story rich Lost Starters

Due to ghosting or other issues, I've written a number of things that were lost, including several fully fleshed out starter posts that I wish I could have seen where they might have gone! I'll dump a few here in case someone might be interested.

We don't have to use the exact starter as posted! They are just springboards for whatever we want to build together.

You can find my main RP ad here. And remember to check out my preferences before contacting me.

1. The Amazon and the Minotaur

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Cassandra moves through the jungle with the practised ease of someone who has grown up in it, infused with a deep knowledge of its plants, trees, and beasts. She knows where to step, what smells and sounds to avoid, the specific warning calls of hundreds of birds and monkeys, and a thousand other little things the ignorance of which might cause injury or death. Her body is muscled and lithe, her skin dark, her hair black and braided, tied back to not get in her way as she leaps and runs, moving like a shadow panther: sprinting a short distance then stopping to listen and watch, to read the jungle around her. The life of the jungle sustains her tribe, and she has been taught to respect it.

When a band of screamer apes swing by, she stands pressed up against a tree, holding her breath. The massive apes are twice the size of a regular human, great hulking beasts with thick, long arms charged with a primordial strength that could squeeze the life out of her with casual ease. Thick tusks protrude from jaws that could break her bones with a single bite. Not that they don't fall to bow and spear. But there is no reason to kill them; they keep the population of rhak worms in check. Everything is in balance out here.

Except, she is leaving the jungle, her home. And she's alone. This is a first for her. She has been in the outside world many times before, but always with dozens or hundreds of amazons at her side, and often commanding them. She was the queen-to-be, and she threw it all away. For a man-child. Her son. She spits, cursing her foolishness.

Ahead she can see ruins through the thinning trees. Great slabs of stone that had once, impossibly, been stacked on top of each other to create houses and even great forts of stone. The people who once lived here must have held a lot of knowledge now lost — perhaps even magic, to accomplish such feats. But whatever made them powerful, it wasn't enough. All things die. That's something you learn early in the jungle.

With daring and agility, she leaps and climbs onto one of the higher walls, the stones broad as two of her strides. She stands up, the ruins of the ancient city spread out before her, covered by the creepers, moss, and lichen of the jungle, stretching out to the horizon. Broken and forgotten. She considers how many people might once have lived our their lives in it. Tries to imagine what it may have looked like, and cannot.

She wears only the basic armaments and armour of an amazon, although hers is more finely crafted than most. It is cured leather with simple but beautiful stylized etchings, symbols of strength, honour, and bravery. Her midsection and her left breast is also plated with shining metal. Her leather skirt is segmented so she can move easily. Underneath she wears only a simple tunic and a small loincloth. Her feet and lower legs are bound in leather. She has metal braces, and on her back is an unstrung bow, a quiver, a spear, and a shield. In her belt is a short sword and a dagger, and slung over her shoulder is a satchel with basic survival gear and a small gourd of water. She knows how to live off the land, and doesn't need much.

In the distance, she can see the ruins of the great temple or palace of the ancient city. It is said that underneath it lies a great labyrinth. And in that labyrinth roams a minotaur — the creature she must defeat if she is ever to return home. Her mother allowed her that one condition, knowing that it would be a nigh impossible task. Not only because the minotaur is a huge, powerful, and fierce brute of a creature, but because the ruins are overrun by beast men.

She sees some of them now, a cluster of three bipedal, furry, goat-like creatures, shaggy and inhuman, bleating and calling at each other in guttural voices as they walk across the open space beneath her. She stands still, waiting for them to pass. Not out of respect; these are not beasts of nature, merely filth. But there are many of them in the ruins, and she can't fight them all, much as she would like to. She curses herself for not having strung her bow earlier.

It's merely a coincidence that they spot her. A toucan is rattled by their shouting and gives out a loud squawk as it lifts, flying right past Cassandra. They all look up, point and call, and begin brandishing a collection of looted weaponry: a crude axe, a makeshift spear. One of them unslings a short bow. Nothing like an amazon bows, but surely enough to put a hole in her if she's unlucky.

