Cool, he's a nice addition to the group that contrasts well with the other personalities and stories. Dangerous guy though, not sure how trustworthy he can be. :D
Ashgan
Member
- Last Seen: 4 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Ashgan
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 416 (0.10 / day)
- VMs: 1
-
Username history
- Ashgan 11 yrs ago
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
This show really was for all genders and ages, wasnโt it? Trisha thought, watching John shuffle into the room. Not quite as elderly as the good doctor, perhaps, though not far away either. At least in his sixties. Expensive suit, no obvious signs of wear; must be new or almost. Clearly heโs got money. Good for him. Something wrong with the way he sat down โ yes, the way he supported himself. Awkward right hand, reduced mobility. Crippled? Awkward facial expression too, now that she thought about it. Maybe he feels like heโs in the wrong place. That she could understand. Interesting man, more to him than meets the eye.
Trisha eyed John as discretely as she could, pretending to be more focused on the doctor. It was only a moment before this one revealed the newcomerโs name: Dorman-Smith. That sent a lot of alarm bells going off in her head. The name carried weight and a lot of connotation. She was never personally involved in any investigation pertaining to the man or his family, but she was aware that he almost certainly had dirt on him. How much, and what kind, she did not know. Hopefully nothing worse than tax evasion or money laundering. Not that those things were right, but at leastโฆ at least they werenโt what she had to deal with. But how strange; their good doctor McCoy had enough of a reputation to attract not only average Janes like herself and the platinum-haired girl, but apparently Wall Street came to visit too. Things were getting more interesting by the minute. Maybe later tonight she would jot down some notes on each character she would meet at these sessions.
Take it away, doctor, she thought to herself and keenly eyed him as he began to talk about, essentially, paranormal events. Typical fodder for conspiracy theories and nut jobs: ghosts, demons, aliens, the whole shebang. At least he was political in his choice of words, never implying that any of these things were real โ or that he believed that they were real โ but nonetheless leaving some room for personal interpretation and belief. As expected, he was a talker. Years of experience must have made him a master at twisting words just the right way. But words are not the only vector of communication. She could tell he was holding back. Not lying, but clearly he would have gone on at greater length if he were talking to somebody he could trust not to laugh at his wilder theories. Perhaps he really did think aliens were probing us. No, donโt focus on the aliens. The symbol on the whiteboard? Smelled occult. Demons, then? Perhaps he wasnโt quite the good Christian he was raised to be. Or perhaps too much. Didnโt make him a criminal, but it did set him up for harboring dangerous, risk-associated beliefs.
Something was wrong with his gaze also: he was not looking at any one of them and that was highly unusual. Most people, when addressing a group, would alternate between looking at various members of their audience at roughly equal intervals, to make sure nobody felt left out and to keep the group engaged. He, however, stared at something behind her. She could not turn around โ it would be too obvious โ but she took note and would look what was there on her way out. If only sheโd paid more attention to the room when she came in, she could have recalled right away. Sloppy work; must be the fatigue.
Trisha did not make much of his coughing bout. She had seen enough smokers suffering from similar symptoms to believe him. The napkin box was almost empty, though; hopefully he did not have a second fit. That could get messy, she thought, looking at the blood stains on some of the discarded tissues. He brushed the event off with an attempt at humor, although both he and Trisha knew that the situation was not funny for either of them.
And then the moment came where he asked his โpatientsโ, she guessed the term was, to share their stories. How dreadful. Neither of the other two seemed particularly forthcoming either and slowly but surely she felt the awkward tension of silence build up. She wanted to sigh but did not. As much as she did not want to do this, somebody had to start talking, and she would assume the role of a mature adult by doing just that. Old man was probably still catching his breath, and it was unfair to put the burden on a child.
