#rp sample

Wanderer has seen generations of humans come and go, but now he’s merely another traveler on the road. What fateful meeting have the stars arranged today?

#[ a lonely road ✦ independent writing ᯓ ⋆✴︎ ̊.⋆ ]

(Prompted Response to a RP - Actual Writing Sample featuring a sneezy Lich Queen)

GIVEN PROMPT

The Regent created the Hopewell Pact, a pact that binds your country and a rival's country together by law. You humbly disagree with the ruling, but the other party wants to be friends with you. How would you respond?

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My Response:

(Placeholder Name: Loviatar)

Loviatar Deianira Vandenberg, the Queen of the Undead, sat at a crystalline dais in the most human form the phylactery can muster. She was beautiful, even by the standards of the Undead. Some even gloat Loviatar was prettier than some of the most endowed vampires in existence.

Even then, the only deficit - Loviatar's large, pointed nose - decided to make itself known to her. Springtime was beautiful in Mytherra's central capitol. Thanks to the properties of the phylactery, being allergic to anything that moved or grew was the downfall of all that beauty.

Her sinuses nipped - no - burned like twin suns in two elongated manholes. Her black curly hair tumbled in waves to her thighs, even though it remained piled in a braided, immaculate French bun. A few errant curls still framed her cheeks, giving Loviatar an elegant look of poise.

In spite of it all, she tried to remain calm... Tried to keep her mouth shut about the balderdash that harried her ears. Stymieing the inevitable sneezing attacks became a daunting task for her, her nose, and the entire communion. No, Lovi didn't fucking ask to be here. She was *fucking summoned*, by none other than her *least favorite maid*.

*Fucking Merlin DuPresse*.

Loviatar couldn't take the agonizing feeling of trying to stifle a sneeze, let alone a feeble yawn. All she wanted was no more than to leave this fucked-up shit show. Loviatar, unfortunately, was one of the main stars of the show.

And the Regent expected her to be angry at what he was about to announce. With a dry clearing of the throat, he looked at a scroll and announced: "I hereby announce, that effective immediately, the Hopewell Pact will go into effect."

*The Hopewell Pact... A fateful, ominous pact with more deception than even her hand.*

"And this humble pact--,"

Humble? The fu--

"Will have Reyes Lanticore, the King of the Fae, ally with Loviatar Vandenberg, the Queen of the Undead."

FUCK!

No! I don't want any of this!

While Loviatar's expression soured, she saw that fucking *tyke of a King* grin. He grinned as if Christmas was today and he got the most gifts.

No, Reyes. Today was a travesty of the highest order. Loviatar *yearned* to be with Rowena, the Queen of the Dragons... Hell, she yearned to be partnered with *her goddamn wife*.

Now, she had to face being in the same room with someone she not only felt horrible with, but she legitimately felt *sick to her stomach* that the people of the humans - of all forces - declared this meddling idiot to be fit for the throne.

Loviatar shifted in her seat with a wriggle of her expressive nose. Her nostrils flared sharply, but not to an oncoming allergy attack.

No - Loviatar was about to vehemently retort - and fiercely at that - about this so-called pact of peace. Fuck that handholding balderdash.

Loviatar's red-painted lips opened in preparation for a rebuttal, or even just to disagree with the Regent's word. Alas, she had to play fair like a kid at a playground, and she needed to *wait*.

Loviatar, unable to contain her discomfort, finally calmed down and slurred: "How provincial of you."

Reyes, who was about to express his kindest thanks to the Regent for choosing Loviatar to be his bestie, turned to face the Undead vixen herself. Sharp, calculating, olive green eyes seemingly gnawed - no - seared through Reyes' feeble expression.

Praise was far from what she was about to give. **"It's quaint to know you'll work with me."** As if to say...

The Grounding of a Dove.

The news of Venti disappearing had been a tipping point of sorts ; Sunday hadn't slept, he hasn't eaten, he hasn't... moved from where he'd stopped moving last night.

