I Don't Belong To Anyone

getinkshedtears · Feb 23, 2012

ABOUT ME

Alias: Gist
Age: 25 (Edging toward being the oldest person on the internet ...)
Gender: Female

Personality: I find it hard to describe my personality: I go through phases of trying to scour it away completely like a Buddhist monk, but I lack the dedication to succeed. I am mellow, mostly. I avoid over-excitable people who clash with my mellow. By design, I am candid in my dealings with others. In an ideal world, I would reside on a small farm in the middle of nowhere, raising sheep and writing epic poetry in iambic pentameter for a living. This is not an ideal world, so I don’t.

About Me: I live in the Eastern Standard Time and work from eleven in the morning until eight in the evening, Monday through Friday. I do a lot of my posting from work, usually in the later part of the day. When the phones (I answer phones) are busy, maybe I slow down a bit.

I’m an English major. I believe, in theory, that grammar should be descriptive. People who get riled up about where apostrophes are in billboards need something more important to worry about. However, I will usually choose not to roleplay with people who do not take writing seriously. (Shorthand: Pedants and sloppy people need not apply.)

I can be referential to a fault. Begging forgiveness in advance.

Do you like to use messengers? Never.

How long have you been roleplaying? At least 12 years.

What boards have you played on in the past? They’re all defunct. I don’t think it matters, but I could come up with a list if you’re that curious.
ABOUT ROLEPLAYING

How often do you generally post?: You can expect an IC response out of me once every few days. More often if I’m really digging our vibe.

How much do you generally post? It depends on how much I feel needs to be posted. On average, two or three paragraphs. I have decided that I should try to be more concise in my scrawling, so maybe less.

Do you like to write in 1st person or 3rd person? Third.

Who are your favorite PB's? I don’t really like the concept of the PB. Dammit, Jim! I’m a writer, not a ... collage-maker.

What PBs do you hate? See above.

What type of characters do you like to play? Sometimes men, sometimes women. Young, old. Broken people or people who are going to break. People with dark secrets, oooh. Liminal types.

What are your favorite genres? Original’s the word. I think I’ve described this better in other venues, but I enjoy a setting that’s grounded in reality but has some kind of preternatural edge. I’ve been known to go for a post-apocalyptic romp, too, but I like the kind of Apocalypse that comes with cleansing fire and warring angels, not zombies.

What genres do you hate? (I read this as: what genres don’t you care for very much. “Hate” is strong.) Schools, small towns. What’s the point? Escapism is a factor for me. But I don't like high fantasy. Or hard science fiction.

What rating of a board do you like to play on? Mature – not because I only write mature scenes, but because I like the option to “go there,” as it were.

How do you feel about writing out graphic scenes such as violence, drug use, and sex? I am a big fan of violence, drug use, and sex.

What type of plots do you like? It would be nice to come up with something that is like a plot, with an end goal and complications and side characters and the like. This may be my downfall, since it can be hard to orchestrate in an RP setting. Heavy plots with potentially discomforting elements are a good time.

What type of plots do you dislike? One-note plots. Fluffy fluffy romance.

What are some plots that you'd like to play out with someone? I have nothing in mind, only a need to write something. In past one-on-ones, the foil and I have always been able to work something good out jointly.

Are you willing to join a new board with someone? Maybe. But I’m kind of fed up with boards (And the crowd roars, “Why are you here on the RPG-D?”).

Are you interested in creating a new board with someone? No, I have no desire to run anything.
What board skills do you have? All of them. But you can’t use me for that.
What board software/host do you prefer? I don’t have a modicum of preference.
Are you willing to roleplay over messengers? No.
SAMPLES

CHARACTER SAMPLES
CHARACTER ONE

(Disclaimer: I don’t tend to re-use characters, but since I’m supposed to use this form, here is one. Not my favorite, just one.)