Trisha cleared her throat to garner some attention and began: โMy name is Trisha Hayes. Iโm in my late thirties and I work as a police detective.โ Technically, that was a lie; she lost her job, although in a way she still did exactly that. Better to put it this way than to admit that she was squatting at a friendโs, unemployed, and stalking a killer in her free time. If mama could see her nowโฆ
โIโm working on a very difficult case, and have been for a long time now. Iโll admit that itโs stressful. I guess thatโs why Iโm here.โ
She spoke in as neutral a tone of voice as she could, doing her best to mask any feelings or thoughts. It was almost as if she was reading something off of a note. While speaking, she made sure to keep an eye on John Dorman-Smith, gauging his reaction when she dropped the word detective.
Trisha eyed John as discretely as she could, pretending to be more focused on the doctor. It was only a moment before this one revealed the newcomerโs name: Dorman-Smith. That sent a lot of alarm bells going off in her head. The name carried weight and a lot of connotation. She was never personally involved in any investigation pertaining to the man or his family, but she was aware that he almost certainly had dirt on him. How much, and what kind, she did not know. Hopefully nothing worse than tax evasion or money laundering. Not that those things were right, but at leastโฆ at least they werenโt what she had to deal with. But how strange; their good doctor McCoy had enough of a reputation to attract not only average Janes like herself and the platinum-haired girl, but apparently Wall Street came to visit too. Things were getting more interesting by the minute. Maybe later tonight she would jot down some notes on each character she would meet at these sessions.
Take it away, doctor, she thought to herself and keenly eyed him as he began to talk about, essentially, paranormal events. Typical fodder for conspiracy theories and nut jobs: ghosts, demons, aliens, the whole shebang. At least he was political in his choice of words, never implying that any of these things were real โ or that he believed that they were real โ but nonetheless leaving some room for personal interpretation and belief. As expected, he was a talker. Years of experience must have made him a master at twisting words just the right way. But words are not the only vector of communication. She could tell he was holding back. Not lying, but clearly he would have gone on at greater length if he were talking to somebody he could trust not to laugh at his wilder theories. Perhaps he really did think aliens were probing us. No, donโt focus on the aliens. The symbol on the whiteboard? Smelled occult. Demons, then? Perhaps he wasnโt quite the good Christian he was raised to be. Or perhaps too much. Didnโt make him a criminal, but it did set him up for harboring dangerous, risk-associated beliefs.
Something was wrong with his gaze also: he was not looking at any one of them and that was highly unusual. Most people, when addressing a group, would alternate between looking at various members of their audience at roughly equal intervals, to make sure nobody felt left out and to keep the group engaged. He, however, stared at something behind her. She could not turn around โ it would be too obvious โ but she took note and would look what was there on her way out. If only sheโd paid more attention to the room when she came in, she could have recalled right away. Sloppy work; must be the fatigue.
Trisha did not make much of his coughing bout. She had seen enough smokers suffering from similar symptoms to believe him. The napkin box was almost empty, though; hopefully he did not have a second fit. That could get messy, she thought, looking at the blood stains on some of the discarded tissues. He brushed the event off with an attempt at humor, although both he and Trisha knew that the situation was not funny for either of them.
And then the moment came where he asked his โpatientsโ, she guessed the term was, to share their stories. How dreadful. Neither of the other two seemed particularly forthcoming either and slowly but surely she felt the awkward tension of silence build up. She wanted to sigh but did not. As much as she did not want to do this, somebody had to start talking, and she would assume the role of a mature adult by doing just that. Old man was probably still catching his breath, and it was unfair to put the burden on a child.
Trisha cleared her throat to garner some attention and began: โMy name is Trisha Hayes. Iโm in my late thirties and I work as a police detective.โ Technically, that was a lie; she lost her job, although in a way she still did exactly that. Better to put it this way than to admit that she was squatting at a friendโs, unemployed, and stalking a killer in her free time. If mama could see her nowโฆ
โIโm working on a very difficult case, and have been for a long time now. Iโll admit that itโs stressful. I guess thatโs why Iโm here.โ
She spoke in as neutral a tone of voice as she could, doing her best to mask any feelings or thoughts. It was almost as if she was reading something off of a note. While speaking, she made sure to keep an eye on John Dorman-Smith, gauging his reaction when she dropped the word detective.
