1. What's a roleplay blog whose characterization you admire? 2. What's a roleplay blog whose writing style you admire? 6. What's a roleplay blog who's an absolute joy to talk to ooc? // @stcriestcld
What's a roleplay blog whose characterization you admire?
@lady-archivist! I make the heart-hands at this blog constantly. Headcanons, aesthetics, threads, they’re all wonderful, but there’s something about the very core of the primary muse that is simply exquisite. I look at this character and her story and am eternally eager for more. That, and the few interactions we have had are always fun, because who else will help a caiman to a study nook?
What's a roleplay blog whose writing style you admire?
@fiddlingonthetympanic! There’s a very raw but polished energy to how this mun writes that just sucks me in every time. There’s no hesitation to approach the grimmer side of this muse and the world she occupies, but it’s written with such wonderful style and wit that I am always in awe when a reply or hc hits the dash.
What's a roleplay blog who's an absolute joy to talk to ooc?
@gamblershand! Ghost is a close friend of mine who made even the earliest interactions so easy and fun. With my anxiety, that can usually be a struggle, but I hardly struggled at all with Ghost. And to think it all started with me editing a KH character’s weapons into d--
I have just conceived of the image of Hel as a baby raccoon and i dunno why but i felt the need to share that with you // anonymous
I mean. They are a Baby Hel aesthetic. Little night creature who climbs so good and adores her kingdom of garbage baubles from her travels. She’s a lil burglar and we love her all the more for it. She’s cute. She’s fluffy. And she might have rabies.
😈 Do you think confession blogs are good venting platforms or do they just cause drama? // @spaceyechowrites
In theory I don’t think giving the RPC a place to vent about things that are annoying them is... bad? I think part of being a long term roleplayer on this site is finding your bugbear and suffering in silence whenever it crops up, be it something as serious as disregarding accessibility or as petty as my continued crusade against groups that spam indie rp tags. Having a place to vent and have others in the community say ‘Oh, same!’ can be a good form of affirmation that shows people they are not alone, or a platform for people to offer advice. Full disclosure, that’s what I was angling for when submitting to one in the past -- It was a Tomato/Tomahto debate about my character’s name being translated differently by certain partners despite my using the canonical spelling, and my asking if this was a hill worth dying on or if I should just let my partners use what they preferred.
However, I think once confession blogs turn burnbook style -- IE allowing namedrops, letting people present hyperspecific scenarios rather than general gripes, dragging any ensuing drama out for days if not weeks, and treating all confessions as equal when many can get very ugly and call out large swathes of a community for something that isn’t even a real issue -- then it’s a problem. There’s too much room for bullying or dragging a conflict that could be settled over DMs or just hitting the block button onto a public platform. Not to mention it tends to kick a hornet’s nest and get people involved that have no part in the conflict, usually to painful effect. Like I’m all for callout posts when serious boundaries are being crossed or people are at actual risk of harmed on the platform, but like.... My guy.... Do you need to get a mob going because someone didn’t like a headcanon of yours? Or because their easily inferred headcanon about a mutual canon muse sounds a lot like something in your archive?
My overall thought is that confession blogs are great in theory but do not work in practice just given the nature of the community and how easily abused the system can be.
do you feel similar to your muse in any way? // @amcrist
Mmmm a little. She and I both have health issues that prevent us from really going out there and making the waves we want to, but that was largely unintentional. Just as I started to develop issues with a leg I broke years ago that sometimes cause me ambulatory issues, same as Hel has issues with her rotted leg. That one came after I began writing her, though. I think the shared health/maneuverability issues is part of what gets me to write so in-depth on those facets of Hel’s character as time goes on.
From the way other people describe me, though, I think we both have that family first mentality. I’m a Mama’s Girl as much as Hel is a Daddy’s Girl, and I’m the first one to go out of my way for extended family so long as I have the time to do so. S/o to many a week out of town taking care of ill relatives or babies whose parents both work.
Besides the health and family thing, I don’t think we have any similarities. Hel has her act together way more than I do.
It comes when she’s just distracted enough not to notice the shift in programming. Gone is whatever her typical after work fare is, the screen going clear and reflective for a moment, then to mute static, before the picture starts to shudder back to life. Pastel fractals in all the colors of the rainbow invites the viewer into something called Es Mentiras, though there is little to hint at whether this is a producer’s card or the name of the show itself.
Curtains up. A catchy but piercing tune precedes the appearance of The Host, a pretty ginger somewhere in her late twenties. She goes without notice for the moment, her words still background noise at the start. “Hello, children! It’s so wonderful to see all of my friends again! I have such a special day for us all, but first, let’s remember our game!”
Maybe she starts to notice now, the honeyed voice coming completely out of the left field. If she looks up now, she will notice the host’s auburn curls are cut so that they jut out at various angles, not a simple fluffy mane but arranged with inapparent purpose. Her skin looks sallow under the stage lights. She leads her ‘children’ through their game, to ensure they are alone, to come closer to the telly, and to cross their hearts not to tell --
There’s something about the backdrop that is familiar, but only just off. A memory of a memory of a home that is no longer that. The voices of dozens of unseen children shout out that they’re done. “Fantastic!” The Host cheers, her blue eyes sparkling like stars, inhumanly bright. “Now that we’ve finished our game, let’s--”
She sees you. She must. She smiles out from the screen as another unseen figure calls out to her, speaking in a way that almost sounds like English, almost like Japanese, almost something you understand all chopped up and shuffled so it roots into your brain through your ears. The Host looks away for a moment with a delighted gasp and an announcement that Mr. Postman has come. A gloved hand appears from just off-screen, delivering a comically large prop envelope to the young woman. She thanks Mr. Postman for his time, then studies the letter.
