Thread: Lit+ M/f, Sci-fi, Post-Apoc, and Historical

RE Seeking literate role players for plot-based RPs Mxf I have some more writing samples, for those that are interested in reading them. Though my thread RP has been going slow, my partner has been distressingly busy, I'm still looking for people to play with! Poundtown Abbey See more The house was moderately new built, no more than a hundred years old, though the grounds showed no signs of it. Indeed, the gardens surrounding the house would put a Lord to shame, and there were no less than six gardeners who spent their every moment to making them more beautiful. They were clearly the Master's pride and joy, and no doubt she would see at least one of the gardeners wave to her as she passed. One and all, they were older men who had faithfully served his father before him. They were the only signs of life as she approached the mansion, at first, aside from birds and squirrels and one nervous looking rabbit peering from beneath the begonias. The door would remain unopened for long enough to tempt her to knock again, but before she could it would swing open to reveal an older man, a butler by the look of him. His eyes swept from her head to her feet and back up again, with an uncanny ability to make a person feel as if they were being weighed and measured. Indeed, more than one maid had said that she would wager the man knew her weight to the ounce and her waist size to the quarter inch when he looked at them, but for all that he was kindly enough. At an inch or so below six feet, he still towered over her till he gave her a brief bow from the waist, holding the door back and directing her inward. You must be Miss Jarvis. I am Bartholomew, master butler. You come highly recommended...the Master wished to see you when you arrived. Do you require refreshment from the journey? Even to fellow servants the man was polite, if somewhat cool, and assuming she did not require aught else he led her through the house. The floors were all of teak, exported at great expense from India and chased with oriental rugs in elaborate, abstract patterns. The walls were plaster, perfectly applied, with tasteful paintings from far away Paris placed at irregular intervals. Gas lamps lit the house, instead of the more common whale oil lamps, another sign of the house's wealth, as might be expected from the man who owned so many factories across great Britain. She was led down a flight of stairs, and then another, before walking down a long, windowless hallway that she would learn later was below ground, and then rising one more flight of stairs. The sight that greeted her was a Salle d'armes, or fencing salon, a large, square space taken up by yet more teak flooring and little else. Racks of sabers, epees, and foils lined the walls between low benches for duelists to sit at between bouts. A small gymnasium was set up in one corner, with weighted pins stacked neatly in a rack, a leather punching bag, and several sets of cast iron dumb bells, while a track was laid out for running around the outside. Not that much attention could be paid to that, not right away, for any eyes that were there would be drawn to the center of the floor, where the sound of steel striking steel could be heard. Two men, one clearly heavily muscled beneath the white jumpsuit he wore, the other whipcord thin, sparred with sabers there. Thrust and counter thrust was delivered, broken only by snapping cuts to the head or sword arm that were in turn blocked by equally snapping parries before being turned into a sharp riposte. They were roughly equally matched, the stronger of the two never able to devote his full strength to a strike for fear of the other using the moment of hesitation as he gathered his strength to strike, while the slighter had to do everything he could to stay out of the reach of the heavier. The butler cleared his throat, once, but the men did not hear, until at last the slighter of the two ducked to one side, letting the stronger man's blade slide past his face close enough to shave him, before the smaller man's own saber cut up into the larger man's face mask, dislodging the wire and steel guard. What was revealed beneath was a young man, as things go. Perhaps in his late twenties, at the oldest his early thirties, he had dark hair that was stylishly cut, if disheveled after being disturbed by the mask flying off the top of his head. He was clean shaven, his brilliant gray eyes reflecting the white, even smile on his face as he spoke. Match to you, Brother. It was a close one, either way. Just admit it, brother dear, you'll never defeat your little brother with a sword. The still masked man said with a laugh, lifting his helm from his head after a moment. They shared hair and eyes, but there the similarities ended. Where the elder brother had a conservative, if stylish cut, the younger brother's was rakish, like the men that prowled the pubs in printings to rip bodices from unsuspecting maidens. His jaw line was softer than the elder brother's, and more