Name: Nolan Ambrose
Age: 34
Playby: -
Genre(s): Soft sci-fi
General Personality: You know those people that stand on street corners with billboards announcing the end times?
General History: A long stint in solitary with nothing to do but read old books and meditate on the unworthiness of the world left the young Ambrose a touch touched. At some point he got stuck on Derridean Deconstruction, and ever since he has been preaching it like a religion and doing his utmost to apply deconstructionist literary theory to reality, with the end goal of making it collapse on itself. This is more interesting than it sounds.
How long have you had this character? Since 2010
POST SAMPLES

POST ONE

Two Blys meet in the hall.

Here they were in the fey bluster of the Northlands, far from the trappings of conventional civilization, yet Edmund Bly insisted on maintaining a vice grip on many little conventionalities. The potential for resentment in his more zealous companions did not quite counterbalance his personal need for neatness and good manners. Enlightenment did not require savagery. His black brogues shone, his shirt was starched, his woolen overcoat was thoughtfully brushed.

This last item he had slung over the crook of his arm as he ascended the narrow staircase to the fourth floor. The damp of the outside and a whisper of sea-salt clung to him beneath his suit (uncharacteristically rumpled): the ocean spray combined with a haze that couldn’t quite be classified as rain that had materialized at the particular junction of sea and rock where he had spent the last few hours contemplating the numb tingle of the air against his decorated skin. The house was a sanctuary; he found that it was preferable, sometimes, to remove from it entirely.

Above, the stairway rang with an echoed thud of feet. Edmund paused and started up again but with caution. One could never be certain of what one might encounter in these walls, especially in conjunction with the Inner Council, some of whom might most accurately be termed raving lunatics.

Reaching his destination hallway, he stopped and surveyed the length of it, eyes falling in a moment on the shape of Lilith Bly at his doorway. He leaned against the wall to observe, drumming his fingertips against his leg – how odd, to have an unexpected visit from the Sedes Sapientiae herself. He watched her rap on the door. From his position on the stairs, he could hear her unsteady breathing and made a conscious decision not to imagine what had rattled her to such a degree. It could be anything at all – the woman was boundlessly erratic. He considered turning around and leaving her with the empty room on the other side of the door, but decided after a minute to indulge her apparent desire to see him. Curiosity, to the best of his knowledge, only killed cats.

“Niece,” he ventured, flatly but not without a note of suspicion

POST TWO

Винни-Пух.

Dark rivulets crawled beneath piles of brush, away from the puddle that pooled at Oksana's feet. One wet pelt had ceased to exist, and all the water it had contained was muddying the ground where she stood. Her hair dripped. Even in the shade, the heat was quickly drawing up the moisture on her skin. And, when she glanced back to the lakeshore, some gaping towhead was standing there staring. Her heart shuddered unpleasantly against the boundary of her ribs. Not alone? There was some irony to the sour way that the thought emerged in her mind. To be able to think so in any other situation would have been perfect. Now it churned her stomach, and she could feel how all the little eddies of surprise and panic played out on her face despite herself.

The thing about her senses, heightened though they were, was this: if she were always bombarded with the chaos of sounds and smells they could pick up on, she could never comfortably live among loud, imperceptive, normal human beings. Subtler signals were the noise of a fan that was always running: she only tuned in when she turned her attention there on purpose. She'd gotten comfortable, and she was in a bad situation as a result.

Her clothing was wrapped up waterproof and sitting next a nearby tree. The swimsuit she'd arrived in was lain out a few feet away. But it wasn't her lack of covering she was worried about. All other personal foibles aside, she wasn't particularly self-conscious about her body -- especially not in surroundings like these. Naked in a restaurant? Disaster. Naked in a forest? There were worse things that could happen. People not her, on the other hand, tended to look at things differently. With any luck whoever this was who'd snuck up on her would carry the extreme fear of nudity that seemed prevalent in Americans, and embarrassment would conquer the possibility of confrontation with a single blow. If there was one thing Oksana didn't like, it was confrontation.

So, though it was difficult for her to physically face the stranger, it was easier than the only other alternatives she could come up with in this pinch: shifting back and trying to scare him off (talk about confrontation) or outright flight (a mad, shoeless dash into the little island's woods couldn't turn out well).

"Do you like what you see?" she asked. She intoned it not as a come-on, but a matter-of-fact question. Still, as deadpan as she tried to be, a quaver of nervousness clung to the tail ends of her words.