“I looks like we’ve got mail for... Vivian.”
She looks up again. She wears your father’s smile, so you can trust her, so you can know she’s a friend. Every channel reflects her pretty face and your father’s care-worn smile back at you.
“Why, don’t be shy, Vivian! My producer said we’re friends now, since she decided she likes the Archivist. The last producer wasn’t at all like that.” Miniature cartoon caricatures of the first and second Distortion appear at each bottom corner, saccharinely big-eyed, their claws looking rather dull. Helen’s smile spreads completely off of its face. Michael pouts instead. They pop into view for only a moment before they blink out of existence.
You so desperately want to change the channel. Her voice takes on a patient edge.
“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty head. It’s not about them, Vivian. It’s from--” She pops the seal on the prop letter, smiling as she sits up straighter. “Your friend Melanie. She says that she’s alright, and that she’s making good progress on today’s work. PS -- That means Post Script, children -- She means to say that Helen has not eaten her, yet.” The unseen children giggle, disembodied voices echoing around your girlhood room.
The Host taps the message against her open palm. Her thin pink lips twist conspiratorially. “Nor is she likely to! At least, not in the fatal way, I imagine.” There is silence on the set. You are silent as well. She chuckles. “That must have gone over your heads, children. That’s alright.” The silence drags.
“My, we’ve a tough crowd at home.” Planting her chin against her curled knuckles, she lilts her head just so, curls swaying upward rather than downward. “I said we’re friends, didn’t I?” There’s such force behind the word, wrapped up in ribbons and pearls, meant to be less of a threat. “My boss likes your boss, and your Melanie likes my boss, and, well.. Why shouldn’t we get along?”
The picture flickers for a moment, a dark backstage area, what might be the same woman from a lifetime ago -- “We’re both pawns, aren’t we?”
She blinks back into view, still perched upon her chair in what you think your childhood living room looked like. Were the walls always blue? Wasn’t that window on another wall? In any other situation, you would be able to say with certainty that this set-up is wrong, but now-- Now nothing. There’s no room to think. She drums her hands happily against the arms of your father’s favorite chair.
“Come on, Vivian. Let’s get to know one another, now that I have your attention. You could even be today’s special guest.”
The children cheer. Are you really ready to disappoint them?
THE HOST // ?? / TMA OC
COMING SOON TO A MULTI NEAR YOU
A kiss for courage, that’s what boys so often claimed with laughter on their tongues. Who, in all the realms, was bolder than the Morningstar? His name was in the heart of every rebel, of all those who dared to be more than their design. Hel was certain of one truth:
She would have need of such fortitude.
Yet courage did not come on its own. Something so perfect, so beautiful, ached inside of her. It ached in her nerves too, a reminder of the valleys and cracks that lined her monstrous half. Just looking at him was enough to unmake her. His lips, then, would have been the sweetest, surest poison. Even a glancing blow could prove fatal against such an effective weapon.
How could he stand to look at her?
Hel bowed her head, ebony locks hiding her face from view. Gloved digits rose to the hand of her host, ghosting across his flesh. She should burn for such offense, for the assumption that she could touch him without bursting into fame. In the same moment, as the warmth of him settled into her cold hand, she realized a single truth: His Father was a fool. If Lucifer were her own, she would never have let him stray from her. She would forgive him every crime, for the curve of his nose alone.
Her lips brushed, penitent pilgrims, across his knuckles. She risked no more than that. It failed to make her brave, but she knew in her heart she would dream of his hand and his dark curls all her life long. Drawing back, respectable, nothing more than a foreign god paying tribute to the First of the Fallen, she raised her eyes.
It was done. If he had not stolen the voice from her throat as surely as he had the sense from her had, then they could proceed with their forum.
‘A knife like this’ll skewer food, smear butter, and slit throats all at the same time.” // @mooneternyl
“That sounds... Incredibly unsanitary.”
It’s a fantastic sales pitch. Her concerns should not be misconstrued as disinterest. The proffered knife is inspected with a long glance, a scrutiny of every edge and glint. It’s a pretty enough weapon. There’s something to be said for multi-functional tools.
The wheel has not been re-invented, but it has been perfected, perhaps. Her thumb traces her lower lip, the goddess becoming thoughtful. A moment later, her eyes lift to look at the wolf. Dark brows knit together, sending wrinkles rippling across her brow.
there’s something to be said about realizing how precious something is, once you’ve lost it - Loki @theymakemischief
Is this his attempt at an apology?
It burns.
She can’t say why there’s this budding flame at the center of her chest. Is it that he dares to speak a truth she has already learned? Or is it a kinder fury than that, one that hates him apologizing for another man’s cruelty She cannot say. She hardly recognizes the fire that engulfs her, so much of her life defined by the cold that devours.
“It is a painful lesson,” she admits at last. The lilt of her voice is strange, even to her. There’s a childishness to it, a novelty she has forgotten. Is that all Hel will be, a child lost?
But he’s found her now.
Shifting in her seat, Loki’s own eyes reflect back at him. There’s a mercy in whatever flame has taken hold of her proving smokeless. Those eyes do not water. Whatever she seeks in him, she does not speak its name. That’s for him to answer or question. Still, empathy is bound up in a silent prayer, a hope that whatever rules them will intercede on her behalf and move him towards what she ha sought for so long.
