Mx Female Literary Adventures [LF LT Adv-Lit Partners]

[DolorousDuke]

W e l c o m e

Greetings and welcome to my thread. Thanks for stopping by. By most metrics I'm a rather veteran writer as well as a very experienced GM at various tabletops. I love creating worlds and interesting people to populate them. Tight two-person stories have their own fun, sure, but give these people a world in which to inhabit, other character with whom to interact, and you can get the best out of a character idea. Over time I've come to find that my formerly rigid interests were quite a bit more flexible than I assumed. Given the proper story, and motivated partner, nearly anything can be made great. Even the lowest dross can shine brilliantly with proper care.

When it comes to writing style I'm capable of churning out paragraph upon paragraph of quality writing, up to and even exceeding novella if the need arises. Generally speaking, though, I tend towards enjoying leaner (but no less impactful!) multi-paragraph responses to keep the blood flowing. I write 3rd person, past tense, and generally prefer if you do the same. If you exclusively write 1st person, I can manage. At the moment, I'm looking for a literate woman to write against for long-term stories. I'm looking for only a few partners at the moment, so please forgive me if I am unavailable. I will always respond to any message sent my way even if I'm full, though.​

R e l a x​

As I implied above, I've got rather ecclectic tastes. I tend towards story-heavy affairs, but I can enjoy a fun-filled romp every now and then. Romance is a key factor of the stories I write. In my eyes, nothing really brings out the highs and lows of a character like it. My ratio is usually 80/20 favoring plot, but I can range down to 60/40 for particularly carnal stories. If you're looking for a quick boot-kicking, I can handle 90/10, but even pure fun needs a bit of wrapping to give it context.​

Vices

What do I enjoy? And what do I dislike? How kind of you to ask, you can find them here

Virtues

Oh, you want to know more about me? A brief summary? Certainly, I can tell you about that.

• Genres: Action, Adventure, Romance, Western, Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Mecha, Military, Slice of Life, there really isn't much I dislike other than organized crime stories. It's not that I dislike the genre, but more that I haven't heard a good take on it in a while.
• Preferred Media: PM's are my go-to, but if we're doing something with dice, or you want something a bit faster, I can also do Discord. Not very fond of threads, personally.
• Response Time: I promise you at least one response every two days, but I have been known to post as frequently as I get a response if I'm really high on a story and time permits. Sometimes life happens to the best of us, sadly.
• Face-claims: Digital art, anime, drawn, and AI-created images are all my go-to's. While I would dearly love to commission work for each character I write, I'm afraid I'd be destitute by the time I was satisfied. Real life photographs are my lowest preference. Whatever face-claim is used, however, additional details will be added in descriptions throughout the story.
• Fandoms: I may not have a story for them on hand, but if you're fond of these as well I'm sure we can figure something out together!
  • DC Comics
  • Marvel Comics
  • Pokemon
  • League of Legends
  • FMA
  • Arknights
  • Fate
  • Persona
  • Fire Emblem
  • Gundam
  • Gravity Falls
  • World of Darkness
  • D&D
  • Mythology (Greek, Celtic, Norse, Egyptian)
  • Warcraft (World of included)
  • Spy x Family
  • Naruto

Credentials

I'd be happy to show you some of my work. It's a bit long, but I'm sure you can handle it.

Writing Sample

Adrift in the Kelsey Sea was a twenty five kilometer long spit of land that seemed to stand defiantly against the waves that lapped at its coasts. From the rocky alabaster of the cliffs that formed most of its perimeter, to the mighty manmade tower that rivaled the rocky peak for the highest point, Gadsey Isle was a rather imposing sight from the deck of a ship. That was to say nothing of the imposing fortifications that ringed the settlement on the westernmost portion of the island with its mighty barbettes and redans. Even a casual observer could see that Gadsey Isle had once been home to a mighty garrison. That time had passed, however, and now the wear of the briny sea breeze could be seen on the walls. Despite its state of disrepair, what remained still made the island nothing short of a nightmare to assault.