rounded, but had a weaselish point to the chin that his brother's lantern jaw hid quite well. Both of the brothers noticed them at about the same time, the eldest turning to his butler with a slight inclination of his head, even as the younger rested against his elder brother's side, playing the part of the annoying younger brother perfectly as he interrupted the elder from speaking. OY! Bartie brought in a pretty one this time, eh Jared? Bartholomew shot the man a look, but did not say anything beyond that at the youngest brother's declaration. The name, though, was familiar. Jared Bradshaw, the older of the two men before her, was a name she was well familiar with, and his portrait was a regular thing she saw, being at the entrance to her old workplace as well as around the mill town that had grown up around it. His father's profile was on the work chits that were given out, spendable at the company store, and so generously loaned out to those who needed the extra cash, though she knew from a day of mourning two years ago the eldest son now runs the business. The elder brother, for his part, rolled his eyes at his younger brother, speaking as he did so. Jonathan, you are incorrigible. This must be Miss Jarvis, who comes most highly recommended by her supervisor, who comes highly recommended by my best factory's boss. Unless you want to discuss the family business, you'd best run along. A look of mock horror shone on the younger brother's face, and he took a step back from Jared as if burned. Never that! I'd sooner pluck my eyes from my head than listen to you yammer on about ledgers and accounts. For all the horror in his voice, it was obvious that it was all a joke to him...teasing his older brother's sense of duty. I shall take my leave then, Jared. Do not do anything I would not do. He said, giving a flippant wave to his brother before starting across the hallway to the tunnel where the two of them had just passed by. He would pause as he grew level with them, taking her hand in one of his and pressing his kiss to her knuckles before drawing back. Miss Jarvis, I look forward to making your acquaintance at a later date. She would no doubt find out that he had cut quite a swath through the younger and prettier of the maids with his buccaneer attitude and suave looks. Jared, for his part, merely quirked his lip as he watched his brother depart. That does not constrain me overmuch, Jonathan. His attention turned back to her a moment later, another perfunctory nod of his head given as he took her in. So you are Miss Jarvis, are you? You do come most highly recommended by a number of people I trust. Tell me, was the journey hard? I know it is nearly a full day by carriage, as this house is not on any of the locomotive lines...yet. He strode toward her, pausing only to pluck his face guard from the ground and tuck it beneath his left elbow, laying the dull saber against the upper edge with handle pointing directly toward her. No doubt you're curious, and that's good, but tonight is not the time for questions yet. Irene, the head maid, will settle you into your quarters and answer at least a few of your basic questions. I will see you again first thing tomorrow morning to answer any deeper questions you might possess. He had to admit, as he approached, that his brother had been right, if crass. She was pleasing to the eyes, small in breast and hip but plump enough in the right places. Her eyes were what drew him in, though, and his gray eyes held hers for several long moments before continuing to speak. I am at your service for any troubles you might be having. If aught bothers you, my door is open to all the members of my household, even the maids. Welcome to my household, Miss Jarvis...I look forward to having you about. With that, he strode past her, down the corridor to follow his brother. Bartholomew would direct her down another corridor, where they emerge into a small sitting area. A round dozen doors emerged from the room, individual living quarters for unmarried members of the household like herself, small but immeasurably more comfortably appointed than the company provided barracks back at the factory, and much more private. Bartholomew left her in the capable hands of the head maid, who had her scrubbed, fed, and into bed in record time, ready for her first day on the job the very next day. The Recluse. See more The year was 1869. Just a scant four years after the civil war was over, and Michael has spent the years since trying to forget what he had seen fighting as a rebel private. He had went into the war as a boy of fourteen, proudly writing a fifteen on the bottom of his shoe to prove that he was 'over fifteen', the legal lower limit for soldiers fighting for the confederacy. He had gone in not because of slaves, but because of the 'damn Yankee invaders' and the pictures painted of blue coats raping southern women. Oh, how time had changed him. Going in as a young man, he had grown strong in his body carrying packs for the older men, ever eager to seem a proper man. By