Perception is always god-tier in RPGs :D
So, question to the players: Do you think any of your characters are particularly likely to be the first to start talking? I figure, if everybody is hesitating, I will have Trisha take the lead, but she's not exactly enthusiastic and so would definitely give everyone a fair moment to take heart and start instead.
So, question to the players: Do you think any of your characters are particularly likely to be the first to start talking? I figure, if everybody is hesitating, I will have Trisha take the lead, but she's not exactly enthusiastic and so would definitely give everyone a fair moment to take heart and start instead.
The searing hot engine grumbled and shook like a wild beast barely containing its primal anger. The bikeโs driver, keeping the vehicle on standstill with one foot on the pavement, glanced to her right, scanning the house numbers to make sure she was in the right place. Satisfied that she was, but shaking her head with disapproval, she killed the engine with a twist of the key. Just like that, the furious growling died and only the sound of rain spattering against the hard exterior of her helmet remained. She dismounted and disabled the vehicleโs front wheel with a disc lock that she produced from a small bag on the rear of the seat. Imperfect security, but it was better than nothing; either way she hadnโt planned on being gone for too long.
Removing her helmet, she left the bike behind and leisurely followed the sidewalk. It was evening โ long, wet shadows crawled across the street, pushed back only by the fluorescent light of lamp posts. No pedestrians in sight; some women would feel rightly afraid of being alone in such a place, but not her. She had grown accustomed to walking in dangerous places on her lonesome long ago. Whether it was bravery or foolishness, she could not say.
Trisha entered the door code and, after waiting for a few moments, pushed open the door when a buzz signaled the release of the locks. She stood in the lobby for a while, letting the door shut behind her, and took in the sight with distrustful eyes, as the rain dripped off of her black leather coat. One could still hear the downpour outside battering against the building, muffled but immutable. The absence of a receptionist โ even just the janitor โ bothered her. When she cocked her ear to listen, she could hear no sound coming from anywhere besides the rain. It was altogether too quiet. Frowning, she approached the elevator and the adjoining information board. Every step of her solid outdoors-boots echoed across the empty room. The sound unsettled her. She preferred being quiet when possible. Scanning the board quickly, with eyes trained through the analyzing of lengthy documents for years, she spotted her mark: the psychiatric office on the sixth floor. She scoffed. Is this what she has come to now? Does she really need a shrink to deal with her life? No, she reminded herself. Sheโs doing this for Abigail. And only for her.
Taking a mental note of the other noticed posted on the board, she called the elevator and rode it to the sixth floor. Inside the elevator was a mirror where she could catch a glance at the presentation she would make. Wet, black hair tied in a bun. Dull grey eyes framed by a dark coloration โ mascara at a first glance, though in truth just the mark left by exhaustion. No lipstick or other make-up. She wasnโt that kind of woman. Not anymore. A knee-length leather coat and thick leather pants protected her not only on her bike, but would also prove useful in a scuffle. She had tested knife cuts against them.
The door opened, accompanied by the ring of a bell. Before leaving, she looked ahead into the corridor. Seeing it was empty, she stepped out and looked to the left and right as well. Nothing. Ahead, an open door permitted light to shine into the otherwise dim hallway. Must be it, she thought. Slowly she headed for the light, this time taking care to step softly. The whiteboard next to the entrance caught her eye and, compelled by her detective nature, she tried to read not only the things written on it now, but the things erased and barely visible. Nothing too interesting, until she saw it โ a faded glyph in the upper right corner. She did not recognize it, but she has seen things like it in the past. The Violator often left occult symbols at the scenes of his crimes. It was enough to bring it all back.
Mothers devastated. Children mutilated. Bound bodies, their faces contorted with unspeakable pain. DNA traces. Autopsies.
They had him by the balls so many times. Cornered him in a hotel once, all exits blocked. She even caught a glimpse of him as he rushed into another room, closing the door behind him. But then they breached the room and it was empty. No other exits. The man just vanished without a trace. Fucking magician.