It was for this reason that when the Jovian Company, mercenaries that they were, abandoned the island it was swiftly occupied by a league of pirates. Over time the pirates invited merchants, who themselves brought their families, and soon what had once been an ambitious dream of a mercenary captain became a home to common folk. In more recent days, Gadsey was known more for its role as a hub of trade and the finest fish on the southern coast of the mainland. Yet, even all these years later, the shadow of its martial past loomed high over any who came to the isle. The island exuded safety, a certain impregnibility that demanded confidence, and it was for this reason that it was chosen by the mysterious druids as one of their safehouses. Travelers to the island weren't uncommon, and with the masters of the island caring more for the contents of their coin-purse than their motives for visiting, it was one of the perfect places to hide. Many of their once safe places had fallen to the men and women who hunted them, the red-clad militants who tried to root them out with fire and steel. With their options dwindling, more and more retreated to Gadsey where they would await the other members of their reclusive order to guide them to a more permanent place to live. It was perfect, at least until three weeks ago.

One of the initiates who had fled a recent raid by the Purified had slipped away to Gadsey, knowing to wait at one of the friendly houses as they hoped to evade their pursuer. Unfortunately for them, the hunter in question was of a particularly tenacious sort. Rather than simply snag their target, the hunter followed them to Gadsey before returning to the mainland and reporting that the island they thought to be neutral was harboring witches. Not wanting to let the opportunity slip, the local chapter quickly gathered the forces they could and set sail. At the head of the force was Elder Brother Isaac of the chapter, a rather typical Purified. Isaac embodied the virtues of the order; hard-nosed, keen, and zealous to a fault. The torch he carried which burned with a crimson flame had been the death of dozens of heretics and witches in his time. Many around him shared his zeal, eager to topple the town before them for the glory of their righteous cause. Yet, not all who stood with Elder Isaac were so united in purpose.

The light of dawn had broken only thirty minutes ago, rays of orange dancing across the sea as Silas stepped out from below decks. As the senior officer aboard, he was offered a room to himself, though it did little to assuage his sea-sickness. The gray-streaked black hair atop his head seared warm with the morning sun as he squinted his eyes, situating himself on deck. Typically, he would wear only his uniform, but given that today was to be the day of battle, he had prepared accordingly. Heavy steel pauldrons rested on his shoulder, along with matching gauntlets and vambraces. The antiquated armor sat comfortably enough over the padded shirt he wore beneath his crimson uniform and the hat he quickly fixed atop his head protected him from both the heat and the light. A few of the nearby soldiers paused their preparations to salute the man, some craning at the neck to stare up at his face. He returned the gesture perfunctorily, setting step for the helm where he spotted the long white overcoat of his commander.

"Hail, Elder. Firemother keep you," he recited, his rasp of a voice slipping past his thin lips, offering the gesture of loyalty that he had done a thousand thousand times in his days. Elder Isaac's eyes, fierce blue in his wrinkled face, glanced up to Silas as he gave a nod that both returned the greeting and bade him to stand down. Silas's stiff posture relaxed to its more common one, weight on the balls of his feet and shoulders slightly slouched so as to lower his great height a bit.

"Good, you're prepared, Silas," the old man said with a terse nod of his head, "we should be making contact soon." Gadsey Isle had only recently appeared in the distance to the naked eye, but so too had a pair of the green sails that marked the pirates who controlled the isle. Knowing that their cover had been broken, the entire fleet had dropped all sails and were moving at full speed towards the isle.

Silas crossed his arms, "It seems that we'll have to best the defenders before we're ashore," he said dryly, a familiar frown taking over his sharp features. The initial plan had been to try and secure a landing at the merchant docks before the inhabitants of the isle could muster their defenses. Isaac simply nodded again, his hand holding the wooden handles of the helm a bit tighter for a moment. He seemed nervous to Silas, which in turn made his own apprehensions grow about the day ahead. The short notice of their raid had demanded only the most readily available Purified and whatever loyal soldiers they could muster. While they had managed to set seven vessels a-sail they were all significantly under-manned. The ship beneath his feet, the Vindicator, could hold a full compliment of three hundred crew. Only one hundred and twenty seven men were afloat, and their sister ships were no better. Moreover, while the Vindicator was a powerful frigate, the other six in their fleet were only cutters and schooners; an equal for the pirates they would be facing but severely under-manned.

"We will prove our strength again. I have faith," Isaac said softly, his normal brash booming tones reduced to a hound-like growl. Silas failed to comment further, glancing at the horizon as if he expected to see green sails any minute. He glanced up at the crow's nest, awaiting a report of impending contact, but finding nothing but the squawk of gulls awaiting him. Waiting didn't bother Silas, it was a normal state of affairs for him. What did bother him, however, was throwing their fates in with only faith as their armor. One of the Marks of Marshal, their doctrine and a series of observations from past Grandmasters of their order, was that a plan should be like armor; layered against failure of previous ones. It was an unpopular Mark to hold up as their guiding tenet, but that was natural given their other blessings. Purified were a match for several men in combat, that much was undeniable. Their speed was excellent, toughness verging on superhuman, and strength unmatched. The most boastful of the Order claimed that one Purified was the better of eleven men. In Silas's experience, that number was closer to five, but he had always differed from his companions in that way.