the end of the war he was a man grown strong in his own right, straight of back and taller than any other man in his unit, his reputation for bravery and strength well earned in battle. Indeed, he had wooed many a woman both Yankee and Confederate with his gray eyes, dark hair and strong arms. Yet that was over now. He had returned home after the war to find his father dead of suicide, and the home in shambles. His mother had died years ago in the still birth of what was to be his youngest brother, and his only sibling, his sister, had been dead for years of cholera. With no one overseeing the manor, it had been allowed to rot. Yet the man had spent the last two years slowly building it back up to it's former glory, working mostly by himself, and living off a small vegetable garden. He wanted nothing to do with the outside world, not for a time. Not as the confederacy was tearing itself apart in it's death throes...they had enough to worry about. For he had discovered a dark secret within himself. During his first battle, Manassas, he had been selected as a drummer, and had been brave enough, though he was as scared as any man when he saw the first volley of the Yankee blue coats, heard the bullets whistling by and saw men beside him die. Instinctively, he threw up his hand before him, the other holding the banner, and cried out. Before him, bright lines of light blue, seemingly lit with an inner light, erupted from the air and formed a lattice before them. None of the other men saw it, but they surely saw the results. The second Yank volley stopped as if hitting a wall, stopping in a line before them, the deadly .58 caliber bullets sitting in the air impotent. The third, and the fourth followed suit, the men watching on with blank amazement. Finally, they had the sense to reload their rifles, and the sergeant called for him to lower the wall just before they all unleashed a volley. So it had went for the remainder of the battle, the captains amazed at how few casualties their brigade had taken. After that, it was their little secret, Michael's unit and he. The use of the power he developed was never big enough to draw attention to himself, never overt. But it was enough...enough that he stayed alive, and the men under his protection had the lowest loss rate of any of the Army of Northern Virginia. Over the years, he had begun to learn control of his power, figuring out not only the light blue strands which he called 'air', but also strands corresponding to fire, earth, water, and a fifth nebulous power that he called simply 'spirit'. He learned how to weave these to make lighting fall down in the Yank ranks, how to heal those hit by Yankee bullets, how to hurl cannonballs with as much power as a cannon on strands of stretchy air. In the years since the war's end, he had learned much more, taking the time in seclusion to work on the more overt skills...learning to throw balls of fire, raise stone from the earth to make fences and, potentially, fortifications. Though he had no need for it now, of course. Or so he thought. He heard them approaching from a long ways away, though he thought it was something else entirely, at first. Wild dog packs were far from uncommon, and he had dispatched a number of them himself. But when he heard her slamming on the door, he snatched up his saber, a Nashville Plow Works saber and his friend from the war, holding it in his left hand as he ran to the door. He yanked it open as she was hammering on it, speaking. What in the name of all that's holy are you doing, girl? It's well after midni... He stopped as he heard the hounds baying behind her, saw the white sheets approaching on horseback. Blood and bloody ashes, girl. Get inside! He pushed her inside the house, partially closing the door, though he inadvertently left it open enough for her to see what happened after. There was one thing to be said about the southern gentleman...he never asked questions when it came protecting a woman. Like it or not, he was old fashioned in that way. As the men came up on horseback, one of them fired a shot toward the house, shattering the window beside him. He flinched slightly to the side, recognizing the weapon being fired. A henry repeating rifle, one of the weapons that the damn Yankees had gotten just before the end of the war..you could load the damn things on Sunday and shoot them all week long, it seemed. The man was proving that right as he racked the lever once more, firing again. This time, the bullet stopped, humming to a stop in a wall of air as the man on the porch lifted his hand. A touch of air, angled just so, projected his voice to be a dragon's roar. You are not welcome here! Get off my land! As it stood, he simply looked to be extraordinarily leather lunged and brave, for the stopping of the bullet was impossible to see in the darkness of the evening, in spite of the two gas lights on the porch. The four men in white sheets pulled to a stop at the base of the stairs. They were armed with a motley assortment of weapons, one repeating