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January 3rd, 1895 — Dempsey Estate
Oz wasn't suitably sympathetic to her plight, but Thomasina was sure she could find someone to empathize with her — she just had to go to the place that still felt as if it were her actual home. She took the floo to the parlor after breakfast, and settled in on the chaise, where she made very pleasant small talk for several minutes. It was clear from the look on her face and the slightly-askew nature of her hair that she was here half to complain, and after getting through pleasantries Sina got to the point."How does one host," Sina said, leaving her hands on her face, "A tea?"
Between her ball, Lowri's ball, and New Year's festivities — she was significantly over it. If it weren't for Mrs. Ainsworth's help in providing the old list, then Sina didn't think that the invitations would have even made it out. But now her tea was tomorrow, and she was contemplating the depths of her despair.
These are like open threads but with a few differences: they're potentially more involved premises, with more potential for consequences, and perhaps more follow-up. As an example: Jemima and Ford in the coatroom could have just been an open thread but it was... decidedly more fun that it wasn't left sitting for weeks untaken xD
SO. I will throw out some ideas that could work for a variety of characters. If they interest you, pitch me a pairing you'd want to do it with <3 I'm open to predating threads to give us time to get them significantly underway before their IC date if we anticipate there will be fallout!
SITUATIONS:
- Two characters wake up in the same place. Neither of them remember getting there.
- One character accidentally, magically does something entirely life-altering to another character (curses them, turns them into an animal, gives them a mortal wound) and has to decide how to handle to fallout
- Two characters mutually witness a murder or otherwise uncover evidence of a grave crime, and they're at odds about their next move.
- One character has reason to believe they are being investigated (by aurors, a PI, someone else?) and erroneously believes another character is following them.
- One character tried to dose another with a potion (what kind?) but accidentally got a third character instead. Now they feel the need to babysit the person they drugged.
- Two characters are involved in a magical mishap and get telepathically linked for weeks, much to their annoyance (at least at first; maybe it changes as it develops?)
3rd January, 1895 — High Street
Tess had closed the printshop on New Year’s Day, to let them get to the festivities at the park, and because everyone had been working so hard over the holidays and up to the new year that tensions were high. Ned Whitby had died the previous November, so the month would have been hard enough to get through even before Maggie’s arrival sending everyone for a loop. Still afraid of the other shoe dropping, and the other ramifications that might come with that, they had worked solidly through, looking high and low for any business they could get to bolster their savings all that they could.
She had been in Diagon Alley a few days ago, up to her neck in stress – and a bonbon was unlikely to fix anything, no matter how Tess wished she didn’t care so much about everything. But she had had a better night’s sleep since, and didn’t feel fazed by anything. Take today, for example: something had gone wrong with the presses, or the typesetting, or a bad batch of ink – it was skipping letters on their print jobs. Tess had glanced at the first pamphlet when it came out spelling SU--RAGE (she had left the paid jobs to the others, and set about on her own thing) and just laughed. All the jobs were the same, missing letters here and there. Until they fixed this, work would necessarily grind to a halt. This was, strictly speaking, more Tess’ problem than Enoch’s or Declan’s.
But she couldn’t bring herself to care. Instead she’d gone out as Archer – for some pre-arranged meeting with a supplier – and had made it no further than The Hog’s Head. She wasn’t quite sure how, or why, but... she had had a drink, and some food, and then a few more drinks – when she thought of the money she was throwing away, she could only think why not? – and apparently it had gotten dark around her before she had made any attempt to return to the printshop. Oh well.
The others might wonder where she had been, but – she wasn’t worried. It felt rather freeing, actually, even more than usual when she was ambling the streets as Archer. It didn’t matter what she did. Nothing mattered at all.
Oh – here was Declan, out on the street! That was a coincidence. Having long forgotten all the trials of the day she had put out of mind as soon as she’d left, Tess grinned at him. “I stole your jacket,” she admitted, unabashed, presuming that was what he was looking for – he’d left it on a table, and she had been too lazy to find her own before going. If her Archer clothes were loose on her, Declan’s jacket was really too big, but then – who cared?
She had been in Diagon Alley a few days ago, up to her neck in stress – and a bonbon was unlikely to fix anything, no matter how Tess wished she didn’t care so much about everything. But she had had a better night’s sleep since, and didn’t feel fazed by anything. Take today, for example: something had gone wrong with the presses, or the typesetting, or a bad batch of ink – it was skipping letters on their print jobs. Tess had glanced at the first pamphlet when it came out spelling SU--RAGE (she had left the paid jobs to the others, and set about on her own thing) and just laughed. All the jobs were the same, missing letters here and there. Until they fixed this, work would necessarily grind to a halt. This was, strictly speaking, more Tess’ problem than Enoch’s or Declan’s.