His arms fell to his sides, his right hand naturally finding the butt of his pistol. Unconsciously, his gloved palm began to polish the wooden handle, the rough leather skipping pleasantly across the lacquered wood. Though he said nothing, he contemplated bringing up the lack of a plan to his commander. Surely, as Elder, Isaac would be receptive to a bit of planning. Their formation was uncomfortably tight, a horn formation with the Vindicator at the point, which gave little room for their cannons to work without significant coming about. Yet, he reassured himself, they would have time to react to any impending danger.

No sooner did he have that cursed thought than the lookout called out, his voice high in a panic, "To arms! To arms!" If the lookout sighted them that would mean no sooner than ten minutes til engagement, hardly a need for panic. Yet, as swiftly as the words drifted from the crow's nest, the clear morning sky darkened around them. Lightning flashed in the distance, the boom of thunder heralding its appearance, before the entire world went white in a moment. When the light cleared, Silas's eyes flew wide open. More than a dozen ships, rigged for battle with green sails at full, had appeared before them out of thin air.

And in the moment of clarity before the chaos, Silas could count the dozens of cannons pointed right at them. "Witchcraft," he hissed in disbelief before the stillness was shattered with the thunder of the lightning in dreadful chorus with the flash of the cannons in front of them.

B i t e s

Just a few small bites to get you started. Feel free to suggest your own or alter mine; we're both here for fun, after all.​

Hell Is Coming With me { TAKEN }

Hell's Coming With Me (Taken)
{ Western Fantasy, Enemies to Lovers, Weird West, Action}

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There were none so famous across the Utah Territory as the twin marshals, the Calloways. No one knew for certain their true origins and the stories were as tall as Eustace Calloway. Some said they were raised by a Shoshone fighter who fed them the food of the spirits. Others that they were the product of a long lineage of European nobility, created to be the perfect warriors. Others still claimed that they were not human at all, but angels in human form. Eustace would just laugh at these rumors when questioned, often flashing a grin to his sister, before saying, "Sir, we are just good at what we do." Whatever their origins, there was no doubting that the two Calloways were exceptional horsemen, gunfighters, and outdoorsmen; talented as could be. Their legend spread far and wide and even the orneriest outlaw knew better than to poke his head up when the two of them were in town.

Maybe the reputation finally got to their heads, or maybe forces bigger than themselves conspired against them. It didn't really matter. At the river-side city of Timbisha, a pop-up mining town, the pair were attacked in their sleep. Despite their great skill, the situation was hopeless from the get go. The two were tied and thrown over the back of a horse, carried out of town. The fact that they weren't killed was, perhaps, even more alarming. Their captors spoke a foreign language to their ears, Portuguese to Eustace's ears, but his sister wasn't certain. What she was certain of, however, was the faces of every man assembled. She never forgot a face. As they were carried away, Eustace managed to cut through his ropes on an exposed saddle nail before breaking off a piece of the metal side of the saddle and passing it to his sister. When they were both free, he looked at her and whispered the plan in a hushed tone. We spllit up and ride away, then meet up back at Timbisha. There was barely any time to nod before they both jumped up onto the saddle and bolted. The men, realizing their captives were loose, set after them. They hesitated for a moment but ultimately they chose to follow Eustace.

That was the last she saw of her dear brother Eustace.

Seven years had passed since then, and the Calloway sister had torn up the West looking for her brother high and low. The marshals weren't keen on letting her get revenge, so she handed in her badge. Lawman no more, she took on the role as a bounty hunter to finance her dogged pursuit. She found him eventually, or at least what was left of him. It didn't take a doctor to recognize the ghostly pale finger wearing his family ring that an apologetic cattle hand offered to her. She was enraged and set about looking for every man there. Yet, with each one that she pursued she was left with more questions than answers. These men were suddenly everywhere and went from nobodies to kingpins across the land. Every outlaw, as far as she saw it, owed them money or allegiance. What was worse was that they were spawning their own rumors. Rumors of their invincibility, the unnatural cloying darkness that heralded their raids, and the unholy circles of blood left in their wake. She was no thaumaturgist, but to her it sounded like foul magic. After seven years she had only managed to find one of them, already dead in the most puzzling way of all.