For a moment, just a moment, he stared at the statue of Idrila, wondering if this was punishment. If he had driven away all that he cared about because of simple things - his quirks, his dislikes, his inability to communicate well... Things he could have forced himself to just get over.

But the thought was gone as fast as it came, and he tore his gaze from the statue, firmly returning to cleaning (or, rather, scrubbing at the same spot he'd been cleaning for the last twenty minutes). Sunday prayed to anyone listening, for the safe return of his loved ones, or to break and simply join them.

(But why oh why, would someone as guilt-ridden as Sunday be allowed in their vicinity? Sinners do not belong with the pure, the righteous. Don't be ridiculous, Sunday ; just because you have the appearance of an angel, doesn't mean you deserve all that goes with it.)

He scrubbed until knuckles bled, and scrubbed until the blood dried. He had stopped thinking, stopped really feeling for the most part - only coming back to his senses when he heard a drawers being gone through. Wings twitched as he got to his feet, a bubbling rage in his chest. How dare anyone step foot in this church - in the church that belonged to someone who was no longer here. A threat, one that bit as hard as Sunday ever had, bubbled at his lips - but never came, because the cathedral was empty.

Faint scribbling noises reached his ears, and he approached the source slowly. Tentatively. Like it may bite. Peering down at the note, the sinner could feel something snap in his chest. Tears burned his vision, a red-spotted and always gloved hand reaching out to touch the words like they may disappear. Like they were a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from drowning. Or, perhaps, the exact thing that would finally (finally, he would think gleefully, bitterly, finally!) pull him under.

A cruel joke? An attempt to make Sunday feel better?

(Or maybe, Sunday, maybe there is more to the world than what you know. Maybe there is a Beyond. Maybe there are things you have yet to learn —)

And yet logic refused to squirm into his mind. Not while he clutched a notepad to his chest, not while he prayed to his God that he would finally (finally, he would beg, helplessly and lovingly and mournfully, finally.) just wake the hell up already. It would be better, after all, to have only loved in a dream than to love and lose. And lose. And lose.

(Life is vicious, Sunday. You know this. That is why you went down the path of Harmony. Shy you diverted and went down the path of Order. To make a better life. To give, and give, and give, until you broke and the world was better due to your sacrifices and the sacrifices people made in your name.)

When the sinner would finally calm his heart, finally open his eyes, he found the sun to be gone. Moonlight dipped through the windows, ensuring that Sunday didn't stand completely in the shifting dark. For the first time since Argenti had disappeared, his mind was blissfully silent. Calm. Still.

(Pay no heed to the hiss of pain as fingers unclenched from wing. Pay no mind to the odd crunch, or the angle at which it fell. The sinner had felt worse, done worse. You remember, don't you, Sunday?)

A flash of Robin, a fresh wound in her neck. The horror, the concept—

(Let go, Sinner. Just let go.)

Legs, trembling like those of a newborn deer, carried him to a pew, where he had put his things. The stick, the damn stick, sat. Like something to be thrown out. Like something that whispered and tempted and devoured.

"I wish you gone." The sinner whispered. Not wanting to be witnessed, seen. Not knowing if there was anyone even there. Praying that he was alone. Wishing there was someone to tell him to stop. Needing... something.

"My rose, my light, my love," he sighed, almost as if in prayer, removing gloves, peeling fabric from wounds, "I love you. Even if these memories change me, even if I am no longer your angel, I will love you. How disappointing, that I didn't have the courage to say it outright before. I wish I had. It would have been a treat, I think, to see your expression. The first 'I love you' is important. Sorry... sorry."

A pause, thumb caressing words like they were the person, and not just words written out on a piece of paper. "I've been talking, but I sincerely hope you're not here. I hope I'm alone. I'm scared. Scared to know, scared of the result of knowing. Being seen at anything less than my best is... an uneasy feeling. Perfection is what I crave, being seen as flawed in this way is almost embarrassing." He laughed, dry and humorless and strained. "So I talk, but only like one talks to a God that doesn't listen. To say things that need to be said. To confess. Just in case... just in case."