rifle, an old '61 Springfield, and two sabers, one a Nashville Plow Works saber and the other a more standard southern cavalry 'wrist breaker' that had, judging by the shell, been an officer's sword, as it was quite ornate. The one holding that saber was the one that spoke. This 'taint no concern of ya', Boy. Get ou' our way! Michael quirked a brow as he heard the man, lowering the tip of his saber to rest on the floor boards of his porch, and resting both hands atop it. It seems, good Sir, that you are hard of hearing. You are not welcome here. Get. Off. My. Land. The last four cut off as if he was talking to someone who was unable of understanding English, which caused the man's fingers to tighten on his saber till the knuckles turned white. The leader growled, and jerked his head toward the man holding the repeating firearm. This Boy needs to be taught some manners. Cletus, why don' ya show 'im? Michael looked toward the man mutely as he raised the firearm, quirking a brow in his direction. I wouldn't do that if I were you. But the man ignored him, unaware of what Michael was doing. When the trigger was pulled, the explosion of the gunpowder did not propel the bullet as it normally might, for there was a plug of near solid air in the bore of the rifle. With no where else to escape, the explosion blew backward, sending the bolt of the firearm back into the man's forehead, and sending him off the horse backwards in surprise. Michael, meanwhile, merely smiled and turned back to the leader. It seems Cletus forgot to clean his rifle. Now, you may get your man, and leave. Else, I will have to take more drastic measures than just standing here. Damned arrogant pup! The leader growled, drawing and cutting with his saber in one swift motion. He had originally been a cavalry man under J.E.B. Stuart, and had learned these skills under that famous man. No man was faster than he with a blade. Yet Michael was. He kicked the base of his still scabbarded blade, lifting and cutting across. The scabbard started to slide from the blade as it was whipped across, stopping the leader's blade in mid-cut. Yet the scabbard did not stop there, sliding off of the straight blade and striking the man on the bridge of his nose, causing his white hood to suddenly stain with blood as the bottom edge of the scabbard struck him. The leader of the white sheet brigade lifted his arm, pointing toward Michael. I'll be back for ya, Boy! His voice had only a hint of a nasally draw from the strike. No body gets in the way of the KKK, especially not over a nigger loving bitch! The other two men had been getting their wounded companion up onto his horse, and were already starting to lead him away as Michael spoke. Ya'll come on back now, ya'hear? I'll be ready and waitin' for ya when you do. Ostentatiously, he turned away, sending a final glare over his shoulder for the leader. Wear red next time. Don' want to ruin your momma's fine linens. With that, he swept inside, slamming the door behind him. He'd recover the scabbard later, for now it was more important to deal with the girl. As the door closed behind him, he turned toward her, laying the bare blade on the table by the door as he stepped toward her, his hand extending to stroke over a cut on her cheek. What in the world did you do to rile them, girl? Aw, never no mind. C'mon...let's get you a bath an' you can tell me about it later. And with that, he turned toward the inside of the house, starting to guide her further in. The Fall Sci-fi See more The end started in the year 1965 CE, according to the human calendar, though most did not realize the fall until well after that. That was when the explorer ship for the Haradrim empire first set down on the dark side of Earth's moon, and began to listen in on what they heard from the fledgling planet. It was well known that beings evolved from greater apes were warlike, impulsive brutes that had a relatively short half-life as far as civilizations went. Most, when they reach a certain level of scientific advancement and first realize the power of the atom, quickly burn out in nuclear fire as factions on their planets utilize the new weapon to settle old grudges. The monitors put on the moon expected nothing else, and were unsurprised at the naked threats that filled the air waves from primitive transmitters. They expected a quick, violent end for higher civilization and then an easy mop up action for their forces to take those who remained as serfs. Eventually, after a time in servitude, they would be deemed civilized enough to join the Empire and, perhaps, a portion of their civilization would be allowed to settle on a protectorate world under the protection of their betters. When the cold war developed, it quickly became apparent that a rough entente had settled between the two great powers. Neither could destroy the other without utterly ruining themselves, and the fires of nationalism were banked beneath social reforms and feedback mechanisms that normally did not develop in time. In short, the Haradrim had an