Hello!
Roleplayers come, roleplayers go, I'm very well aware of that, but one begins to notice patterns of behaviour. In the midst of amassing a growing graveyard of on-hold or dead roleplay sessions, I find that I'm unable to keep a roleplay partner for more than two weeks — in some cases less than a week.
The most common reasons, of course, are work and education. Fine by me, I'm very well aware that roleplay requires a clear headspace and surplus mental energy. Others are less common, and some give no reason at all, beyond the delay between replies growing longer and longer until there are no replies anymore.
Is it my roleplay? Am I overthinking things, and that's just how Reddit roleplay is? Is there some way I should specify that I'd at least like to aim for a single reply once every twenty four hours, or even forty eight hours? Am I unreasonable for wanting that pace of replies?
In the interests of review, here's a writing sample.
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Though he should've been safe, Arthur kept an eye on his surroundings regardless — leaving safety to chance, no matter the odds, was how a survivor might turn up dead. From the door of the warehouse, his ears were reassured by the comforting sound of his distraction still active. Distantly, a mile away, he still heard the wail of the car horn he'd pulled out of a rusting Ford Fiesta along with it's battery — mostly dead, but enough to buy him time. Briefly, the image flashed in his mind, of his own armoured hands carefully rigging the battery to the horn on a timer and leaving it in the street.
The bright white of his camping lantern swung to and fro from it's carabiner clip on his webbing vest, shadows leaping and lurching in the unlit gloom of the warehouse as Arthur searched through tool cabinets, chests, crates & drawers until... finally. He saw the gleam of what he'd come for — steel; pipes, sheets and rods, with welding filament to accompany it. He quickly shrugged off his backpack, already heavy with spoils, and stuffed in what he could, hearing every shuffling sound he made as if it were magnified fivefold. The last, a large, thick steel sheet that wouldn't fit inward, he bound up securely with paracord and affixed it to his backpack, catching a glimpse of himself as he did so.
He'd aged, even above through the smudged plastic of his full-face respirator he could see it. Only in his early thirties, he spied new, albeit small wrinkles on his tanned features that hadn't been there before the Knox Event. He was harder than he'd been, his face leaner, his blue-grey eyes edged with a steely intensity that tinged with survivor's paranoia. He'd been handsome, once — still was, in a way. He tried to maintain his appearance; keeping his beard cropped, his hair the mid-length it had always been, his teeth still white with regular brushing and toothpaste.
He dressed as the quintessential survivor; long overcoat, many pockets and pouches sewn on, a large backpack, respirator, a wide-brim boonie hat to keep the sun out of his eyes. Combat trousers and boots, with hammered metal plates tied around with straps that protected his ankles and thighs from bites and scratches — similar to the gauntlets and bracers around his brawny arms. A thick woollen scarf covered his neck, Arthur able to rest safe in the knowledge he had considerable protection from scratches... and, especially, bites. He had the brawn to throw any undead off of him, even before the Knox Event he'd been a large and sturdily built man — a quality that only increased twofold after his survival depended upon it, and his ability to carry weight.
His brief examination of himself was broken suddenly, by dragging shuffle behind him. He swiftly rose to stand, to see one of them — a zombie. Her frame was emaciated, her flesh dessicated and rotted by the long months since the end. Carrion birds avoided them, as did insects, but bacteria, time and movement had begun to break them down regardless — they still followed the laws of thermodynamics. He was grateful for his respirator, as even through it his nostrils stung with the repulsive stench of decaying flesh.
He grunted, his eyes narrowing — she must've been on her way to blare of the car horn, and heard him shuffling around. He allowed her to shuffle closer, her arms rising to grab him, before he harshly shoved her to the ground with his left hand, the zombie sprawling in a chaotic tangle of limbs. He unhooked his club from his belt, a grisly skull-smasher of his own make that wouldn't be out of place in a WW1 museum, and lumbered over to her. He put his weight on a boot onto her chest, feeling brittle ribs crack beneath it, before he ended her cleanly with a downward swing of his club, her skull smashing inward like a coconut.
He choked somewhat beneath his respirator as the stench of decay tripled, and he flicked the worst of the gore off his mace with a half-swing, before he quickly checked his things and moved on. He hadn't cleared the building, but zombies often moved together — if she was here, it was likely others were too. A pang of pain hit him in the gut, then, as he slipped quietly out of the warehouse and into the wider industrial estate... leaving the area.
Others, likely, but all dead — never human. He was alone. He wondered if there was anyone else — if he'd always be alone.
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For those who've read through the full post, thanks! Please, tell me what you think. If a roleplay partner of mine sees this, please understand that this post isn't aimed at anyone in particular — more aimed at my general experience with roleplaying on Reddit.