To be Sunday, but not be Sunday... The concept was horrifying. Foreign. He thought of Robin, of all the times he'd wished he told her he was proud of her. Of how well she was doing. How much he cared. How much he cherished. She was his universe, after all ; who would he be, without a sister as precious as her to grow with?

And then there was Venti, of course - an unexpected friend. His very best, perhaps. Words couldn't quite describe what they managed to make Sunday feel in the amount of time they'd become friends. A source of comfort. A confidant. Someone else he loved and cherished. He should have been more vocal with his people. His family.

Then... Argenti. There were never enough words for Sunday to properly describe what Argenti was to him. She was... she was everything. She hung his moon and stars, she lit the way home in his darkest moments. She fed him, loved him, changed the very foundation on which he believed he belonged. She told him she was filthy.

She was beautiful. Breathtaking. Everything.

(Is this what dying feels like? Would this not technically be death? One version of him, slowly replaced by another. A lie, engulfed by the truth. Are you ready, Sunday? The path of a sinner is familiar, but your dreams could never accurately represent the sins you committed, did they? Can you handle it? Will confession save you after this? Will love? Family?)

Wings trembled. Fingers plucked feathers, decision wavering, resolve wavering.

(You can't be weak now, sinner. It's not the time. What if those old rumors are right? What if everyone is right, and you've been missing out simply because you're a coward?)

A nail brushed against bark. Fingers wrapping around the stick, grabbing tightly, like it might dare to disappear.

And then —

Now what?

( Now we drown in our memories. )

The Edge of Death.

Date had known something was up the moment Ryuki had met them in the cathedral. The way he'd wanted it to be just him and Date, the way he'd refused help. It was frustrating. All he wanted to do was grab Ryuki's face, and pry the information out of him. What was wrong? What is wrong? And why hadn't Ryuki just talked to him? Weren't they good, wasn't there trust?

But Date doesn't get to wonder too long, because he's looking down the barrel of a gun held by his Ryuki. The air is thick, and tense, and not the way Date normally likes. Tearer is there, and maybe he should have paid more attention to the villain, but his eyes are all for Ryuki. The countdown, Ryuki's shaking hands.

“ Just shoot me, ” Date said. So gentle, so soft. But urgent. “ It'll be okay. Pull the trigger. ”

He doesn't. He should have. Oh, Ryuki...

The building is falling on their heads, collapsing around them, and Date... struggles. He wants Mizuki out. He wants Ryuki out. But he himself can't even escape ; explosions ring out, and first his arm is hit, and then his back. The group of allies has dispersed, not realizing Date was struggling. He doesn't call out, doesn't want for help; a large piece of rubble tumbles right in front of him, tripping him, while a smaller piece races right for ...

His head.

Date loses himself after that. He crawls from the rubble [of the cathedral, of his life], and doesn't know his own name, his past. Kaname Date is gone, for six whole years. All he's given is glimpses while he works day jobs, scraping together money to keep himself afloat. He catches glimpses in long strands of blue hair that remind him of an unknown home. Voices that float through the air that remind him of some unknown family. And mere glances of colors that remind of him eyes that make him smile so faintly.

Kaname Date is gone, but some part of him still remembers. Maybe that's why he's able to find his way back, his way home. It takes six years, but he does it; Date finds his family, his friends, his Ryuki. His Ryuki, who he now gets to have morning coffee with — who is now handing him a cup, steaming and warm. It's their day off, and Date's head is silent, save for a warm buzzing in the back. The part that reminds him that he's alive, happy.

“ So, Ryuki, ” he smiles, taking a long gulp of his coffee. Mind wandering idly, hoping he put away his collection of magazines before he left his room this morning. “ What's our plan for today? ”

She could kill him.

She could kill him and not only would it be expected, would it be brushed off as his due. The action of the coldhearted Sith she was reputed to have become.

No one would miss him.

No one who mattered.

