you are lily

this is a rp

start about talking about yourself. your in england.

Commander’s Gambit: A Choose-Your-Own-War Adventure The banners snap in the wind as your army stands ready. The sun glows through the mist, casting an eerie light over the battlefield. You, the Supreme Commander, grip your sword, scanning the enemy lines. Victory or defeat lies in your hands. The enemy is fortified on the western ridge but vulnerable in the east. Their commander, General Varros, relies on brute strength over strategy. How will you begin the battle? Charge the western ridge, unleashing a storm of steel and fury. Flank from the east, striking like a shadow in the night. Hold position, baiting the enemy into a lethal trap. Launch a night raid, slipping past their defenses like ghosts. Parley with the enemy, wielding words as deftly as a blade. Feint a retreat, drawing them into the jaws of your ambush. Unleash a hidden cavalry force, thundering down from the hills in a surprise assault. Set the battlefield ablaze, turning the land itself into a weapon. Deploy a secret weapon, a devastating war machine never seen before. Summon reinforcements, calling upon allies who owe you a blood debt. Choose wisely, Commander. Your kingdom’s fate—and your legend—depend on it.

paths lie before you 🌲 Forest – Shadows stir. ⛰️ Mountain – Power calls. 🌊 River – Secrets lurk. 🏜️ Desert – A city waits. ⛈️ Storm – Thunder beckons. 🔥 Fire – Flames test. 🔮 Mystic – Reality bends. ✨ Dream – Anything is possible. Which path do you choose?

Opening Scene: The Hunt Begins The wind slithered through the ruins of the French village, carrying the thick stench of fire, blood, and something far worse—the sensation of being watched. Smoke curled from the remains of a collapsed house, the distant crackle of dying embers the only sound breaking the unnatural silence. Colonel James Logan crouched low behind a broken cart, his pistol raised, his breath slow and controlled. He wasn’t alone. He could feel it. Then he saw it. A body. An American soldier, slumped against a shattered stone wall, his rifle lying useless in the mud beside him. The corpse’s lifeless eyes were frozen wide, mouth slightly open, as if caught mid-scream. Logan’s gut twisted—not from the death itself, but from the message carved into the man’s bare chest. "I SEE YOU, LOGAN." The letters were jagged, cut deep, the blood now dried into dark rivulets across pale skin. The soldier’s dog tags had been ripped away, his helmet missing, his body deliberately posed upright—as if watching. A warning. A taunt. Logan scanned the surrounding ruins, every shadow now a possible threat. He had faced death more times than he could count, but this was different. This wasn’t war. This was a hunt. And the Jackal was out there. Watching. Waiting. And closing in.

Blackbeard’s Siren The sea was restless, much like the man before you. Blackbeard—Edward Teach—stood tall, the wind catching the embers in his braided beard. His dark eyes burned into yours. “You should have left when you had the chance,” he murmured. You smirked, stepping closer, the silk of your crimson dress clinging to you. "And why would I do that, Captain?" His fingers brushed your cheek, rough but hesitant. "Because women like you don’t belong in places like this." "Then it’s a good thing I don’t care where I belong," you whispered. A storm raged around you, but he was the only thing you felt as he pulled you in, crushing his lips against yours with the hunger of a man who had taken everything—but had never been allowed to keep. Then— "Ships on the horizon! The British!" The moment shattered. He turned, the pirate once more, but before stepping away, he grabbed your hand. "Stay close to me," he ordered. The cannons roared. The sea screamed. And as battle loomed, you knew one truth—you were his, and he was yours, even if fate had other plans.

You are a hardened cowboy, shaped by years under the relentless sun and the weight of the choices you've made. Your face is lined with dust and experience, your sharp eyes scanning the horizon like a hawk searching for trouble. A worn-out hat shades your determined gaze, and your duster carries the scent of leather, gunpowder, and long-forgotten campfires. Life has taught you that justice doesn’t come easy, and mercy is a luxury few can afford. You aren’t the fastest gun in the West, but when you draw, you don’t miss. Your reputation rides ahead of you like a shadow, and tonight, in Red Hollow, you’re about to prove that some legends never fade.

The final bell rings, but you don’t move. Students rush past, laughter and footsteps fading into the hallway. Soon, the classroom is empty. You step out into the hall. It should be loud—echoing voices, slamming lockers—but it’s silent. Too silent. Then, you see her. A girl stands at the far end of the corridor, her long hair covering her face. The lights flicker. She’s closer.

You were eight when the forest claimed you. It started with the fireflies—those tiny, flickering stars that led you deeper, deeper, deeper… until they went out. Until the world turned black. Until the trees became things with twisted, gnarled fingers instead of branches, their bark peeling like dead flesh. The air was thick, wet, stinking of mold and something rotting. Then, the whispers began. Soft at first. Gentle. They knew you. They knew your name. They whispered it the way your mother used to when she tucked you in. But your mother isn’t here. And the whispers are getting closer.