"Curses," she mumbles as she deftly unslings shield and spear. They've already called out, so she might as well try taking back the initiative. She runs three steps along the wall to gain some speed, then leaps into the air towards them with a wailing amazon battle cry on her lips.

2. Epic SF exploration

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Lynaeia Zarn startled at her reflection as she looked into the bathroom holomir. She hadn't gotten used to her new appearance. Probably never would—or that's how it felt. First of all, the nanomechanical biomods had made her larger. She had always been slight of figure, and after a year being pent up in the hololabs of XenoCore during her internship she had found herself physically drained, her body a thin husk barely able to sustain her brilliant mind. So she had started exercising regularly, resulting in a slim athletic build. But the woman in the mirror was an amazon: lithe and muscled, broad of shoulders, taller, majestic. Her long hair had always been her pride, and now it spilled out in dark waves over her shoulders, contrasting her light olive skin. Hell, even her breasts had gotten firmer and a little larger, though still small and perky. The only thing missing was confidence. She let out a small laugh at the dissonance. Despite having the body of a goddess, she still looked like a frightened mouse trying to hide from the world, even in the safety of her own home. And tomorrow she was leaving on an adventure involving dangers that would make a Vyntrakian warrior-explorer think twice.

Lynaeia ran a finger along the embossed groves that ran in geometric patterns all over her body, making her look like she had been assembled from parts. Apparently they were some sort of communication network for the nanotech particles that reinforced her skin, capable of adjusting their physical qualities in a fraction of a second in response to outer stimuli. They could help fortify her against pressure changes, act as a shield against heat and cold, and even rearrange into a 'soft' armour shell capable of dispersing immense amounts of energy to avoid harm to her flesh. And throughout her body coursed a cocktail of xenomods, synthetic hormones, and bioenhancers containing changes to every part of her physiology, taken from hundreds of sources—most of them alien.

There was no name yet for what had been done to her. It was Allox who had set her up as a test subject for a secret project he had been working on for nearly a decade. Allox Orbin, whose arms she had quite literally fallen into in their first year at XenoCore U together. She had arrived on a scholarship from a world that was considered less than a backwater in the Hub, and completely on her own. On her first day she had come running into the auditorium, late for her very first lecture, and he had caught her as she stumbled and nearly fell. They had become fast friends, and he had looked after her since that day, though she had no idea why; he came from an influential Hub family—old money and new politics—and he was bright, witty, and good-looking. She was shy, awkward, and forgetful.

It didn't help that she was from the middle of nowhere. Any world without a ring gate was physically cut off from the rest of Confluence space by decades of sublight travel and time debt. And her home world was out in the Periphery, though it had begun the process of entry into the Confluence. She had been a part of that; one of the things application worlds had to do was send their best and brightest to train in the Hub. When she had accepted the position to study at XenoCore U, she had left everything behind. By the time she arrived at Aberax 9, everyone she knew back home would have aged twenty-seven years. And it would be at least fifty years until there was a ring gate there. Information could be sent instantly through Raynard space, but travel required a ring gate or a foldship. Due to the astronomical costs of constructing Onu-Hawkins engines and the stupendous energy required to activate them, only the CEF, the Confluence Exploration Force, had them. There were rumours of other methods of FTL travel found out past the Periphery, but all evidence so far was circumstantial.

During their first year together, Allox and Lynaeia had briefly been lovers, but it was something that mostly petered out. There was never any real fire, and now they had a silent agreement that friendship was better for both of them. They still had sex occasionally, but it was a relief of a basic human need, without passion or romance involved. And of course, Allox had specialised in Xenobiology while Lynaeia had pursued her one and only love, Xenoarcheology. He wanted to reshape humanity one xenomod at the time. She wanted to solve the mysteries of the universe. To get the opportunities they wanted, they had to work hard, and their studies took up almost all of their time.

