Writer For Hire

templar=judge/executioner/officer of the law
Blue Robe=referring to a rank of templars

The thing was written as a stream of consciousness! Probably not the best example of what I can do, but it's what I got on hand. :)

Writer For Hire

Hey dudes, long time no see-o. (I wonder if anybody remembers me?) Anyway, I'm kinda bored and need a side-hobby. Since selling yourself as a writer in this community in particular is pretty difficult, I'm going to include a lot of examples of how I can be of use to a design team.

I can fill a wide variety of roles, not exclusive to: writing plot from scratch, dialogue only, creating characters, taking vague plots from creators and fleshing it out further, etc.

I'm very strong at creating people and scenes in a believable way your players/fans can attach themselves to. Your games will not have a lasting effect if your story or your characters fall flat in some way.

Here's a memory I wrote for a roleplaying character I had a while back. The only thing you need to really know is that being a 'wiggler' is akin to developing magick powers.
Bako rushed through the courtyard, dragging a bag of obsidian slag as best she could manage. The burden crunched loudly with each shift in weight, a bulbous deformation to her form--which could be somewhat similar to a mutation. It certainly set her apart and held her in a discouragingly disgusted regard to the rest of the unit.

The Corporal took her first step into the training yard, hunched over and struggling. Her legs quivered like a necker's in front of some cruel templar with each movement. She was often called a few favorable things during a morning of training for her brutality and strength, but she was at the last dregs of her endurance as she slowly staggered to her destination. She felt pathetic--she felt weak--she felt humiliated.

Sergeant Bace stood with his arms crossed, watching her with a particularly bored stare as she approached. His expression did not change as she dropped her load, and began the series of formalities required of her.

Bako straightened her crushed form, a cracked and worn series of limbs with a tangled mess of hair. She saluted her Sergeant wearily, barely able to bring a loose fist to her breast before sputtering the rest of it.

"Necker whore slime Corporal Bako reporting in with one more bag of obsidian, Sergeant!"

With that, the impeccably dressed and groomed Sergeant snapped his fingers. Two large Corporals moved in on her, shoving her to the dirt again. This was the... thirteenth time today. With each load of obsidian, she recieved a beating. Bace wanted to use Corporals from a different unit, in order to make it as emotionally painful as possible, and so he called upon the two Corporals who had proven themselves early in their careers--just as Bako had.

The stark difference being that these two Corporals, (who were laying down strikes with their knees and elbows to Bako's writhing form,) were at the very beginning of their careers. In different units they were going to become Sergeants soon, and possibly Lieutenants. They were like Bako was, before she had found out her terrible disease. She was a great fucking Corporal before she found out she had been born a disgusting wiggler. Fuck you if you think that finding that out was easy to deal with, or hide. (Oh how difficult it was at times to hide.)

Sergeant Bace, who had been her Sergeant for ten... (or was it twelve?) years now was tired of his Corporal. His Blue Robe would not assign him a different one, citing that it was the Sergeant's fault his incredibly promising Corporal turned sour. Bace had been denied promotion quite a few times because of Bako, she was sure. No one stayed a Sergeant that long if they were as good as Bace was. (As good as she was, if not for her affliction.)

The punishment ended, possibly to begin again later after the next bag. Gripped roughly by her filthy mat of bloody-streaked hair, eyes half-lidded as she fought passing out, Bako was held upright on her knees. Her form swayed and would have surely toppled if not stretched to proper form by the consistently agonizing pull on her hair. She bled from her face, her neck, her gut, her limbs, (and she certainly felt as though she bled inside. She was hoping she might cough up blood, to give her a sign that it would all be over so very soon.)

Sergeant Bace squatted down in front of her, cold gaze narrowing. The both of them were terribly conflicting sights. He was organized, trimmed, freshly sand-bathed, and refreshed. She was torn apart, messy, smelled of sweat and piss, and nearly dead.

"You've cost me a lot, you piece of shit. You are lucky I cannot kill you." Bace drew a knife, holding it out to one of the future Sergeants. "Needless to say, you are not making Sergeant. Again. I am done with you." He turned a placid gaze from her to the one holding her. "Give her a hair cut."

