A Discord RP post I share to showcase my Literate style.
The fetid air of Hextor fell silent, as though the silt dared not exhale. Cicadas lulled their twilight hymns, the oily murk grew still, and the roots curled inward beneath the sluch. It was not a silence born of peace but of reverence, no, no, dreadful worship—as if the very wetland knelt before a sovereign whose presence scarfed sound and sense alike.
From between two monolithic femurs—ossified ribs of some primeval beast long forgotten—she strode forth, her gait a sin made flesh. She was no phantom; no ephemeral illusion spun from bog-light and desperation. She was real in the way nightmares are: indisputable, and mercilessly ravishing.
Her skin shimmered with a lacquer of moon-kissed bronze, kissed by the rot and twilight bloom luster. The fabric she wore clung like a promise never meant to be kept, framing the ample, theatrical curvature of a woman who had long since traded mortality for allure eternal. Her hair, a tempest of vermilion waves, seemed spun from comet fire and serpent silk, cascading down her hips like a scarlet augury. Rings and fetishes dangled from her ears, each a relic, a malediction, a war crime whispered into jewelry. The slit of her dress parted not only for freedom of movement—but for dominance of attention.
And yet it was her eyes that claimed most cruelly. Golden irises gleamed like venom gilded in honey, half-lidded and amused, their grimace mirrored on lips too plush for piousness. One hip jutted as she placed her hand upon it—an invitation, a threat, a diva’s gesticulation.
“Ah,” she purred, voice doused in marigold wine and marred prayers, “A knight in rusting probity, come to brave the bones of my garden.” The mists parted as if her words carved a path through them.
“You carry the weight of saintliness and distress in your eyes—both burdens no man bears gracefully. And yet… here you are, sword drawn, heart wide, the scent of purpose percolating from you like ripe fruit.” She stepped closer. The earth beneath her heels did not squelch—it sighed.
“Did you come to slay me? Or does a greater quest influence your path?” She leaned in, her breath a balm of lavender and charnel spice, “Perhaps to see if the monster your ancestors banished still hungers?”
Her grin sharpened, exposing the ivory curve of a fang. “There are truths the dead whisper that no living sage dares speak. Have you come to learn what the worms have always known? If so, erudition I offer, although everything has a cost.”
Her eyes glowed brighter now. A rose bloomed black from the mud, pulsing as though alive.
A Discord RP post I share to showcase my literate style.
The bar was a cesspool of dim intention—sweat-slicked wood and whispers clothed in ale foam. It was a womb of low laughter and the dull ache of living too long without meaning. The hearth spit and groaned, and the warped ceiling sagged like the back of an old god forgetting its name. And then the door unlatched.
Not opened—unlatched, as if the air had been instructed to reverently part for something more ancient than thunder and more final than prayer. In stepped Xandera, not as a woman, witch, or tyrant, but as a ravishing cataclysm carved in velvet, gold, and venom.
The jezebel wore the dusk like a perfume and strutted like an augury: hips swaying with temple rhythm, heels striking floorboards like ceremonial drums counting down to someone’s terminal breath. Her silhouette was a sacrilege of symmetry—sculpted from marrowed perfection, cloaked in a shroud of obsidian chiffon and embroidered bone thread.
A corset of lacquered serpent-scale cinched her waist like a cruel smile. Across her décolletage, gold-leafed thorn patterns wound upward in imitation of jungle vines starved for a sun that had long since died. Her skirt billowed behind her like a procession of condemned angels, stitched from widow spiders' silks and dyed in crushed orchid and dried blood. Obsidian bangles clinked softly at her wrists.
Her hair—gilded wildfire trapped in ceremony—spilled like a heretical canticle across her bare shoulders. And nestled in that inferno of locks, a Mesoamerican lich-crown coiled with jade serpents and funerary glyphs glimmered with the promise of eternity paid in flesh.
The tavern held its breath. Even the shadows dared not lean too far. Xandera's eyes—liquid amber laced with cruelty and astral hunger—scanned the room like a scribe determining who would be remembered, and who forgotten. Not a gaze, but a coronation denied to all but the brave and the doggoned.