The chance of a lifetime had finally come to Lynaeia. Through years of political manoeuvring, calling in favours, and some under-the-table dealings—most of the work done by Allox, of course, since she had no knack for such things—she had secured a bunk on the CEF Rapture. It was a foldship headed for a particularly volatile sector of the Periphery which had long been ravaged by a conflict between several native civilisations which were now at an uneasy truce. Deep in the sector lay her goal: Obulon V. Or rather, one of its moons. In a somewhat tasteless twist of fate, some explorer that had been into Earthcore had named it Pandora.

Pandora had vast remnants of an alien civilisation, the origin of which had been a subject of hot debate at XenoCore U, albeit a debate that was now mostly tabled—travelling there, let alone setting up a research project, was madness, even if there was a truce. The sector held an inordinate number of dangers. Reports poured in of pirates, strange phenomena, and absurd alien lifeforms. With the low CEF presence, it was impossible to confirm or disprove the sightings, but even if only a tenth of them were true it would still be cause to worry for any would-be traveller.

As for the ruins, most scholars were convinced the remnants were from an early settlement of the now defunct Gytraxian pre-Hegemony empire, and thus fairly uninteresting. But some, including Lynaeia herself, found the evidence didn't align with that theory. Instead, whoever had lived on Pandora must be previously unknown species and culture. Due to the history of the region, that would mean a civilisation had existed there potentially millions of years ago. Evidence of that would make the career for a Xenoarcheologist and provide research opportunities lasting for centuries. The CEF would change their mind about the value of the sector, for sure, and a proper expedition could be fielded. The ruins on Pandora were remarkably well-preserved, which is why they had been judged unremarkable—the obvious conclusion was that they were quite young—Xenoarcheologically speaking. But what if the beings that made them had been so advanced that they had constructed buildings that lasted for millions of years? And what if the ruins were connected to the strange phenomena in the sector?

Lynaeia shook her head to clear it; she had to get ready to go, not dream about her future discoveries. Just thinking about it got her adrenaline going, and the groves over her body pulsed with a vague red luminescence in response.

***

Lynaeia spotted Allox waiting for her at the space post. It made her happy. They had already said goodbye as their busy lives might not give them a second chance.

"Hey, stranger," she said.

He turned around, first looking a little perplexed, then breaking into a big smile. "Oh, shit. I'm still not used to it," he said, gesturing at the new body he had given her. Biomods had been a requirement to come on the expedition; she wouldn't survive a day in the Periphery without them. Though hers went far beyond the standard mods of a CEF operative, of course.

"Me neither," she said. "I'm glad you could make it."

He stood there looking at her, having to crane his neck slightly to look her in the eyes. His eyes were glazed with tears. "Shit, Lyn. I almost regret setting this up for you. I'm going to miss you." Then he broke his usual strict protocol of staying courteous in public and stepped in to hug her tight. She hugged him back until he squeaked in pain, gasping for breath.

"Oh, sorry," she said, easing up. She had yet to learn her new strength. At least she wasn't crushing everything she was picking up anymore.

"Yeah. No worries." He pointedly looked at her breasts. "So, any chance for one last romp?" he asked, grinning. They hadn't had sex for years, which means she hadn't had sex for years. And the idea was certainly attractive, though it was obvious Allox was more interested in her that way after her change, which made her just a tiny bit angry with him.

She leaned in and kissed his forehead. "Don't be silly. You know I'm way out of your league," she said and winked. Allox was the only one she had that kind of confidence around. She was going to miss that.

He grinned, then stepped away, his face turning more sincere. "Seriously. Take care of yourself out there, Lyn. I've set you up with a guide. You'll rendevouz with an... independent contractor and transfer all your gear to their ship. You have no idea what it took to set that up with the captain. The CEF are highly dubious about working with—such elements."

She sighed. Getting funding had been hard enough. Her equipment, now aboard the CEF Rapture, had cost a small fortune. Getting support for an official expedition had proved impossible. So she was on her own. Well, except for this independent contractor. Quietly she wished it was a human, then felt a bit of shame. Xenoarcheology fascinated her, but deep in her heart, she had to admit that actual living xenos scared the shit out of her. Well, not the Confluence species, mostly. Probably because she was used to seeing them and working with them in Xeno U. It's hard to be frightened of a Ktaa'lon when one serves you lunch every day with vibrating chintacles—their version of a friendly smile.