The simplicity of his words troubled her, and she had to think on it for a dreadfully long time before her thoughts processed. Bace cannot kill her, she lost her chance at Sergeant, (again,) Bace is done with her--wait, what does he mean by 'done'? What was he doing? Was he leaving the militia, now? Was he getting rid of her somehow?

The dull blade scraped across her scalp. The knife was more of an annoyance than anything. This was a new trick for reducing her. She'd seen it done before, but it normally was reserved for those being punished severely--as with lashings.

Bako suddenly smiled as her drenched locks fell past her sight, the red along her teeth causing Bace some pause in his expression. The Sergeant opened his mouth as though suddenly distressed, seeing the severity of her wounds all at once. She wasn't about to be sent to the Sawbones before she endured the worst of his punishments, so Bako thought quickly and attempted to form some course of action that would keep her from being cared to.

Bako's throat gurgled for a moment, and she spit on Sergeant Bace. The drool and blood trickled down her own form, but she did not care. She had landed a good amount on Bace, and that was pleasing enough to see his reaction. Unfortunately, he was having none of it, and instead of continuing to call for Sawbones, he simply knocked her the fuck out.

Oh well. At least she'd have a full haircut by the time she woke up, instead of half of one like she might have if she had been given to Sawbones. She considered herself genuinely successful.

She just had a really great fuck, a decent bit of wine, and stuck her fist up Bace's ass all in one day. It was a fairly decent day to die. (Krath, if only she were ever that lucky.)

I invite anyone interested to give me a scene they'd like to see played out with the following directives: plot, characters, tone, mood, & any needed history about the world.

RPG Maker VX Information Website

Who cares about the RTP! If they get rid of the lag, that's a sale right there. Definitely eager about this. It has re-inspired graphics work on my own project, as I translate my current shizzle to the new res.

RPG Maker VX. RMVX is to RMXP what RM2k3 is to RM2k; RMVX release date announced

Then you could hire minions to code!

RPG Maker VX. RMVX is to RMXP what RM2k3 is to RM2k; RMVX release date announced

author=rcholbert link=topic=298.msg3862#msg3862 date=1191818958
author=WIP link=topic=298.msg3860#msg3860 date=1191804903
I'm wondering what they are doing to increase the performance.

This just in: RPG Maker VX powered by ika.

The WIPS rejoice!
That would be pretty ironic if they ripped off some rpg maker community program code.

Story beginning

In your opinion, this story did not use enough descriptive wording?

Story beginning

I broke up the story with line breaks as has been suggested.

Demondestiny: I'm not sure what you're talking about, unless you're referring to the paragraph breaks. In which case, I'm not really privvy to posting or reading stories online--either way, I did just adjust the story to meet the request. If this is not what you're referring to, please be more specific.

Also, I am wondering how far you read. You are not being specific about what you mean with "visualizations". I believe a great deal of description is put into the scene after the original blurb I posted. Dramatic things do happen, within reason to the story, (not to sound like an overly-defensive writer.) There isn't going to be an alien invasion in the first scene, and I did not think a "flashback" to an exciting scene would have been appropriate. Elaborate?

Serious injuries

The dreaded D COLI!

Serious injuries

I have no idea. It was a less-powerful string of e coli or cousin to e coli, according to the Canadian doctor I went to. (But wtf do Canadian doctors know...?)

Story beginning

For this particular story I decided not to physically describe my main characters. Call it a trait of this story, because I normally do. I figured by the end of the first scene the characters would be fresh in description without any indication from the actual text.

Here is the next batch of the story, but not the entire scene. I may or may not have missed some italicizing, as you have to re-do it when you paste it from a word doc.


Faylithe brushed her knees as she stood, in a mood to seemingly ignore everything. She turned and began the way they had come. As they walked along, Belivant gave Faylithe her company of silenceâ€"as she often requested. Imus and Saythe began talking gently between themselves, discovering one another's hopes concerning Feast Day.

“Syn? Synluna? From the fletcher!?” Saythe spoke with disbelief. Imus simply nodded, his embarrassment revealed in his color.

“She has not taken note of me,” he added, as though to quell hope.

“How should she notice a man without a face? You bury yourself in your cloak and hood whenever we shop there! And I was convinced you had a love for the smell of feather, contorting your face into a pretty little pucker!” Saythe laughed, pinching Imus' cheek despite the sullen reaction.