Until she heard word that one of them was about to hang.

She bolted across the territory to Coalville where he was being held, arriving the night before his execution. The sherrif wouldn't let her talk to him, not trusting the "fork-tongued Cajun" to have any visitors. With no option, and not willing to let the one living link to the gang die, she planned to bust him out of jail and haul him off herself. He was going to tell her what he knew. The Cajun in question, though, was not exactly what she was looking for. But what he was would prove to be invaluable to the coming struggles ahead of her....if she could get him to cooperate for more than a few minutes at a time.

An August Princess {Fantasy}

An August Princess
{ Fantasy, May-December Relationship, Age Difference, Romance, (Risk of) Pregnancy, Knight x Princess }

The Kingdom of Aureval, like many that lived along the vast tributaries of the Edouin River, threatened to fall under the invasion of the Sea Reavers. Originating from their distant realm across the Sea of Fangs, these raiders and plunderers attacked up the very river that provided wealth and transport for the kingdoms who resided along it. For years they had plundered and, in recent years, begun conquering realms; fortifying them into outposts for further assaults. The invasion seemed to be on the verge of success before divine inspiration offered hope. Sarolinne, the Quiet Judge, goddess of justice and truth sent a herald to proclaim a savior. A four-winged hawk with golden feathers landed atop the spire of the princess of Aureval's tower, and loosed a cry that was heard across the entire realm. The sickly princess had been chosen, and her ailments had been replaced with might. She was swiftly trained, entrusted with the finest arms and armor, and sent to the field. There she proved herself immediately, a girl no older than seventeen able to dispatch the hulking raiders with contemptable ease. Word soon spread of her power, of the divine strength inside of her, and soon the River Kingdoms rose as one to cast off the invaders. It would not be an easy process, but they were confident victory would be theirs.​

The day of her ascension was twenty-five years ago, but in the end she had proven triumphant. She knew battle more intimately than any man, and even though her strength should have long begun to waiver, it never flagged for a single moment. With the fall of Chateau Gris, a dour bastion that overlooked the massive mouth of the Edouin, she had done what no other in the realm could have possibly done. The remaining battles to be fought would be in courts, not on the battlefield, and yet despite her wish to rest the realm looked to her for guidance. It was an imperfect process, but she began to sort through various supplicant's claims of legitimacy, sorting through the broken lineages and fallen Houses to restore the rule of the realm to the state it was almost fifty years ago. Just as she had begun to settle the final few issues, however, the question came up that she had hoped to avoid for just a few years more.

Succession

The King of Aureval had taken ill, his health holding out as long as it could bear, yet in recent months he had been scarcely able to leave his chamber for more than a meal. Naturally, as his sole heir, the question came to what would become of her hand and the line of the realm. For the entirety of her life she had known only war, and even know was greatly reluctant to take the hand of a suitor. None knew the reason; save for her. When the hawk had loosed its cry, she heard not the piercing sound of the hunting bird, but the words of the Judge. The power she held, the unquestionable authority in the battlefield, the ability for her flesh to knit itself before one's very eyes, all of these blessings came at a price; she could never take a lover nor bear an heir without surrendering that power.

With the health of her father fading, the luxury of delaying had run out. If he were to die before she had taken a husband the Crown would leave her head and pass to her cousin's family. For her to bring the realm together, she needed the authority of the crown. Much to her frustration, the realm was not sorted yet; pretenders of all stripes were on the verge of war with one another over rulership of the duchies and counties now restored. These were wars she could win with ease, wars that would wilt before her banner, but wars that cost good will and, more importantly, time she did not have.

Her most recent journey brought her to one of the border kingdoms; the realms owned by kings who owed fealty to her father but were not fully their subjects. Here, two powerful men feuded with one another. Both asserted blood-ownership of the duchy in her kingdom, and both men's claims were weak at best. Normally she would let them handle it on their own, but the duchy in question was one of particular value to the realm; the sole source of auric-electrum, the precious metal that made the enchanted weapons of the knightly elite. Untangling this mess would take time. Fortunately for her, an insider to the affair made himself known. This man, a noble son and a knight of another realm, had served both of the border kings in the past and had earned himself a position as mediator. Together, the two would be able to resolve the matter far faster than they would separately.

What neither would expect, however, is that their meetings would reveal a safe haven for the hardships both of them bore. How far would their hearts carry them? What were they to do about attraction that bridged the gap of their stations and their years?