There was a ping on her HUD from her CEF liaison: 'Where are you?'

"I have to go," she said and quickly hugged Allox again, then began hurrying off towards the transporters, briefly turning back to impulsively call out "I love you" to him before breaking into a jog. Something they had never said to each other before. Not that she meant it like that, but it was true, she realised now.

If he responded, she didn't hear it. Once again, she was about to leave everything behind.

3. Convent Corruption

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The Fall of the Order of St Médard

June 18th, 1942, in the south of German-occupied France

The village standing at the foot of the cliffs is called, of all possible things, St Jerome-sur-Mer. Three decades ago, Father Jerome Lefèvre would have seen it as a sign from God. Two decades ago, he would have seen it as God mocking him. Now he knew the truth; God didn't give a shit about him. He is busy watching humankind destroy itself—and probably laughing at the ever more grotesque spectacles of death and suffering that they continue to create with their God-given free will.

Father Lefèvre arrives by horse-drawn carriage, because automotives are another thing that haven't made it out to this dreadful place, apparently along with manners and summer weather. As he steps into the pouring rain and salty wind, he wonders if even news of the war and the German occupation have made it to this sad little cluster of bedraggled houses. Not that there is much to occupy. He turns to the coachman to ask directions for the convent, but the man is already whipping the horses back into action, in a hurry to leave.

When he turns around, it isn't very difficult to figure out where he should be heading. 'Up on the cliffs', they'd said. And the cliffs that face the sea have a single building standing on them, a place of cold stone, right out near the edge where the relentless sea is eroding the very ground beneath it. The mother superior has apparently refused to relocate, saying God will keep them safe. He has been told she is quite the character.

He starts walking up the rocky path, and his wool outer coat is soon soaked through by the biting rain. But he holds onto his hat and leans into the wind and walks on. There is no weather that can scare him after what he has seen in the war. As he walks up through crags and past weather-beaten trees and bushes, he can make out a figure standing by the convent gates, stoic and solid like a pillar, waiting for him. It gives him a dark sense of foreboding. He stops a few paces out.

Father Lefèvre looks much like the convent does: dilapidated, old, broken. He's 48 but looks closer to 60, his hair having gone grey, nearly white. His face is marred by lines not from age but grief and despair. He has shaved clean for the occasion, something he rarely has the energy for. He's a tall man, and was once strapping and muscular. Now it's like a hollow frame, a monument to past glory. His haunting dark eyes look up at the woman before him. He has no words, so he waits for her to speak.

4. Creepy teacher

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Two years ago, Thomas Bright returned home. This was not a good thing for anyone. He had grown up in Harling, a backwater forty miles east of Nowhere, Kentucky, and out there a town boy was always welcome back. Better than city folk, no matter what they’d done.

So he found himself standing on the paved stone path that led to his aunt and uncle’s house, where he grew up. Having internalised the hate he faced for ten years growing up in that God-forsaken house, he still blames himself for the death of his parents.

He was only five, but what does that matter? A five-year-old shouldn't play with matches. Even if it's to light a candle so he could surprise his mother for her birthday. It was his fault, and he knows it. To this day, his mind is consumed by guilt. When he sleeps, he has nightmares about fire. When he wakes, it is the first thing on his mind: I killed my parents.

He hadn’t set foot in Harling since child services had taken him away from an abusive household and put him in an abusive system. Fourteen years ago. But his uncle had gotten drunk and driven off the Harling county bridge a few years back. His aunt died slowly of cancer in the years that followed. He neither knew nor cared about any of that until a letter arrived. It seems they never changed their will, and having no children of their own, the house went to him.

So he came back.
God knows why.

By then he had somehow managed to get himself through an education, paid for by a scholarship for gifted orphans. He was good at book-learning and studied English and pedagogy. There was a thought somewhere deep in the back of his mind that as a teacher, he could do some good in the world. Stop children from becoming like him. But he was in every sense a diminutive man. Utterly without charm. Meek and quiet, yet with a disturbing energy roiling beneath the surface. Thin, lanky, and pale. The kind of man you keep your children away from, not put them in his care. Who would hire such a man as a teacher?