Belivant looked over his shoulder from a few paces ahead and gave them both a look that they noticed only after a moment. Both cleared their throats and looked in opposite directions. It would take them a few minutes to begin talking again, at least, but this was enough time. The elder and much thicker sibling put his arm around Faylithe and gave her an affectionate squeeze, smiling down at her.

Belivant said, “We will find it soon, my sister Faylithe.” She only joined her looks with his own for a flicker, and stared at the ground before her thereafter. It wasn't the torn and scarred visage of his appearance that took her cheer; she was often uncomfortable when things revolved around her, he knew. If only Queens ruled the world as she would, maybe they would have peace.

Imus and Saythe began whispering again, tone reflecting agreement over a subject.

Belivant saw a fork in the cavern ahead; one that curved right and up, and one that spiraled down and left. They took the passage to the right, and the end of the darkness began to speckle each frame of vision. The white sparkles of light crept through the visage of darkness until it finally enveloped it, and the smell of dank soil was replaced by a breath of fresh wind and grass.

The torch was tossed off to the side before they stepped onto softer land with a bright sky. The pigmentation beyond the crawling white clouds was a hair-brushed purple, as it might have been on any warm day. Imus and Saythe stretched their arms and legs, appearing to both be glad for natural light. Even Belivant smiled a bit, feeling more relaxed. Faylithe was the only one not noticeably affected, disregarding to look about at the new environment.

The party wrapped themselves up in their scarves; tugging tightly each cloak. Hands were secured under garment or glove, and eyes behind a palm. Belivant led, while Imus and Saythe held on to his shoulder; Faylithe, placing her left hand on his neck, made up the tail end of the pack.

Yellow blossoms swirled past in scattered ideas of migration as the wind took them, plucked and torn from the cubbies of the mighty tree trunks. Should one touch bare skin, it would be unpleasant at best. The branches leaned and dipped, much similar to the sight of a child trying to tug her father along by the hand. With a fearful mind, they might have been hungry giants swooping their arms down to snatch up prey.

What was said to die in these plains during the day was feasted upon at night. Saythe and Imus had listened to a few stories, of the drunken and exaggerated sort, but had invested much doubt into the idea of monsters that only appeared under the moon. Well, at least after Belivant gave them both a good slap. ‘Sometimes wisdom only comes with age,' Belivant often said.

The group suddenly halted as the leader did.

“We are at the rock,” Belivant intoned, turning around and letting the hands upon him drop. Each uncovered their eyes and glanced around, nodding.

They stood now under the small overhead of boulders stacked in a misshapen shape, famous for its protection from the blossoms and ability to give rest to any traveling man. The splintering petals themselves were now picking up speed and numbers as the wind increasedâ€"as though the lord over the storm was furious it had missed four more meals. Many men had fallen to the flowers called by just as many names: Blight Flowers, Leech Plant, or the Soaring Needle Pricksâ€"as Imus called them. He seemed a bit fond of his own variation, for its creativity and poetic appeal.

The place itself could be considered relaxing only in the reality of its protection, for it had shown no signs of comfort. The rock walls were sometimes, as they all noticed, splattered with a coat of bloodâ€"only to be removed the next time they passed through; whether the city or the unexplained did such was a topic Belivant instructed his brothers not to inquire about, or he would resort to teaching them wisdom in public. The plant life around them was scarce and often dead, tucked away to starve in cracks of the stone or torn apart as it was trampled underfoot; seeming by groups of feet more in number than their own band. While Belivant knew the benefit to risking their lives in crossing the plains, he did not know what others might gain.

A raspy voice exhaled the words, “Find it?”

Belivant inclined his head to the dark shape at the wall furthest from them. “A river that still runs yet underneath.” A cackle from the old man followed his rise, lingering into a laugh at the end of his breath.

“Runs deep and runs clean. Runs deep and runs clean.” He began picking up his several oddities: A bow with no string, a clock with no hands yet ticked loudly, a second cloak that he wore over his first yet in terrible repair, and a dead nightingale that he always pressed against his heart as he stepped. The tick ting tick grew louder as he closed in on the party, a dragging trail of dust behind him. He always seemed to be shaking grit free from him with each movement. Intentional or not, Belivant could not say, or even if the man knew he was so bound to the earth.

For the best was to not ask, however, like so many things. The old man was one of them, after all.