Silver and Claw

Silver and Claw
{ Urban Fantasy, D/S, M/P maybe, Taming, Primal Play, Anthro optional }

Monsters lurked in the shadow of Greenvale City that belonged on the pages of storybooks. Whether it was rapacious vampires who fed on the blood of innocents, flesh-controlling wraiths who carried out their vengeance one possession at a time, or wanton and violent werewolves who tore through the weak like tissue paper, there existed no shortage of dangers. For people like (MC) and his Brothers in the Order of Michael these were not terrors to be feared, but enemies to be fought, even if it seemed hopeless. Once numbering almost thirty men strong, the war had taken its toll on the Order and now only five remained. When news of a new and even more menacing pack of werewolves moving into the area reached the ear of the Brother Superior he planned to ambush them and overwhelm them in a decisive strike. The ensuing battle was fierce and costly on both sides. The strongest of the pack were bested, but in the chaos of combat (MC) was the only one left standing of the now-fallen Order. Amidst the carnage that remained, however, he spotted something of interest. One of the wolves who had fought was not dead, simply unconscious and healing from her wounds. She was small, but from what he had seen there were wounds upon her from before the fight, wounds that bore the hallmarks of other werewolves' fangs and claws. Despite himself, he picked her up and took her back to the now-empty hideout, securing a collar of silver around her neck as an idea formed in his mind. The war against the horrors wouldn't stop even if he was the only one left to fight it, but what if he could turn one of their own number against them? Would that be enough to even the odds? Or was this merely an attempt in vain to get vengeance for the brothers stolen from him?​

Facade { Dark Fantasy, Multiple Characters }

Facade
{ Dark Fantasy, Multiple Characters, Tragedy, Yandere, Dark Romance }

None was more beloved in the realm than the Princess, whose bright smile and beauty warmed the heart and stirred the soul of all around her. She was precious in her father's eye and lived a life straight from a bard's tale. There was one, however, whose adoration for her reached beyond mere fondness and stretched into obsession. The Crown Sorcerer, a man who had been instrumental in helping her father secure the realm from the tumult of its earliest days, now desired the hand of the princess above all else. The King, for his part, allowed his daughter to decide, though even the kindly princess seemed unwilling to answer directly. It was only when he cornered her after council and sought her hand that she rejected him firmly. Spurned now, the Sorcerer retreated to his tower after stealing something precious from the princess's chamber; a humanoid doll she had cared for since she was small, the last gift from her deceased mother. With such a precious item in his possession, he worked dark rite and ritual to imbue it with life, hoping to replicate the princess he yearned for so deeply in his creation. His ritual was successful, at least in part, the newly living young woman had much of the knowledge of the princess, but informed him that for his ritual to be truly perfect, she would need to be closer to the princess and complete the spell in person on the night of a new moon. After taking the living doll into his care and returning to the castle, presenting her under the guise of his new apprentice, he began to set the scheme in motion. What he was not prepared for, however, was that the doll was not a perfect copy of the princess, but a free soul of her own right; one that loathed the princess who stole and broke the heart of the man who cared for her above all others. Even as the Sorcerer moved towards his plan's completion, so too did the doll who sought to foil it and twist her Master to her side.​

PROJECT: Brunhildr {Space Opera, Space Fantasy, GM }

PROJECT: Brunhildr
{ Space Opera, Space Fantasy, Military, Mecha, War Story, Female Heroine x Cast, GM'd}

You awoke in a laboratory, the cold metal and glass that surrounded you completely foreign. Your memory is little more than flashes of scenes past; of pain and chemicals, of voices you didn't recognize. Why were you here? What happened to you? Your attempts to pry any sense of familiarity from the gray haze of your mind was interrupted by the sound of approaching boots. Were these the people who had brought you here, who had hurt you? The metal restraints that had once no doubt shackled your wrists had opened and the glass lid of your casket was opened. You didn't know much about this place, about yourself, or this situation....but you knew that this glass broke into long shards with pressure in the right area. More than that, you knew that somehow your hands had that strength, had that precision, to arm yourself.

Yet, the three figures who approached, armed and armored, weren't here for you; not to hurt you at least. Instead, what you would find is a galaxy on the brink of another crisis and that you could tip the scales in any direction you chose. What awaits you in the stars above? Why do you have these skills? Who are you? The answers to these questions and much more lie just on the other side of this tense confrontation.

The Dead Winter War {WIP, Fantasy}

The Dead Winter War
{ Fantasy, System Game, Survival, }

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[DolorousDuke]

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