But she couldn’t bring herself to care. Instead she’d gone out as Archer – for some pre-arranged meeting with a supplier – and had made it no further than The Hog’s Head. She wasn’t quite sure how, or why, but... she had had a drink, and some food, and then a few more drinks – when she thought of the money she was throwing away, she could only think why not? – and apparently it had gotten dark around her before she had made any attempt to return to the printshop. Oh well.
The others might wonder where she had been, but – she wasn’t worried. It felt rather freeing, actually, even more than usual when she was ambling the streets as Archer. It didn’t matter what she did. Nothing mattered at all.
Oh – here was Declan, out on the street! That was a coincidence. Having long forgotten all the trials of the day she had put out of mind as soon as she’d left, Tess grinned at him. “I stole your jacket,” she admitted, unabashed, presuming that was what he was looking for – he’d left it on a table, and she had been too lazy to find her own before going. If her Archer clothes were loose on her, Declan’s jacket was really too big, but then – who cared?
21st November, 1894 — Whitby & Co. Printshop
Yesterday had been long and emotionally draining, and Tess had tossed and turned even after everything had been decided. Sage would have it ten times worse than the rest of them, of course, so she couldn’t complain – but it was distinctly odd, waking up to a house that now suddenly contained a young child. Adorable, but unsettled by the upheaval to her existence, not to mention a haunting reminder of Sage’s past dalliance. (Their parents would have supported her through this too, Tess was sure, but still, she was a little relieved they were not here to deal with it.)
Declan had been there, though – Tess had not been able to discern what he thought about anything the day before, and most of today they had been catching up on printing a large order whose deadline was in. Prescott had taken the stacks down to Sam to be duly distributed, but while they were left to reset the presses and tidy up the mess of paper in the printroom, Tess glanced at him. Once, and then a couple times more before before she screwed up the courage. On the fourth glance sidelong, she commented, “You’ve been quiet.” And no wonder, really. Tess sighed. “Sorry about yesterday. I know it was –” she waved a hand, wordlessly. A lot.
Declan had been there, though – Tess had not been able to discern what he thought about anything the day before, and most of today they had been catching up on printing a large order whose deadline was in. Prescott had taken the stacks down to Sam to be duly distributed, but while they were left to reset the presses and tidy up the mess of paper in the printroom, Tess glanced at him. Once, and then a couple times more before before she screwed up the courage. On the fourth glance sidelong, she commented, “You’ve been quiet.” And no wonder, really. Tess sighed. “Sorry about yesterday. I know it was –” she waved a hand, wordlessly. A lot.
I see the sacrifice of man
I see portrayals of betrayal
And a brother's final stand.
January 11th, 1895 — Ty's Bedroom
Like why his dreams at night were so fitful. His dreams seemed to consist a lot of one of the Greengrass brothers. Not the one he was familiar with though. He somewhat did remember Noble but his old school chum was not the one invading his dreams each night. Tycho couldn't figure it out. Were these memories? Fantasies? He had no way of knowing for sure.
First, he'd dreamed that he was holding one of his classic mystic scams for the muggles. We'll be great friends, I think. That had been something he had said to a beaming face that, in his dream, he knew felt the same way. Then it melded into him showing the man his attic with its illusionary night sky. Then there was something somewhere else involving a ghost mirror.
His emotions and feelings in his dreams began turning towards intense affection. More jumbled scenes plagued his dreams including brief fights, almost always patched up right away. Sometimes with his apology, sometimes with Greengrasses. Including a New Years night where his stomach had dropped as he realised just how intense his affections had become.
But you're like a star, the Dream Greengrass said before Tycho woke with a start, soaked with sweat. Ty's brain felt jumbled up. What was real? What was dreamed up? Or.. what was a vision and thus not something that had happened yet but a possible future? He rubbed his face with his hands as things faded a bit in wakefulness but he still felt unsettled.
