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― independent + selective; OPHELIA written by Silk

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What I seek

What I do not

What is required

Contact
Discord: silken.prayersPlease introduce yourself when contacting me!
Tell me why you're reaching out + why you think we would write well together.
A writing sample.
Any ideas you might have :)
I look forward to meeting you!

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• 𓆩♡𓆪

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.    FULL NAME.    .    unknown
.    ALSO KNOWN AS.    .    ophelia, patient zero
.    D.O.B. + AGE.    .    early 30's
.    GENDER.    .    female
.    PRONOUNS.    .    she/her
.    ORIENTATION.    .    heterosexual
.    OCCUPATION.    .    unknown
.    SPECIES.    .    then : human, now : unknown

She knew everything,
then nothing at all.

"Sign here, please."
She takes the pen and clipboard, scribbles her name as her wrist trembles, somewhere in excitement, somewhere in nervousness of the unknown. "Is it—" okay?, but she does not finish. The nurse takes the clipboard abruptly and leaves her with the pen, so she looks around to set it on the desk next to the hospital bed. Her heart flutters when she sits on the thin mattress, covered only by a fitted sheet in a lonely shade of blue. It's cold in the room, goosebumps on her skin even beneath the zip-up hoodie she wears over the slip. Dress comfortable, they told her, bring little. She looks to the white flats next to the bed on the tile floor, her feet dangling just enough where her toes touch the surface. All she has are her clothes. Her name is no longer her own.
"Patient Zero," the doctor enters the room with pep, smiles that modified smile, white and sterile just like the hospital he works in. She smiles back out of politeness, but quickly turns it only into a small nodding gesture. "I'm Dr. [REDACTED], it's nice to meet you." The nurse from before hands him the clipboard which he takes eagerly. His blue eyes scan the paper so quickly, she isn't even sure he's reading it, but it doesn't matter. Nothing may matter after this.
"Please," he holds out his palm, signals for her to lay back, and so she does. He reaches behind him, handing off the clipboard to the nurse once more.
It doesn't matter. They have my name. They have all of me.
The nurse reappears with syringes and, although she holds her breath for that fear, that knowing, she tugs at the end of her sleeve to yank it up past the crook of her elbow. No one argues or objects. The doctor simply smiles, preparing the thin area of skin with an alcohol spray that leaves it numb. She turns her view away, never quite alright with the sight of needle to epidermis. Quick, as it goes, she seethes slightly through her teeth before exhaling, looking over to see the port in her arm, crackling through the clear adhesive holding it there.
Alasia
Serum of the stars, the message said. Volunteers needed.
And, at the time, what did she have to lose?
Only her name,
but that was something
she was willing
to give up.
"You're quite lucky," he says, teeth gleaming, feral maybe, but she doesn't say anything as she leans her head back on the pillow. It crunches beneath the weight, just as she feels a hand on her arm tighter than it should be. "Wait," she goes to refuse, no, at least pause, at least give her time to prepare herself, but it is too late. The syringe clicks into the port and the nurse is pushing the end, pushing the black liquid into her veins, starshine vial that swirls nebulous, clings to her insides like light unto umbral spaces.And suddenly, she knew everything, she knew all that had become and once was,
and then nothing
nothing at all.

Ophelia is somewhere between— always.
Limbo, alternative timelines, slipping through the cracks and doors she finds before it happens again.
Guided by the stars, the galaxies in her blood, she goes where she feels pulled. Where she ends up is anyone's guess, but sometimes she knows. Only sometimes.
Sleep is where it all repeats. Dreams are messages, hazy as they are, and, right now, she cannot divine them, cannot understand the purpose. Every day begins the same: in an empty, sterile hospital. A point somewhere in time, hovering endlessly as a place of return.
Ophelia wanders, eagerly seeking the absolute around corners, in mirrors, and other strange blips in the ordinary.
She remembers little, but knows enough. About the future. About wherever she used to be.
And while she has all the time,
infinity in all these endless loops,
she only wants to understand what it all means.What it is all becoming.

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About the writer

Silk • 34 • she/herHi there! It is a pleasure to meet you!
My name is Silk, but you may also call me Silkie.
Talking about myself is the real challenge, truly!
I've been a writer both in and out of the roleplay community for 15+ years. I also have a BA in Creative Writing and was accepted into grad school for an MFA in Fiction, but I had to take leave. All to say that I have a passion for writing and it's something I want to do more of.
If you have questions, feel free to ask :)

• 𓆩♡𓆪

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Sample

The scene below is one cohesive piece, with many scenes and factors happening at once.