Saphina took a breath, smelling the distinct tang of fear-sweat, almost more prominent than the blood trickling down his pale face. He had thought, as many thought, the the little, delicate Sith couldn't backhand him into next week.

He was wrong, but that had clearly been the thought - a common mistake easily corrected. This scum had survived for some reason on Nar Shaddaa, and it wasn't because he was in anyone's favor.

Saphina smiled, let it reach her eyes. He smiled back tentatively.

"I want to know," she said slowly, "everything you know. And everything you find out. You will be my little rumor hunter and in return, you gain the protection from my cult. You will agree to this, of course, because you have no bargaining power and if you don't, you die.

The worst part about being mostly human is definitely the bones. They're just so frail. Easily broken. Take forever to mend. Really, evolution didn't do too hot of a job on humans in general, but it could have at least given them a base structure that wasn't prone to snapping at the slightest bit of pressure.

Or a thirty story fall from a high speed hover car charging down an elevated highway on an unfamiliar planet.

But who's keeping track, right?

(Fandom: Undertale; AU)

- Me Compared to her table waiting and patron entertaining collagues, Muffet was far more elaborately dressed for starters. Rot had followed with halfhearted focus as the peppy spider had served the gloomy guy several seats further away from him. Hearty service just seemed to be her style, skeleton in green thought, and not even hood screaming leave me be couldn't stop this miss. "Haha..." Rot couldn't help the small laughter, as the proprietress approached him with flatter right away. He knew he was awkward with accepting compliments, but at least he was self-aware about his own shortcomings. "Guilty as charged, as it comes to visiting the place for the first time, I mean", he replied to the chatter, while putting on less stunned face. He accepted the drinklist, but didn't delve into it as he alreayd knew what he fancied. "Coffee with dash of brandy, thanks."(edited)

- Friend :) "Excelent choice, sir." she said in entiing tone as she turned to reach for the brandy from the shelve behind her and  coffe at the counter under it. Mixing it up and then handing it over to his new favorite customer, at least in the next two minutes still if nothing else would come up. "Here you go. Would you be so kind and entertain my curiosity, what might bring you to Snowdin? Business or to see a family perhaps?" this was clearly because Rot was a skeleton and the person in the hood was one. There weren't that many of their kind left and in fact, Muffet had thought the two brothers living here had been alones.

- Me "Eh, just business. There is vacant industrial space I'm kinda interested in." Rot was not sure is Muffet talked to him in hopes of getting subject of gossip out of him, to soften him up to buy few more drinks, or both. Whatever the case, he didn't really mind since his business was not secret anyway, and if he were to rent studio from Snowdin it would be better to have acquaintance around than not. As Muffet was done with his drink, Rot accepted it with thinly veiled enthusiasm. What could he do, he loved the smell of coffee maybe too much, but this time it was all about the several hours since his last cup. The lonesome hooded guy, now that he dared to glance at his direction again, looked even more nervous than before. It was hardly his problem, but truthfully somewhere inside he felt some pity for the guy. Rot turned toards Muffed, and leaned in to whisper. "Is... is he ok? Seems a bit out of sorts to me."

- Friend :) "Aaah, yes, I belieave it's still empty indeed." she chattered but her further plans for chit chat were interrupted when her new customer showed some interest on her old ones. Muffet would lift one of her hands to poorly hide her amused smile, there was no hint of sarcasm or pity in it as she leaned closer to whisper equally quiet "He is always like that. He stays by himself because locals are afraid of him and his appearence but behind those scars he is actually quite sweet little thing." she hummed strightening again "we call him Mellow." The skeleton near the wall froze for a moment. He could swear he had heard his name mentioned but figured it might be just his imagination. Mellow had many meanings after all and one of them was to describe someone who was in good mood and drunk.  Considering they were at bar he thought it wouldn't be far fetched to hear it being used without meaning him. So he took the glass a bit closer to sip his drink, a soda low on alcohol.

(Fandom: FFXIV)

- Me