issue. Where they had expected a quick and painless take over of the planet, they were instead presented with a planet that was quickly unifying. Science was advancing apace and soon enough the apes would begin learning secrets which they could not be allowed to learn. Already their physicists were theorizing faster than light travel through the sixth dimension, discovering the very building blocks of the universe. Soon, they might even become a tiny threat to the mightiest empire the galaxy had ever seen. That could not be allowed. Higher apes untamed by nuclear fire could undo all of the peace that the Haradrim had wrought over the past hundred thousand years. Plan B took the form of several thousand kinetic rods of hardened tungsten, lead, and other heavy metals weighing several hundred kilos a piece. These were launched from the outer edges of the solar system in 2012 CE, well in the Oort cloud, and sped up as only objects in space could be sped. They took a circular loop around the solar system, gaining speed and energy in the looping course, eventually travelling far faster than any meteorite could hope to come to. Their ballistic path came to an end twenty years later, in 2032, when they fell on the blue gem of Sol. It was known as Fall Day, or Armageddon, by those who survived the kinetic rod's impacts in New York, Washington, Moscow, and numerous other sites across the world. Each one, vaporized by it's descent through the atmosphere, caused devastation unlike anything seen in the earth's past. The heavens had truly called down devastation on the Earth as the old texts warned, and when it came, it came with a vengeance. A deep and bitter winter followed on the Earth, as the sun's rays were blocked by the particulate in the air. By the time twenty years had passed, the oceans had frozen solid and all life larger than a bacteria had died on the earth, but that was not the concerns of the humans. Indeed, in the days after the fall, their new Masters set down on the world in small ships. Emerging from the seemingly ungainly craft, the beings were clad head to toe in gleaming armor that made them as strong as a hundred men, shed bullets like water, and allowed them to fire beams of coherent light that could vaporize a tank. What little resistance there was to their occupation quickly evaporated in the face of the overwhelming power the invaders showed. They rounded up the humans into internment camps, gathering up the billion or so humans that were yet left alive across the world. Here, the humans in the camps were given a choice....join their Masters in the stars, become...domesticated, or die. Many humans chose the latter, singing songs of defiance as they charged into the relentless fire of their betters, but some...some saw sense. Those that did were led through a decontamination process and then led aboard the spacecraft for their eventual destination. Most would be working slaves...fitted with explosive collars that could be triggered by their overseers and set to making the advanced technology that made the Haradric empire possible, joining thousands of others of species in their exiles. These slaves were the ones that were promised eventual freedom for their offspring, when they had been properly restrained. Others were sent to pleasure worlds, where they could be bought for the night by wealthy Haradrim for an evening's pleasure. Some, however, were gifted to individual Haradrim as rewards for their service to the state. My character is one such that received a gift of a human servant. Haradrim, themselves, are not much different from human beings, having once been apelike themselves, if the earliest ones to develop that have yet been found. They had unified their planet early, before the discovery of the atom, and with the advent of faster than light travel had begun conquering other species to slake their native warlike tendencies. Their skin has a slight bluish tint to it because of their double-based blood cells, which utilize both iron and copper to carry oxygen to their cells. That, together with their startlingly white eyes give them a cold appearance to humans that is belied only with the first touch, when one might discover their natural body temperature is several degrees above the human norm. They are stronger than one might think, as well, their bones and muscles denser than a human's with unique flanged attachment points for their muscles on their bones, giving them incredible leverage. Bioengineering has made them incredibly quick healing and effectively made them immortal. Specifically, my character is the commander of the expedition to...liberate the humans from themselves, and has first pick among them when on the ground. Formerly, he has laid this right aside, but for whatever reason, when he lays eyes upon her in a desolate plain in a place that had once been called Kansas, he decided that he has to have her. Our story can start anywhere you'd like, but my preference would be in the days immediately following Armageddon, when all seems lost.