Harling High School. Because they couldn’t afford to picky, and because his last name still opened doors in the little town with a long memory. His grandfather had been the mayor. His mother a headmaster.

***

Today he lives in the house he inherited. It hadn’t been properly cared for, and he has had the worst of the damage to the house fixed. But he doesn’t have a lot of money, so it’s still a dump. He’s even kept a lot of the old furniture. Every day he comes home he can still smell his aunt’s cigarettes when he opens the door, the smoke forever imprinted in the walls along with the guilt and shame. Now he sits in the same groove his uncle wore into the La-Z-Boy. Watches the same old tube TV he was plastered in front of so many hours of his childhood, at least until his uncle smacked him over the head and told him to scram so he could watch the game.

The top floor has become a place for his collections. He has old books of all kinds. Some are even worth a bit of money. A lot are old non-fiction tomes with dangerously outdated information. Most are children's books, the corner of the pages worn. He reads them often.

And he has plushies. Thousands of them. Animals, mostly, but he likes all kinds. The one thing they have in common is they are worn. He prefers the ones that look like they have a story. Like they have been loved. They've been bought in garage sales or at flee markets, found in the trash, or stolen when left unattended in someone’s yard, the park, or forgotten at a playground. He washes them, fixes them up, and keeps them. They’re his family. They’re his friends. They’re everything in life he never had. A girlfriend. A childhood.

***

He teaches English at Harling High School and he is home room teacher for a class who just started their junior year. They have a new student, a girl who was held back a year. He's only known her for a few weeks, but there's something about her. He is drawn to her. She feels like a kindred spirit, a soul mate, and there's an attraction—no a bond—so strong he doesn't know how to deal with it. He has found it more difficult to focus during lessons because he can't get her out of his mind.

Not that the students would listen to him much anyway. On an average day he has no authority over them. They mess with him like he was another geeky, frail student at the bottom of the pecking order. But every now and again he snaps. Screams out his rage at them, channels all his fury, fear, and frustration into a mindless, chaotic rant. And they sit back in their desks, scared out of their minds, and get to work. The effect is so strong it lasts a few weeks. Then they start messing with him again. And the cycle continues. But somehow, his fits of rage and weak attempts at pedagogy are enough to get most of them to pass. Which is good enough for Harling High School.

5. Writer's retreat

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"And here are your keys, Mr. Stark!" says the painfully peppy young woman who has been sent to greet him. They have just completed a half-hour tour of the whole house, where she has pointed out its many advantages as if she were trying to sell it to him. Even though it's just a rental and the contract is already signed.

"Thank you," he says, reaching out to take the keys. "And please, call me Roland." She beams at this. "You've been very—" he pauses, trying to think of a word "—thorough." He feels bad for not being able to be nicer to her, but he has been driving for two days and needs a bath and a proper meal, not a cheerful tour guide. He runs a hand through his half-length brown hair, always unruly.

The young woman apparently doesn't catch on, but instead leans in, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "I have a confession: I'm a big fan. Nessa's adventures are so—different. So punchy. Is that a word? Anyway, I'm over the moon that I get to meet you in person!"

He looks at her hand on his arm, then back at her. "That's wonderful," he manages to say, though without much conviction.

Abashed, she withdraws her hand. Her face loses some of its brightness. He feels guilty.

"I apologise, Mr. Stark," she says, her tone more businesslike. "You must be exhausted. And here I am, prattling on. You must think me very silly."

He sighs. Why does he always have this effect on people? "No, no. I am just tired, and it makes me grumpy. Please forgive my rudeness. I am very glad to hear you enjoyed my books. Bring one out here and I will be happy to sign it for you."

Her whole face lights up again. "Oh, that's wonderful. I surely will! But I must let you get some rest now. And if there's anything, just call me," she says, once more letting her hand brush over his arm as she passes him on her way out. When she has opened the door, she looks back over her shoulder with a sly smile. "Anything at all," she adds with a wink.