POST THREE

The French Revolution is about to get more interesting.

She stayed seated in the worn chair, even though its softness felt suddenly too soft against a back that wanted to be braced by stuff stronger than upholstery. In her room was an intruder of an abnormal variety. Logic suggested she act to remove it. Deeper, wiser senses whispered otherwise. Öfkeyle kalkan zararla oturur, after all. When you stand in anger, you sit with a loss.

There had been a nagging, pit-of-the-stomach, many-legged wormish feeling lurking about in her innards since her arrival in collapsing Paris. Were she still in touch with the niceties of mortal sensation, she might have termed it fear. Despair. The consuming kind that ruins weak people. Even in her present state, she could think back and remember why it wasn't supposed to be good. Still, knowings past couldn't keep her from closing her eyes from time to time and appreciating. It was the palpable tumult of her master's forces that were gathered here; she wasn't alone, and she could feel it. It was scraping rough nails against an unglazed piece of pottery; a knife cutting deep to excise an itch.

So when the sensation reared its head at the appearance of the fluid thing before her, she let the wave wash over her.

POST FOUR

what the thunder said

"I told it to sit," Echo said, aware immediately that the concentrated off-handedness with which he spoke made the short sentence stand out, at least to his own ears. But let her try to prove her assertion. "And my status here, Serin, isn't an issue." The wind screamed louder across the distant sand, punctuation for his words.

The denial of association was habitual; not that the subject was brought up often. The scavengers -- at least this current group -- wouldn't have known the demons' tongues to hear them. This woman recognized a syllable, admitted to it, and wasn't bothered by what she'd heard: it wouldn't serve to bring her into their midst. "Unwelcome" was a mild term for the reception she would receive. Bow notwithstanding, radiance aside, two dozen ruin-traipsers would made quick work of her if they so chose.

He probably ought to have told her to go back to the bubble. It would be better for her. But first impressions said that she wouldn't do that at his suggestion, so why bother? Besides, and more importantly, a deep part of him wanted to keep her around for a while. Not "around" around, but around him. So there was the building he'd just stepped out of, with the half-crumbled wall. The basement had caved in. It was no good in a storm. There were plenty of hidey holes farther out -- they'd been staying by and large in an old subway station, which had held up admirably thus far, for instance -- but it would be better to go in the other direction, toward the sloping walls that the wanderers avoided. Staying out of sight would prevent anyone from wondering what the hell he was doing talking to her, too.

After this brief moment of consideration, he nodded accedence. "It's not my dog. Take it if you want to, and come this way. If you don't want problems." There was no menace to the statement; just that same matter-of-factness with which he'd informed her she wouldn't be welcome. He started in the direction of a certain house he'd come across that had no roof to speak of but that did have a spacious cellar, and then stopped to see if she followed.

FINAL STATEMENT

How do you want to be contacted? Email or PM. (Get Ink Shed Tears @ gmail.com minus the spaces) Or I guess you can reply to the thread.

Anything else? I don’t know that I really want a one-on-one partner. But I do know I don’t want to join another board. I don’t have time for MUCKs or MUSHes. There are no good e-mail based games anymore. I get confused by Livejournal RP. Essentially, I’m not sure what else to do but post here. The alternative to this is to spend time writing things with which I might be able to do something, and obviously that is out of the question.

I used to have friends with whom I could be kind of literary. At least, we’d meet every once in a while to share what we’d written lately and do a round robin or two. Most of the people I interact with anymore don’t know who Jack Kerouac is. I’m not looking for people on the same level as me, because I reject the hierarchical system that suggests. I’d just like to find someone on the same wavelength as me, who has some similar interests and who wants to roleplay. I know you’re out there.

Patrick · Feb 23, 2012

Emailed you.

getinkshedtears · Mar 2, 2012

It's been a week? Tempus fugit. Bumping this.

Meeny.Miney.Moe · Mar 6, 2012

Emailed you

getinkshedtears · Mar 16, 2012

Bumping. Don't want to let the search die just yet.

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I Don't Belong To Anyone

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