Genuflection, he won’t bend on two. Iron in his mouth, Cain Fox feels sorry for one Penelope Haddock, “You know what’s going to happen—” She whips him sharp across the face, nebula neon beneath his lids, and somewhere down the line he figures he deserves it. Once lovers, twice friends, third times a flirted charm, he spits poppy. His familiar cackles omen, he can hear footfall in the forest, “I’m tellin’ you—”
“I don’t give a shit,” she lies with her life on the line. He doesn’t blame her.
“I can’t,” shrugging under what little give he has with two vampires holding his arms back, his tongue darts to smear blood on his lower lip, “I won’t.”
“What is wrong with you?” She’s blinking back red on red, “They’ll kill us both.”
“That’s,” chin tick pause, “a shame, but I’ve got a promise to keep.”The wood of the door rattles when kicked open, the shifter growing tired amber eyes when a man and a woman hold his employee, Peter. “I’m sorry, Pops,” the young man is curling at the knees, face contorted, eyes wet with fear, elbows shaking and he’s just a boy.Cain doesn’t blame him, either. The fox laughs, he smiles, puts his other knee on the floor contrition. “I’ve done told you.”
━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━
Shower swelter, mountain fog on the mirror, Echo feels something release, rope slack somewhere, but in the moment, she isn’t quite sure what it is. Anticipation twinge, kneading the shampoo out of her hair, she doesn’t realize she’s      waiting,
waiting,
for her mother’s eyes, that purse of her lips, trembling in if you just listened,
fractured under the might of God—
She breathes
millefleur memories
flower crown hope with
moss underfoot when she steps out of the tub. It’s blending, those film reel feelings, coming to terms with stitches on the negatives, biographical chapter by chapter by chapter.
Fishnet fancy beneath her tee, roughed up jeans torn at the knees, she’s that funeral dark, smudged stark in the light, the light, that has her vibrating alive, exorcised blue bird ready for singsong choir, wounds assuaged under the sun,
for now.James has his polaroid dreams in photo album brain stems, threading buttons through tiny fabric mouths after bath and breakfast. He sighs
soft seas for the seafoam
sand dip for the beach roam when he thinks of his promise, fingerprint fine on a night ghost real.They’re a Sunday congregation gather, vampire kneeling, mute and rapt with attention before she’s given instruction. The blonde sits cross legged, hands on his knees as he listens too, leaning over to look at the paperwork, pull at an edge to see the text better here and there. Echo scribbles sharpie cantation on the door, the balcony frame with the sunshine shrinking her pupils, chatoyant gleam in the scattered inclusions of her iris. She pauses, closes her eyes, medicinal murmur through glass magic, and she thinks of Gideon in the dark.
━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━
Fiona,
Fiona,
subdural hematoma emergency, syringe plunge, CODE—
cadaver pulled strings, abterminal pulse jerk when there’s a scream over her ear buds, winter syrup to coat her insides. Adrenaline knife, acid crawl, she’s clinging to the door frame swing when Olivia shrieks, shudders into stupor before she’s running down the hallway, wax blood parchment tracks on glittered floors.
Fiona, dear, can you get my medicine?
Gore symphony fabrefaction, all in fervent motion, gripped and stained merciless, there’s no preparation for anomaly phenomena; car crash horror, bystander synaptic stare— someone call an ambulance. The scream in her chest is choked, bottled where Alexander told her  don’t make a fucking sound,
surrendered under tendon tension, palm-read prophecy, don’t let the patients see you cry. But there’s an ail in her throat regardless when she spills out into the room behind them, Alexander standing up with his hands rigid in front of his throne, a stuttered frailty when he and Fiona make eye contact. Error in fraction, the vampire already panic-fueled and burning when reaches for the emergency switch, yanks down in desperation, alarm in Olivia's death knell mutilation.
Alexander is screaming, jerking a pointed finger to none in particular, Fiona can’t even hear the words. Do something—
I’m not going to eat you,
But I can’t eat him either,
Not yet.
He’s still screaming— spit sling, cord stretch, she sees the veins thread his neck.
There’s nothing we can do,
the doctor whispers,
pats her shoulder somber,
Fiona, dear—
━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━
Echo holds Gideon’s hand, her and James holding presence for Olivia as the music box plucks melody, reverberates something in the vampire, echoes
Echo
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Tuning fork precision
on the drop down collision
she h i s s e s at a god painted
war, twists her tongue apology,
“I’m sorry,”
whispered on embarrassed realization,
some Freudian slip, but
not before gripping her lover’s hand like
she might lose him, and gripping Olivia’s like
a dog that bites when they’re afraid.GIdeon is speaking, she’s breaking the circle, and her hand lingers where it’s left. James is watching with his cheeks puffed, wide-eyed, exhales when he looks at Echo. They’re watching this woman— this force of nature— scribble on paper in her seamless candor,
Alexander.
Has he touched you, her eyes dilate, has he hurt you, “Can you,” stay here? But Fiona. Her eyes roll back with her head tilting anguish, “Fuck.”
“What can we do?” James blurts it with the air of urgency that none of them know how long she’ll be there. The phone rings; there are no coincidences. Echo stands with fever, jumping between him and Michael towards the kitchen to grab the handle.“Hello?”
“You have guests in the lobby. Shall we send them up?”
━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━
Alanna’s nonchalant facade comes to pieces, knows they’re set to ruin, divination foretold of her failure where she spat in the woman’s face, but she cannot, will not, accept it.“Find them,” she seethes, “find them and make them rot,” let Echo watch them come under the stygian night, she doesn’t give a fuck about niceties anymore. Alexander’s jaw adjusts as she steps forward, “Figure it out.”His lip curls up, “Or what?”Not even the alarms muffle the sound against skin on skin,
body for body,
and Fiona prays for Olivia.

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Thoughts and ideas

This section serves to offer a basis/foundation of the world around Ophelia and how we can incorporate and/or transform it to suit our story! My writing can be wacky and not always straightforward, so apologies for any up-front confusion. Not everything is concrete and doesn't necessarily need to be. This is a collaborative effort, so don't be afraid to question, add to, or take away from anything mentioned here.

Here are some possibilities that you can run with/bounce off of me about! Though if you have something completely different, I'd love to hear about it!

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