“She was excited to see it? Yes and yes?” The old man leaned forward and perked his bushy eyebrows quizzically. Imus and Saythe often, or as often as they were distanced from Belivant, took wagers on how much the brow would creep up the forehead of the old man; the rules indicated that only the tallest point mattered. Currently, Saythe was muttering silently as he slipped Imus a coin, for it rested on the fourth crease and not the fifth crinkle just above that.

Belivant replied, “We were unable to find it for certain. I do believe we found the place to return to should we acquire the right materials.” The correct path, or what was thought to be so in the cavern, had been collapsed. They would likely be forced to descend the cliff to arrive at the river.

The old man staggered in a bend to peer into the eyes of Faylithe, revealing his spaced and worn teeth as he smiled. “You can just taste it, and taste it, and taste it.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “Can't you?” He moved his free hand to reach out and touch her. Belivant slapped the eager limb short in a grip at the wrist, and with a stare that a wall would give an ill-fit army, looked down through the eyes of a creature that might become an enemy.

“You know the price we paid. We will pay no more.” If the often bestial tone of Belivant did not frighten, the portrait of a monster would. The eldest held on until the old man lowered his eyes and dipped the front of his body in a sweeping bow several timesâ€"all while trying to free himself. He was granted with pardon after his few attempts.

“Yes and yes the price was paid!”

Imus gave the guide an uneasy look, moving forward to whisper into the ear of Faylithe a spot of comfort. She nodded in appreciation, lacking fright or worry. Saythe began a quiet conversation with Belivant as the old man stepped around carefully, apparently wrestling with something unseen.

“Why do we trust him?” Saythe inquired.

Belivant returned over his shoulder, “There were fouler choices, brother.” He directed his voice to the old man again, saying, “When shall we begin again?”

The old man stopped in his pacing and lifted his eyes from the book he had procured from no where and nothing. “We cannot move yet, no and not yet no. Perhaps and perhaps later.” He pointed a shaky finger to the storm outside, his teeth now chattering from some chill that did not touch the others. “It is terrible, and terrible how it howls. It howls now for you. It knows you now. We must fight it on our return, not return again and again.”

Belivant shook his head, declaring, “We will be returning again.”

“Torture and torture! Torture awaits, do not and not!” The man, who could be resembled to one only in shell, was horrified at the idea. “He will not forgive and forgive.”

“It is wind. There is no he,” Belivant assured for everyone gruffly.

The guide worked his jaw in a spasm as he dribbled along his chin. “There is he! There is he and he and you will die to he.” He fell to his knees and screamed a terrible cry, “You will die to he!” He pressed his face onto the dirt and grime below, rubbing himself against it in a groveling motion. “I do not lead these, I do not and not will notâ€"do not! Spare and spare me! I know your patience and knowâ€"”

A heavy boot slammed across the face of the old man, sprawling him onto his back; his things sprayed about. His face froze in captive surprise, staring up at what surely was his doom. Belivant hunched down and took him by the cloak, lifting him off the ground.

“You will lead us this time. We have paid,” the eldest brother snarled.

The old man was weeping and babbling a clogged reply only after Belivant dropped him and stepped away; once a shivering water skin, sprinkling fear as he shook under his gripâ€"now he poured forth in a fury of noise and wet. What words he meant to say with emotion were so soaked in despair, it seemed he was trying to wail chained at the murky bottom of a bog; the sounds formed were swallowed in the weight of his prison, buried by a terrible depth. He held his lost volume above his head as though to shield him, like a man might shade his eyes from the sun if it would burn through him. What he was frightened of spiritually did not bind him as the laws of physical death.

Faylithe looked onto the poor creature with soulless eyes. The old man was collecting his dignity and brightened with resolve with each item he acquired once again, stumbling his choice of word and his use of ligament. There was no consolingâ€"only the watchful interest no matter what was happening, ever constant between the two people. Faylithe believed his name was Caize; the spawn of a whore and a drunkard. While Imus and Saythe were inclined to agree with the idea that he indeed had tasted the terrible taste in the womb, Belivant had other ideas about Caize, who now carefully stepped around the three with an air of avoiding a snapping dog tied to a post. As he reached the edge of safety that the small alcove provided, he knelt onto one knee.

editted: To add breaks in the paragraphs.