Fin (chaperoned) wrote in semeunion,


Posting this on behalf of a friend who's in China, where LJ is blocked:

Name: Rose
Contact Information: Leave a comment on this blog:
Characters: I do original characters. Examples are at the bottom.
Rules: The long and short is: I'm currently stuck on a ship. In the middle of the ocean. With BLOGGER and corny 'e-postcards' as my only contacts to the outside world. This will be a continuous experience from now until May 11th--a little more then a month at present. I really, truly, do not have internet outside of blogger, wikipedia, and google search (but none of the sites it pops up). As such, I need something to focus on while not being maimed by college courses and/or getting lost in random cities.

So, I'm looking for a partner to rp with. Not just any partner, though, because unfortunately I have very specific needs that cannot be adjusted until, well, after May 11th.

I need a partner who:
  • Doesn't mind that there will be no sex in the rp until after May 11th.
  • Who likes writing LONG posts for an rp--I'd perfer at least a page per post.
  • Who can post at least once per day.
  • Who doesn’t mind posting their stuff on BLOGGER and receiving really corny e-cards in response.
  • Who likes to take initiative--IE, if I'm rping Billy and he has a friend/brother/relative I've mentioned and you feel the need/urge/otherwise, just grab the character. I'm not too possessive of characters as long as you don't completely control my main character.

I rp almost anything. I prefer switch characters. I have a soft spot for violence and modern fantasy. My mind is currently nearly catatonic from over stimulation-- I cannot promise what you might get from me, but I'll do my best to be entertaining while likely being on a very weird schedule.

Also, can't have sex for a month. Can't have extreme violence for a month. Everything else--goes. After a month or so, all bets are off.

RP Examples: He was burning. Yellow-green eyes stared at the purple-blue flames that ate at his skin, peeling his flesh like an over-ripe peach set out under the noonday sun. Yolan couldn't hear his own voice over the scream of blood in his ears, couldn't feel the superheated air in his lungs, and couldn't stop thrashing. His body thrummed, he watched flame-like insects crawl across his flesh, he jerked his hands against the human restraints behind him, opened his mouth wider...

And then it was over.

His body sagged. The flames sulked their way into puddles on the floor. He watched them go with a slack, disinterested, face.

"Congratulations." Yolan didn't recognize the voice, though he should have known it was his neighbors. It was always a neighbor who turned you in, after all. Finding a rough talent could be the preverbal goldmine if it proved to be true. It was just his luck that his neighbor ended up being a reader and a breaker—no need to call anyone to do the test. "You'll be coming to the academy with me."

The thoughts only penetrated Yolans mind because they were more mental then verbal. A bit of drool slid down his chin as cold hands wrapped around his chest and hoisted him onto his unsteady legs. His knees gave out just before his ankles and left him a string less marionette, supported only by the man behind him.

He was unconscious a moment later. It was better for transport that way. Roughs rarely understood what was happening for awhile. They were lied to, sometimes abused into believing the Academy would hurt them, kill them. Backwards hicks. Their conspiracy theories saved their children into sending them to an early grave or madness.


Trayson did not believe he was a masochist. He did not enjoy pain, he did not seek it out, or moan after someone struck him particularly hard. He didn't want to hurt at all. He liked being pain free. He thrived among soft pillows and blankets and mittens, away from the too-hot-stoves and sharp pointy objects. Despite this, he found pain easily and seemed to continuously revel in a masochists dream world.

There were the biking accidents as a kid, the cutting off his finger with a knife when he was learning how to cook, the two car accidents, and three skiing accidents--both kinds. He had been shoved down a manhole, gotten his leg stuck between the body of a bike and the wheel, had a allergy pen needle go through his thumb, nearly drank gasoline, had food poisoning countless times, and ended up under the body of a truck at least twice without having previously decided he needed to work on the engine.

He didn't know how to work on any vehicles engines, no matter how large and terrifying.

He didn't want to be hurt, or injured, or die. And yet, it seemed that everyone carrying something had to take a swing at him, or drop something out a window at him, or throw something at him for gods sake-- during the simple course of his walk down the street.

Trayson was not a masochist. He was, however, cursed.


The bow of the unmarked ship scraped against the Caronia's bow before dragging its edge along side of her, not having enough force to do much damage other then jar the messanger ship and send a few of its passangers onto the ground from their beds. It was just past midnight, and the watchmen had either fallen asleep or drunken themselves into a stupor which was just what the pirates who lurked around the southern coast had been hoping for.

Leander, called Lee, was a tall reedy sort of man with long black hair and a scar across his face. He waved his crew from one ship to the other silently--he wasn't one for a lot of theatrics and he was hoping that by staying silent they might be able to rob the ship without doing much killing.

Even if that was impossible, expecially when someone from the Caronia screamed and dropped a torch--sending hot oil and fire out onto the heavily polished wooden deck.

Ten minutes after the attack started Joel, a tiny little bit of a boy burst into Gabriel's room. "There's pirates on board!"


Example of stand alone writing:
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