Trisha closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Breathe in, breathe out. She suddenly felt very drained. Every heartbeat felt like a laborious, conscious effort. Fumbling on the inside of her coat, she produced a packet of pills. Without second thoughts, she swallowed one and put the rest back where they came. Breathe in, breathe out. Her eyelids felt so heavy.
Again she focused on the symbol on the whiteboard. There was no way this was just some kidโs doodle โ too unusual a place, and too high to reach. Somebody deliberately put this there once, and they knew what it meant. It was an omen she would have to take seriously. But at least, she thought, there was now a good reason to go to this therapy after all. Perhaps she could implicate the doctor with the Violatorโs crimes. Perhaps he had a clue. She put her hand over her coat, across where her left-side ribs would be, and felt the comforting contour of her gun underneath. If push came to shove, she always had this.
Waiting for a few moments for the caffeine tablet to kick in, she eventually took heart and stepped from the shadow into the light. A dozen chairs arranged in a circle โ she really was in the loony bin now. She had to swallow her pride and submit to this, she reminded herself. It was for a good reason. For Abigail and, as it turned out, perhaps for herself. She just had to stay sharp and make sure that nobody else caught on to the fact that she was ready to pounce.
โEvening,โ she muttered, โShrink therapy, correct?โ
She took a seat that was equally distant from her two nearest neighbors โ a considerable distance, as there were very few attendees. Shortly afterwards, the doctor began his opening speech. Lovely, she thought. Rehabilitation? He made it sound as if she was still on probation, with one foot in the madhouse. He did not even offer a cure of any kind. Just talk. Well, talk was cheap. It was exactly what she had expected: a waste of time.
While McCoy spoke, she took the time to assess his profile and that of the others in the room with her. McCoy looked to be a man in his sixties or seventies, superficially benevolent and friendly. But everybody knows psychiatrists choose their job first because they want to understand the madness within before they want to understand the madness without. Trisha had no doubt that his friendliness was a well-trained act. She knew how to do it too. Besides, it would take someone truly strange to become one of the only psychiatrists in their field to specialize in, what the information board below called, โobscure eventsโ. Obscure sounded about right, at least. The Violator was no normal human being. The disappearances, the occult nature of his crimes, none of it was normal. Obscure, like that symbol by the door, isnโt that right, old man?
Besides herself, there was a younger girl in the session, perhaps in her teens or early twenties. Trisha could not fathom what she could be doing here. Superficially she was quite ordinary, perhaps a bit on the nerdy side with those thick glasses of hers. Hard to say if they were a style choice or if she really did need glasses. Maybe she was here out of curiosity. Or maybe she was really good at not showing outward signs of distress. Well, what did it matter to her, anyway? The girl was not involved in her case, she had to remind herself. Not yet.
Trisha crossed her legs and leaned back, taking note that the chairs, at least, were quite comfortable. For now, she let other people talk; she had never been the best talker, her talent was with observation. Even when she was interrogating suspects, she ultimately based her assessments less on the exchange of words and more on the suspectโs body language and reactions. Besides, she was none too eager to tell a bunch of unrelated strangers about the worst criminal in Americaโs tragic history.
Removing her helmet, she left the bike behind and leisurely followed the sidewalk. It was evening โ long, wet shadows crawled across the street, pushed back only by the fluorescent light of lamp posts. No pedestrians in sight; some women would feel rightly afraid of being alone in such a place, but not her. She had grown accustomed to walking in dangerous places on her lonesome long ago. Whether it was bravery or foolishness, she could not say.