12 December, 1894 — Samuel's Old Laboratory, Whitechapel
Outside of this empty residence, Don Juan was beginning to think that he hated Samuel Griffith. Hate was a strong emotion, and not a conclusion to be arrived at lightly. Don Juan wasn't sure he'd hated anyone before. Elfrieda Yaxley's husband had repulsed and irritated him. Valencia had infuriated him when she'd begun messing around with his family and refused to tell him what her game was. There were people in society that he disdained, and far more that held him at arm's length which he hardly considered. But when he thought about Griffith, the smug superiority with which he carried himself when he offered Don Juan a drop of what he'd been craving, he thought maybe this feeling rose to hate, or something like it. It had been over a week since the first occasion, and they'd been meeting up again irregularly — after Don Juan had come frantically crawling back on the edge of his first round of withdrawal and begged for something to keep it at bay. Griffith still administered it by his hand, with Don Juan sitting or kneeling and holding his mouth open for it. He still claimed this was for safety and precision, but Don Juan had begun to consider perhaps it was more about power. The ability to regularly humiliate him, to force him to his knees while he begged with his eyes — he suspected Griffith liked that. And he certainly had been holding back on the dosage, which seemed like another way to exert his control over the situation. Nothing had ever felt the way that first night did, and Don Juan didn't think it was because he was getting used to it; Griffith was purposefully keeping him on the edge of withdrawal all the time. He kept the dose low enough that Don Juan would be back soon enough, and every time Don Juan returned here the scene played out like a power struggle that he was destined to lose. And Griffith, smug, in control, ever victorious — how could Don Juan not hate him?
But when he was here there was no room for hate. No emotion survived at all; they were all subsumed by need. He'd wait until Griffith was ready and then get on his knees without hesitation, in order to get the hit he craved. Griffith could have asked anything of him and he probably would have done it. He'd stopped just short of saying it, the first time he'd come back asking for more. I can pay you, he had offered, and though he hadn't verbalized anything else he was sure it was clear in his air of desperation that the offer didn't stop at money. Griffith had refused payment, so far — another thing that made him suspicious when he was edging towards sobriety, but which he didn't bother to think about at moments like this.
"Give me more this time," he pleaded. He was pacing while Griffith worked, entirely insensible to what the man was doing. He could have been concocting a poison to feed Don Juan for all he knew (in a way he supposed he was). "Like the first night."
But when he was here there was no room for hate. No emotion survived at all; they were all subsumed by need. He'd wait until Griffith was ready and then get on his knees without hesitation, in order to get the hit he craved. Griffith could have asked anything of him and he probably would have done it. He'd stopped just short of saying it, the first time he'd come back asking for more. I can pay you, he had offered, and though he hadn't verbalized anything else he was sure it was clear in his air of desperation that the offer didn't stop at money. Griffith had refused payment, so far — another thing that made him suspicious when he was edging towards sobriety, but which he didn't bother to think about at moments like this.
"Give me more this time," he pleaded. He was pacing while Griffith worked, entirely insensible to what the man was doing. He could have been concocting a poison to feed Don Juan for all he knew (in a way he supposed he was). "Like the first night."
M- drug use, terrible power dynamics, & suicidal ideation, possibly other dark themes to develop!
Hey Guys, Look at my shiny new... guy! This here <<< is Kel, or Kelly Wildsmith. He's also known as the tribute to all my work related woes and therefore will probably spend his life complaining about customers and customer service because he's the worst Upper Class agent there is but his ancestor invented the damn thing so there's that.
Floo Employee | UCHB | Hufflepuff 1877 -1884 | rep 8 | Second Son and Not Good Enough (Don't count on his inheritance ladies)
Who is he? Kelly comes from the Wildsmith family, and is descended from Ignatia Wildsmith who is notably credited for developing the Floo network. He's a second son whose lived his life in his brothers shadow enduring the unfavourable comparisons and scorn from his parents and as such has an inferiority complex that has made him quite the follower. He isn't particularly good at putting himself out there nor can you count him as somebody who succeeds against the odds or is particularly brilliant (he is decidely average, unfortunately). He works for the Floo department as an Employee, (not even ae manager! To his parents scorn) and would be perfectly happy if everything continued the way it has always done and if he could maybe find somebody, fall in love and they... tolerate him.. and marry that would be fantastic. (He has a low bar for such things).
Unfortunately for Kel's dreams is that fact that Kayte is our Satan and Persy is her character to make her dark plotty dreams come true he and his cousin, and their friends did something stupid one night and now are essentially cursed and unable to talk about it due to an Unbreakable Vow as whatever they did seems to be picking them off.
Do you have
- School Connections : Kel was a Puff from 1877 -1884; He has a childhood connection to Ivy Sandow, Persephone Broadmoor, and Cleon Broadmoor as Persephone and Cleon used to live close to his cousin "Henry" whom he summered with check out Kayte's plot pals
Henry especially is of interest to me however as none are currently in his year and I'm hoping he actually had found friends in his own year. He took Ghoul Studies, Earth Magic and Arithmancy for his OWLs and for NEWTS he took Alchemy, Goobledgook, Potions, Charms, Transfiguration and Ghoul Studies.
