IsabellaRose

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I guess guilty, because I'm uncomfortable an awful lot. The next person just wants to feel grass between their toes again and get rid of all this snow!

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Guitly-ish... There was a point where I thought I wanted a very specific one very badly. I guess in hindsight I'm kind of glad I didn't, now. Although like everything, it would have just been something I did in the past that made me who I am today. But being reminded of him every time I looked at my naked body might be a bit much. The next person had a relationship they thought would last forever... not last forever.

Fuck, so I can kiss her everything.

The knight’s smirk deepens, his amusement turning sharper. He knows you lied. His sword is in his hand, his patience wearing thin. This is where most people break. This is where he expects you to stammer, to beg, to fall apart. So you don’t. Instead, you tilt your head, letting your lips part slightly, softening your expression. You let the tension shift, not into fear, but into something else. Something he wasn’t expecting. "I lied," you admit, exhaling as if resigned, as if you’re suddenly very aware of the space between you. Your voice is lower now, a thread of quiet vulnerability woven into it. "But only because I didn't know. I thought you'd be like the rest, not so..." His smirk doesn’t fade, but you catch it, the flicker of interest in his eyes, the momentary pause as he processes your change in demeanor. "So... what? exactly?" he asks, tilting his head. His voice is still edged with amusement, but now there’s curiosity mixed in. He’s listening. You take a slow step closer. Not bold, not desperate. Just enough to test the space between you. "Not stupid," you murmur, letting your gaze flicker over him as if seeing him differently now. As if he is the puzzle worth solving. That smirk sharpens again, but now it’s laced with something else. "I was trying to outplay you," you continue, your voice quiet, confessional. "But that was a mistake. You're too smart for fast talk and tricks." Your fingers graze your collar absentmindedly, drawing his attention to the vulnerable curve of your throat. "You need someone who understands what kind of man you are." His grip on the sword loosens slightly. His eyes flick to your lips, then back to your eyes. "And what kind of man am I?" he asks, almost indulgently. You take another step, slow, deliberate. If he lets you get close enough, you’ll know if this is working. If he stops you, then you’ll have to try something else fast. "I don’t know," you say, letting your lips curve into something that isn’t quite a smile, something sultry, something tempting. "But I’d like to find out." For the first time, he hesitates. You’re walking a dangerous line. One wrong step, and you’ll be at his mercy. But if you do this right, he’ll be at yours. If you continue, let your hand graze his armor, let your voice drop just enough to make him think of you as something other than an enemy, click here. <link forthcoming> If you wait, let him make the next move, let him wonder if this was his idea all along, click here. <link forthcoming>

I don't know if I'm guilt or not guilty? I think I have just the right amount of piercings. The next person wants a specific tattoo.

broken trust

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Guilty. I have volunteered at the soup kitchen/homeless shelter, and I have regularly scheduled volunteer hours at a local women's shelter. The next person has had to bail someone out.

Guilty. I'm one of those people that gets a really good feeling from helping others. Plus, I think it helps balance out your personal scales - everyone has done some crappy stuff in their life. Helping others sort of evens out your karmic debt. The next person volunteers their time for a specific charity.

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Not guilty. I'm actually doing pretty good emotionally. The next person wants to stimulate someone's... emotions.

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You hold your ground, despite the heavy weight of his gaze, the way his fingers still hover near his dagger. The tension in the air is suffocating, but you don’t back down, you push forward. "If you kill me," you say, voice low, steady, "you will doom your king." The knight lets out a short, amused exhale, but there’s an edge of uncertainty behind it. "Is that so?" You take a slow breath, keeping your expression composed, your lie already forming. You have to sell this. "My father knew this war was coming," you say, inventing history as you go, layering truth with deception. "Before your army ever reached our gates, before the first sword was drawn, he prepared for the worst." The knight’s amusement fades slightly. He’s listening. "He sent envoys to our allies, men sworn to avenge his death. If I die, if House Valoryn falls completely, there will be no peace for your king." You let your voice drop to something cold, something threatening. "Armies will rise from the western shores, from the eastern highlands. They will not stop until Edrington burns." He shifts slightly, weight adjusting, uncertain now, calculating. Good. You keep pushing. "My father’s men wait for word. If I live, if I am spared, they will not march. But if I die?" You let the words linger, your tone sharpening. "Then it will not be your king’s rule that expands, but his war. It will become one he cannot win." The knight’s jaw tightens. You can see it, the flicker of doubt, the thought running through his mind, what if this is true? What if killing me invites disaster? But then, his expression shifts, his smirk returning, sharper, knowing, turning into something colder, crueler. His eyes flick over you with a predator’s amusement, and you feel the first true prickle of fear crawling up your spine. "That’s quite a story, Princess," he murmurs, his voice almost gentle. Mocking. "But you see…" He takes a step forward, closing the distance between you in an instant. "I don’t recall hearing anything about an alliance army marching to save you." Your throat tightens. Too late to take it back. His smirk widens as your silence stretches just a fraction too long. "And if your father truly had such loyal men, such powerful friends…" His voice lowers, becoming almost a purr. "Why did they let your house fall?" You grasp for another answer, another way out, but his hand snaps forward, grabbing your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his. His grip is firm, bruising. "You're lying." Your breath catches, your body going still, but his smirk only deepens. "Thought I wouldn’t notice?" His thumb drags slowly along your jawline before he releases you, only to heft his sword instead. The gleaming blade catches the dim torchlight as he looks at you, considering. "You just made a mistake, Princess," he muses, tapping the flat of the blade against his gauntlet. "See, now I know you’ll say anything to save yourself. Which means I don’t have to believe a word you say." Your stomach twists. You have seconds to decide how to salvage this. If you drop the act completely, beg, plead, throw yourself at his mercy, click here <link forthcoming> If you try to draw a half-truth from your lie, insist the army isn’t marching yet, but that they’re waiting for your command, click here <link forthcoming> If you shift tactics entirely, grab the dagger at his belt, go for his throat, and hope you can end this before he does, click here <link forthcoming>