“How quaint,” she murmured, her voice a satin dagger dipped in candlelight. “A den of guttering souls, ripe for blooming.”
The diva took her seat—not sat, mind you, but claimed the air like a throne. The barstool beneath her knees groaned in ecstasy and dread. A skeletal hand slipped from beneath her mantle and placed a single obsidian coin upon the counter. It shimmered like oil and omen. The tavern resumed its heartbeat—but only because she allowed it.
And from the darkest corner, the drunken bard dropped his lute, wept, and muttered through cracked teeth. Another sinner lost to the call not yet seasoned enough to be ravaged.
A hush unfurled across the meadow like a shroud stitched in glass—a silken stillness that doused even the wind’s sighs in reverent dread. Dawn’s veil, pearl-gray and trembling, clung to the earth like the final breath of a god forsaken.
Then the mist parted, not like curtain but like skin, flayed by the approach of something… inevitable. Through that pale immolation came the Cerberus Disruptor— a chimeric aberration sculpted from unholiness and lost cause.
Its three visages, leonine yet grotesquely reimagined, bore expressions not of hunger, but of verdict. Each head wore a diadem of warped marrow and matted ruin, their eyes incandescent with ruinous calculus. Twin tendrils, slick and twitching, unfurled from its spine like the proboscises of eldritch parasites, writhing in search of blasphemy to devour.
And upon this mount of atrocity—draped not in armor, but in unrepentant command—sat Xandera, the Bloom-Queen, the Grand Defilement of Hextor. She moved like a memory buried in trauma, too vivid to forget, too cruel to recall with clarity.
Her skin, burnished bronze tempered in moonlit ichor, shimmered with stolen grace. Her hair—no mere tangle of strands, but an inferno of ember-lit serpents—cascaded around her like a crown in revolt. Each lock whispered betrayal, each curl wept with ancestral agony. With lacquered talons sculpted from obsidian and old sins, she anointed her lips with blood-red glamour.
The act was ceremonial, ecclesiastical—a predator donning her Eucharist. She carried a mirror—not of glass, but of calcified soul, polished by the screams of men— and beneath its bone-carved frame, she drew kohl beneath her eyes, those gold-flamed orbs that had witnessed centuries dissolve like wax, that had watched kings wither and crowns fossilize beneath her bloom.
Her steed moved forward with a gait not of beast, but of dirge—each step a eulogy, each footprint a curse that seared wildflowers into cindered glyphs. The trees bent, not in breeze, but in fear; the loam whispered sermons to the roots in voices made of rot. And the villagers, poor lambs dressed as men, peered from their hovels like dreamers trapped between sleep and scream.
Some looked with awe.
Some with dread.
All were correct.
To her, their stares were gnats against cathedral glass. They wondered if she were divine, demonic, or simply decadent. She wondered if they’d scream when their lungs bloomed with black moss.
"To mistake a storm for a parade," she whispered to her reflection, each syllable silk-wrapped arsenic. At last, she arrived before the tavern—a rotted chapel of ale and regret, its sign hung askew like a noose half-remembered, its walls weeping the sweat of ghosts.
Her mount growled—a rumble like thunder drowned in molasses—and coiled beside the door, heads poised to judge. Her heels struck the wood of the porch with the weight of funeral bells. She passed through the door as a comet through parchment—effortless, incandescent, and terminal.
Inside, the air grew viscous with unease, thick with the aroma of failure and burnt meat.
She didn’t glance at the patrons.
She didn’t need to.
She occupied every reflection.
With the ease of a queen too tired of mercy to stand, she draped herself at the bar. Her fingers tapped a rhythm known only to grave dirt and execution drums.
“I require a room,” she declared—not to a man, but to fate itself. “One with a window... and silence." She did not repeat herself. She never has. If the innkeep failed to obey, he’d obey in death. It wasn't a matter of if, but when. The Lich-Bloom was not in the business of being denied.