- Friends: Include the aforementioned childhood friendship group. Publicly he attempts to be happy, fun-loving, the guy whose always willing to give anything a go, he's hardworking and a steadfast friend who will go out of his way to help anyone in need and tries to be responsible. Its' likely he's an introvert acting as an extrovert as he is heavily insecure so if you'd be friends with that guy let me know. [side note: he's new and I'm still feeling him out so hit me up with any ideas. Networking threads are... not my strong suit. I'm happy to do past threads to try and work out what works]
- Somebody with a membership at Excalibur/live there as well?
- People from the Ministry, the Floo department, have floo issues or require one to be installed.
- potential hurl fails. Kel has on multiple occassions stumbled at attempting to hurl - perhaps due to being a second son with no inheritance? perhaps his family are sabotaging him? perhaps he's cursed? though it's likely that as he was never particularly good at socialising, small talk or dealing with most girls it may be just his lack of charisma. Are you a hurl fail? (again happy to past thread)
- ...... and I mean I could be nice to him and actually do actual hurling but er-as I am also not gifted in this topic I warn you now chances of success may be limited.
Any other suggestions welcomed, mostly because it has been a long time since I've actually done an adult and he's a new baby.
Sup, It's me again. I am making a character loosely based off of Epic!Odysseus. In my iteration, he is a man that went to sea ten or so years ago. It should have been routine, he was due back at a certain time, should have written regularly. But he instead has ended up thought to be dead by most of society for some years. But actually he had survived a shipwreck. Shit happened. He is now going to be rescued by one J. Alfred Darrow.
I am seeking a couple of things before I create him:
"Penelope"! Ody and "Penelope" were deeply in love before he was lost at sea. He has kept them in his heart all these years and "Penelope" was a driving force of why he fought to make his way back so hard. This could be an already existing character and I am definitely down for and desirous of past threads to more canonically establish their romantic milestones.Claimed
- Family, he could also just be a cousin branch! MC/UC (though MC feels more plausible due to him being a sailor!), any blood. Early 30's and I will be using Michiel Huisman.
23 December 1894 — Dorian Fisk's Flat; North Bartonburg
Dorian Fisk
Dorian Fisk
She was back in fighting form, but that hardly meant she was ready to show up right at his doorestep. But here Mabel was, trudging along in the snow thanking Merlin her boots were well insulated to withstand the harsher weather that had thrust itself upon the entirety of the country. She’d debated only a few days about visiting Dory and thanking him for nursing her back to health, however she still found herself with a litany of questions from the past year. It was what had her hesitating as long as she did. But finally when the holidays struck, Mabel realized she wanted to confront her thoughts rather than dismiss them. And the only way to confront them was to confront him.
It was how she found herself at his doorstep, fist raised to knock just as the thought hit her that Dory might not even be at his place; it was the second night of Hanukkah, and he was bound to be celebrating with his family. So she might as well be knocking on an empty flat right now. But still, she stepped back, giving it a few seconds before she would leave and try another night.
January 1st, 1895; shortly after midnight — Asphodel Cemetary
She had not wanted to dig up a corpse, not even in the pursuit of knowledge.
But Persephone Broadmoor had known that she might need to. Fortunately, Orla McLaggen (nineteen, not hideous) had been interred only the morning before. Persy had never been one to believe in fate or destiny beyond that a woman should make her own, but it was almost enough to serve as a sign: the time was right. She could do this. She was older than the last time she had attempted something of this magnitude, wiser. She had searched and researched for years to find the answer, and now she had it. All she needed to complete the ritual was a moment of enough change within the universe, and the turning of the year had seemed just the ticket. That, and a body.
Besides, Thomasin couldn't die twice.
For whatever reason—who was she kidding, it was guilt and apprehension—Persy had not told any of the others what she had planned, had sworn Thomasin to secrecy. The two did not need anyone else, not for this. It had taken a bit more doing to escape from the party she had been dragged from, but that was what apparition liscences were for.
For once, Thomasin had been on time, the promise of new life able to do what early morning classes never had.
Blood. Dirt. Fire. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. Runes. At midnight precisely, Persephone had blown out the candle, and Thomasin, too, had blinked out of sight.
It was time, now, to dig.
With a charmed shovel and one of her own (speed was of the essence) she delved into the loosely packed soil, making a mental note to leave some flowers by way of apology in the near future. It was the sort of manual labour to which women like Persephone were ill-accustomed, and she quickly broke into a sweat, the discomfort turning to pain. Eventually, her own shovel was abandoned, the charmed shovel making painstaking work of the remainder of the task, its methodical rhythm and the last, lingering sounds of fireworks and firecrackers the only sounds piecing the night's stillness.
With a thud, the shovel hit wood: the casket.
A wave of her wand removed the lingering soil, a second opened the box.
The box was not empty.
But Orla McLaggen was. Thomasin was not here.
Something had gone wrong.
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