Trisha entered the door code and, after waiting for a few moments, pushed open the door when a buzz signaled the release of the locks. She stood in the lobby for a while, letting the door shut behind her, and took in the sight with distrustful eyes, as the rain dripped off of her black leather coat. One could still hear the downpour outside battering against the building, muffled but immutable. The absence of a receptionist โ even just the janitor โ bothered her. When she cocked her ear to listen, she could hear no sound coming from anywhere besides the rain. It was altogether too quiet. Frowning, she approached the elevator and the adjoining information board. Every step of her solid outdoors-boots echoed across the empty room. The sound unsettled her. She preferred being quiet when possible. Scanning the board quickly, with eyes trained through the analyzing of lengthy documents for years, she spotted her mark: the psychiatric office on the sixth floor. She scoffed. Is this what she has come to now? Does she really need a shrink to deal with her life? No, she reminded herself. Sheโs doing this for Abigail. And only for her.
Taking a mental note of the other noticed posted on the board, she called the elevator and rode it to the sixth floor. Inside the elevator was a mirror where she could catch a glance at the presentation she would make. Wet, black hair tied in a bun. Dull grey eyes framed by a dark coloration โ mascara at a first glance, though in truth just the mark left by exhaustion. No lipstick or other make-up. She wasnโt that kind of woman. Not anymore. A knee-length leather coat and thick leather pants protected her not only on her bike, but would also prove useful in a scuffle. She had tested knife cuts against them.
The door opened, accompanied by the ring of a bell. Before leaving, she looked ahead into the corridor. Seeing it was empty, she stepped out and looked to the left and right as well. Nothing. Ahead, an open door permitted light to shine into the otherwise dim hallway. Must be it, she thought. Slowly she headed for the light, this time taking care to step softly. The whiteboard next to the entrance caught her eye and, compelled by her detective nature, she tried to read not only the things written on it now, but the things erased and barely visible. Nothing too interesting, until she saw it โ a faded glyph in the upper right corner. She did not recognize it, but she has seen things like it in the past. The Violator often left occult symbols at the scenes of his crimes. It was enough to bring it all back.
Mothers devastated. Children mutilated. Bound bodies, their faces contorted with unspeakable pain. DNA traces. Autopsies.
They had him by the balls so many times. Cornered him in a hotel once, all exits blocked. She even caught a glimpse of him as he rushed into another room, closing the door behind him. But then they breached the room and it was empty. No other exits. The man just vanished without a trace. Fucking magician.
Trisha closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Breathe in, breathe out. She suddenly felt very drained. Every heartbeat felt like a laborious, conscious effort. Fumbling on the inside of her coat, she produced a packet of pills. Without second thoughts, she swallowed one and put the rest back where they came. Breathe in, breathe out. Her eyelids felt so heavy.
Again she focused on the symbol on the whiteboard. There was no way this was just some kidโs doodle โ too unusual a place, and too high to reach. Somebody deliberately put this there once, and they knew what it meant. It was an omen she would have to take seriously. But at least, she thought, there was now a good reason to go to this therapy after all. Perhaps she could implicate the doctor with the Violatorโs crimes. Perhaps he had a clue. She put her hand over her coat, across where her left-side ribs would be, and felt the comforting contour of her gun underneath. If push came to shove, she always had this.
Waiting for a few moments for the caffeine tablet to kick in, she eventually took heart and stepped from the shadow into the light. A dozen chairs arranged in a circle โ she really was in the loony bin now. She had to swallow her pride and submit to this, she reminded herself. It was for a good reason. For Abigail and, as it turned out, perhaps for herself. She just had to stay sharp and make sure that nobody else caught on to the fact that she was ready to pounce.
โEvening,โ she muttered, โShrink therapy, correct?โ
She took a seat that was equally distant from her two nearest neighbors โ a considerable distance, as there were very few attendees. Shortly afterwards, the doctor began his opening speech. Lovely, she thought. Rehabilitation? He made it sound as if she was still on probation, with one foot in the madhouse. He did not even offer a cure of any kind. Just talk. Well, talk was cheap. It was exactly what she had expected: a waste of time.
