks of pleasure.
He'd fucked her so hard he'd cracked the table, and spanked her so deeply that thin lines of blood pooled along her well-tanned ass, and yet her stamina - and that look in her eyes when he'd let her cum - told him all he needed to know. He'd entered the room hiding his refined, wolven nature in plain northern wool dyed charcoal gray, making him look more like a mercenary or a roving druid than what he is. Not that anybody knew whatever he was. Nor does the Empress know what he's hiding behind her, though to look up and see would mean surrendering to his mind games. Now his clothes lay scattered across the floor, leaving him distractingly bear and looking no less for wear because of it.
Not even he can drink so much imperial vintage brandy straight, and, so, dashing it with coffee and apportioning ice, offers both of them a gauntlet.
"The Colosseums used to run on coffee, you know," he muses, almost sounding tender about his old profession. "They don't run on much of anything anymore. Shocking how little bloodsport there can be during a war. Except here."
The great tide of mercenaries and enlistees swirls outside as if a storm wracked the world, both distant and impossibly atop them, readying to be swept by her armies into the Rhine and liberate her- or execute her. It was impossible to say in these times.
And he was impossibly confident, unconcerned, sipping on aristocratic drink as he admires each of the beautiful things he's gathered in the room- he's too respectful to leer at the sleeping woman, so he chooses to admire you instead, revealing at least one of the things he was referring to when he said magnificent.
(Kinks? Nearly every single vanilla and lukewarm one there is. Limits? Non-con, tentacles, the usual fanfare.)
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.
I'm a novella writer who appreciates colorful, verbose styles of writing. I don't care what gender my partner is. Additional details will be discussed with people who're interested. I go by Kaithe and write upwards of 4-5 paragraphs a post barring dialogue-heavy scenes and/or action. I'm partial to Discord for OC and Google Documents for actual writing. Writing sample below.
docs.google.com/document/d/1JKv6Uy-3L…
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.
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