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Not guilty, but not in years. The next person has never been to a strip club.

Nice! We should build a world together sometime! I haven't engaged in worldbuilding for fun in a while.

Not guilty. The next person believes that a zoo is just a pet store that doesn't sell anything.

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"If your king is wise," you say, voice measured, even, "he will see the advantage in this." You hold your ground, even as he steps closer, his shadow falling over you like a noose tightening. The weight of his presence is oppressive, but you do not falter. You have his attention, and that is power. His fingers graze the hilt of his dagger, but you refuse to acknowledge the threat. You will not show fear. "You have already won the battle," you continue, keeping your voice steady, authoritative, the way your father once spoke in court. "But if you kill me, the war is far from over." The knight raises a brow, intrigued but skeptical. "Is that so?" "You know it is," you press. "There will be rebellion, resistance, blood spilled for years. The nobles loyal to my house will never kneel. They will hide, regroup, strike from the shadows. Your armies will be bled dry fighting ghosts that refuse to surrender." You step forward, just slightly, challenging him with your words. "But if I live—if I stand beside your king—those same nobles will have no choice but to accept him as their sovereign." His jaw tightens, and you see the conflict in his eyes. He knows you’re right. "A bloodless victory," you say softly, driving the point home. "An empire won not through slaughter, but unity. That is what your king truly wants, isn’t it? To rule, not simply destroy." Silence stretches between you, thick as smoke. Then, he exhales, lips pressing into something thoughtful, reluctant. He hates that you have a point, but he doesn’t deny it. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you as though he’s never truly seen you before. The look is unnerving, as though he’s trying to strip you bare with his gaze alone. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, softer, but no less dangerous. "If I take you to my king, what assurance do I have that you will play your part?" His smirk returns, colder now, calculated. "What stops you from driving a dagger into his heart the moment you are close enough?" His fingers still hover near his own dagger, waiting. Your next words could seal your fate. If you tell him he can search you to make sure you have no weapon, click here. If you tell him you will swear fealty to his king, click here <link forthcoming> If you offer a different bargain, one that makes you valuable not just as a political tool, but as something more… personal, click here <link forthcoming>

I love a well-developed world! I really loved Golarion from Pathfinder when I started playing. It seemed better than the Sword Coast, without all the... I don't know... D&D-ness of Sword Coast? But lately I've been playing in worlds created specifically for the game I'm running. I've really got into collaborative world-building and the "yes, and" improv philosophy. It's great because you can add in things you like from your favorite settings and turn those individual parts into something entirely new. Like the Wolfen Empire and their conflict with humanity from Palladium Fantasy and the Kelesh Empire and their culture of slavery from Golarion? Use 'em both. Rename them if you want, add new elements, knightly orders from favorite books, whatever... I've always been a home-brewed setting person, but making them collaborative is my favorite. I could go on and on about the world I created with input from all the players in my last Pathfinder campaign. But I won't bore you with the details.

What makes it stand out over other Fantasy settings?

Your fingers fly to the strap on your thigh, finding the familiar smooth hilt of another throwing knife. You can’t let him close the distance, not when he’s bigger, stronger, and armored. Not when you’re already breathing too hard, your heart slamming against your ribs like a caged animal. You yank the blade free, steadying your grip even as you backpedal, trying to gain ground. The knight snarls, his bloodied shoulder heaving, but his pace doesn’t slow. He’s fast, but you’re faster. You snap your wrist, sending another blade spinning through the air. This time, he’s ready. His gauntleted hand jerks up, and the knife glances off the steel, clattering uselessly to the stone floor. His smirk returns, though pained. "You'll have to do better than that, thief." You don’t hesitate. Another knife is already in your grip, your fingers slick with sweat as you whip it toward his legs, his knees, anything unarmored, anything vulnerable. The blade bites deep into the gap beneath his greaves, and the knight stumbles, his leg buckling beneath him. Yes! You use the moment to run, dodging behind an overturned chair, your boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. Your lungs burn, but you force yourself deeper into the chamber, weaving through the wreckage of battle. He grunts in pain behind you, but he’s not down. You hear the scrape of steel against stone as he yanks the blade free, his movements slower now, his breath coming harsher. You risk a glance back. He’s limping, but still coming. You’re running out of knives. If you move into the darker part of the room and duck behind cover, waiting for him to pass to strike from behind, click here <link forthcoming> If you push forward, using your speed and agility to try to find an escape route, click here <link forthcoming> If you decide enough is enough and turn to face him with your twin daggers, click here <link forthcoming>

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