While McCoy spoke, she took the time to assess his profile and that of the others in the room with her. McCoy looked to be a man in his sixties or seventies, superficially benevolent and friendly. But everybody knows psychiatrists choose their job first because they want to understand the madness within before they want to understand the madness without. Trisha had no doubt that his friendliness was a well-trained act. She knew how to do it too. Besides, it would take someone truly strange to become one of the only psychiatrists in their field to specialize in, what the information board below called, โobscure eventsโ. Obscure sounded about right, at least. The Violator was no normal human being. The disappearances, the occult nature of his crimes, none of it was normal. Obscure, like that symbol by the door, isnโt that right, old man?
Besides herself, there was a younger girl in the session, perhaps in her teens or early twenties. Trisha could not fathom what she could be doing here. Superficially she was quite ordinary, perhaps a bit on the nerdy side with those thick glasses of hers. Hard to say if they were a style choice or if she really did need glasses. Maybe she was here out of curiosity. Or maybe she was really good at not showing outward signs of distress. Well, what did it matter to her, anyway? The girl was not involved in her case, she had to remind herself. Not yet.
Trisha crossed her legs and leaned back, taking note that the chairs, at least, were quite comfortable. For now, she let other people talk; she had never been the best talker, her talent was with observation. Even when she was interrogating suspects, she ultimately based her assessments less on the exchange of words and more on the suspectโs body language and reactions. Besides, she was none too eager to tell a bunch of unrelated strangers about the worst criminal in Americaโs tragic history.
Okay. Well I'm trying to make Trish take a good look at everyone in the session, which is why I wanted to know. I'm just going to skip those who haven't been announced present yet and we'll say they come in later?
Edit: Okay, posted. Could really use some more drafts before the writing is up there, but oh well :) RP is more about improv writing.
Edit: Okay, posted. Could really use some more drafts before the writing is up there, but oh well :) RP is more about improv writing.
Consistency is neat so I'll use it if everyone else does.
I'm writing my post and I'm wondering who is present at this therapy session. Alex, Trish and McCoy are a given. Is there anyone else? NPCs, Herb, anyone? Cause that will change my post ultimately.
I'm writing my post and I'm wondering who is present at this therapy session. Alex, Trish and McCoy are a given. Is there anyone else? NPCs, Herb, anyone? Cause that will change my post ultimately.
Yo, here we go. :3
I'm working on my sheet, just so you know. Will probably post it tomorrow; I just need to fill out the profile. Not sure what to put in there yet.
I just (re-)read some basic information on Kult and I really do see the influence thickly now in your interest check. I had read about it prior but forgot most of it, but there are some cool concepts in there. Metropolis is awesome, and I find the idea of mental balance - that the more "normal" you are, the more chained down by the illusion you are and that becoming extremely noble (or depraved) sets you free - really creative and interesting, because there's no strictly good or bad answer here. When I get home I'll see if I can get my hands on the rule book.
It's early still but I wanted to put out my character concept I will most likely be developing to help inform you and other potential players of what I'm thinking of: I want to create a law enforcer of some kind, police or private I don't know, who has been on the same criminal case for close to a decade now. She's chasing a brutal pedophile but can never catch him, and the occult symbols and ritualistic nature of his crimes paint an all the more disturbing picture of him. Over the years, this man - whose face she has still never seen - has been slowly dragging her down into the dark. Overworked, exhausted and embittered, this obsessed woman still thinks she is just following the trails of someone who is criminally insane. She does not know that he will lead her far beyond the ordinary, into a world where the laws she has sworn to protect are a meaningless and irrelevant concept.
It's early still but I wanted to put out my character concept I will most likely be developing to help inform you and other potential players of what I'm thinking of: I want to create a law enforcer of some kind, police or private I don't know, who has been on the same criminal case for close to a decade now. She's chasing a brutal pedophile but can never catch him, and the occult symbols and ritualistic nature of his crimes paint an all the more disturbing picture of him. Over the years, this man - whose face she has still never seen - has been slowly dragging her down into the dark. Overworked, exhausted and embittered, this obsessed woman still thinks she is just following the trails of someone who is criminally insane. She does not know that he will lead her far beyond the ordinary, into a world where the laws she has sworn to protect are a meaningless and irrelevant concept.
© 2007-2024