He looks at the business card she left him. Her pretty, heart-shaped face is smiling up at him. Miss Delilah Churning, Executive Assistant, Winthorpe Rental Services. He shakes his head. Nearly half his age, yet ready to throw herself at him. Sure, it has been a while, but he finds the idea of sleeping with fans distasteful. The few times he has strayed from that principle, it didn't go well. The problem was that they had this impossible image of him in their heads, and when he failed to live up to their dreams... well. Some were merely disappointed. Others acted out. But it was never pretty.

Then again, he had disappointed women before he become famous, too.

He looks at himself in the full-length mirror in the hallway. He's taller than average and broad-shouldered. He used to be decently fit, but his body has admittedly sagged a bit now. The past few months have been frantic, and there just hasn't been time for exercise. He means to get back to that, out here. Maybe even meditate again. Without exercise and meditation, he feels like he's coming undone. He doesn't care too much about letting his publisher down, but he does care about his fans. He doesn't want to disappoint them.

But maybe, when things come around, he's just a disappointing human being. In the mirror, he sees himself give an affirming nod.

He heads to the kitchen to check on the food Miss Churning has kindly left for him in the fridge. As he's walking, his phone gives a ding, and he fishes it out of his pocket with one hand as he opens the fridge with the other.

Winthorpe Rental: Oh, and I simply can't WAIT for the final book in the series! 

He lets out a deep sigh. Ah yes. The final book. Because he signed a four-book deal, knowing full and well that he only had three in him. But it was for money like nothing he had ever been offered before. It seems like writers are destined to be either destitute or needlessly wealthy. But Nessa the daemonette's adventures are done. And after a quick rise to fame and the signing tours, interviews, and various promotional stunts that went with it, he is done. But the publisher isn't done with him. And so here he is, on a 'retreat' so he can focus on his writing.

They hadn't quite forced him. But they hadn't given him much of a choice, either.

He grabs a sandwich wrapped in cellophane from the fridge. It has a small, heart-shaped sticker on it. It doesn't look store-bought, and he realises Miss Churning probably made it herself. Realises that he could probably call her right now and propose to marry her, and she'd say yes. But he is so utterly disinterested. Like most other women who throw themselves at him, she has no depth to her. Pretty, yes. But what you see is what you get.

***

After eating and getting some of his luggage in place, he could probably fall asleep right then and there, but it's still early in the afternoon. So he decides to take a stroll. It's beautiful outside, after all. There's a big yard leading down to the waterside where Lake Placid stretches out, surrounded mostly by verdant forest. The shore is dotted with high-end houses like this one, but it's quiet and peaceful. He has a single neighbouring house, though he's been assured that the family living there are quiet and won't bother him. What with the extensive yards, the houses are quite far apart, so he won't have to regularly stop for chats over the picket fence. Not that he shuns social interaction. He just wants it to be meaningful.

He strolls down to the lakeside and listens to the gentle lapping of the water, losing himself in a silly fantasy of married life with Miss Churning. Except in his fantasy, she's cultured and inquisitive, questioning Nessa's motivations and spotting the connection between the main character's plights in the fantasy realm of Dunnengard and the struggle for women to take charge of their sexuality in the modern world. When the first book was published, he had felt pleased with himself for sneaking in such a message in what looked like a straightforward fantasy action adventure. Now, he rather thinks he has hidden it too well. Or perhaps it's simply something that people choose not to see.

He loses his train of thought, and belatedly realises that it's because there has been movement in the neighbouring yard. Someone is out on the jetty. A young woman or girl—hard to tell from the distance and through the high reeds that line the shore. She seems to be staring wistfully out at the lake in the way of moody teenagers—so probably the daughter of the family. He supposes he should go say hi to the neighbours, but he has no energy left for that. Besides, she looks like she is somewhere else entirely in her mind. He knows what that's like, and how he hates being disturbed when he is similarly lost in thought. So he turns around and starts heading back to the house.