Red Wizard Member
Crimson Conjurer
STATUS: No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife between the shoulder blades will seriously cramp his style. 2 mos ago
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Recent Statuses
2 mos ago
Current
No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife between the shoulder blades will seriously cramp his style.
6
likes
2 mos ago
Today is my birthday! I wish you all a truly enchanted day!
19
likes
1 yr ago
Arguing over petty details at times of dimensional emergency was a familiar wizardly trait.
2
likes
1 yr ago
It's my birthday! I wish you all an excellent day!
18
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1 yr ago
A wizard never had friends, at least not friends who were wizards. It needed a different word. Ah yes, that was it. Enemies. But a very different class of enemies. Gentlemen.
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Most Recent Posts
@Expendable
It looks fine, but I have a few pointers:
As stated in the OP, dwarves don't really have gods. They worship their ancestors, and tend to get superstitious about natural phenomena they can't explain.
I get a "surprise half-dwarf" vibe from your text, and let's just clear the air right now: that's not going to happen.
Other than that, it's a good start. I'd like you to focus more on YOUR dwarf and their personal history. Who are they? What have they done? What are their skills and flaws?
Keep it up!
It looks fine, but I have a few pointers:
As stated in the OP, dwarves don't really have gods. They worship their ancestors, and tend to get superstitious about natural phenomena they can't explain.
I get a "surprise half-dwarf" vibe from your text, and let's just clear the air right now: that's not going to happen.
Other than that, it's a good start. I'd like you to focus more on YOUR dwarf and their personal history. Who are they? What have they done? What are their skills and flaws?
Keep it up!
@Fuzzybootz
Browns desk was neat and tidy. All the pencils and papers were in the right place, everything folded and tucked away. There was a ledger in the top drawer containing the files of his open cases, along with Browns own notes on each one. The rest of the drawers contained what you would expect, like additional materials, old notebooks (dated and sorted), a framed picture of his sweetheart (or daughter? Olivia wasn't sure), an unsealed but closed envelope which Olivia decided against opening, etc, etc, etc. In this perfect picture of serene order, one thing stood out like a fresh sore; the newspaper, a copy of The Caledon Courier, flung carelessly on top of everything else.
The newspaper lay with the first page up, the headline exclaiming its message to the universe: Graveyard Vandalized! There were no notes next to this one, no clues or indications, save one. A name in the article was underscored, followed by a question mark. Worthington. Worthington? Olivia read the piece, starting to understand the significance of the scrawl. There had been body snatchers at work, a usual enough problem in Caledon. The surgeons needed their samples, after all, and few families were keen on selling their beloved dead to the butchers of the hospitals. Resurrectionists were cheaper, anyway, and required less paperwork. That wasn't anything to furrow your brow over, gruesome as it was. No, it was another detail of an almost throwaway line that demanded closer inspection.
Apparently, the crypt of the Worthington family had been breached, the stone door smashed open, but no corpse had been stolen. The article made no mention of the ghouls having been disturbed or stopped while doing their skullduggery, which meant they had chosen to refrain from touching the dead in the crypt. Understandable enough, as the family in question was old, rich, and powerful, but that demanded the question as to why they had bothered breaking down the stone door in the first place. No body had been stolen... But was there perhaps something else?
Olivia realized she had three possible leads to investigate; she could try searching the graveyard in general, and the crypt in particular, for clues. There could be something there overlooked by the journalists and constables. Maybe something more in line with her... Unusual talents. Or, she could try tracking down the writer of the article, one mr Simeon Gadd, and pry him for information. He would probably have been at the scene early. Maybe he had seen or heard something that didn't make it into the article, or wasn't possible to observe anymore. Finally, she could of course try to query the Worthington family in her quest for answers. Although why they would allow a detective, or a simple beat cop for that matter, to pry into what could possibly be private matters, she couldn't say.
One way or the other, the strange nature of the case called to her, no matter which lead she was going to choose.
Browns desk was neat and tidy. All the pencils and papers were in the right place, everything folded and tucked away. There was a ledger in the top drawer containing the files of his open cases, along with Browns own notes on each one. The rest of the drawers contained what you would expect, like additional materials, old notebooks (dated and sorted), a framed picture of his sweetheart (or daughter? Olivia wasn't sure), an unsealed but closed envelope which Olivia decided against opening, etc, etc, etc. In this perfect picture of serene order, one thing stood out like a fresh sore; the newspaper, a copy of The Caledon Courier, flung carelessly on top of everything else.
The newspaper lay with the first page up, the headline exclaiming its message to the universe: Graveyard Vandalized! There were no notes next to this one, no clues or indications, save one. A name in the article was underscored, followed by a question mark. Worthington. Worthington? Olivia read the piece, starting to understand the significance of the scrawl. There had been body snatchers at work, a usual enough problem in Caledon. The surgeons needed their samples, after all, and few families were keen on selling their beloved dead to the butchers of the hospitals. Resurrectionists were cheaper, anyway, and required less paperwork. That wasn't anything to furrow your brow over, gruesome as it was. No, it was another detail of an almost throwaway line that demanded closer inspection.
Apparently, the crypt of the Worthington family had been breached, the stone door smashed open, but no corpse had been stolen. The article made no mention of the ghouls having been disturbed or stopped while doing their skullduggery, which meant they had chosen to refrain from touching the dead in the crypt. Understandable enough, as the family in question was old, rich, and powerful, but that demanded the question as to why they had bothered breaking down the stone door in the first place. No body had been stolen... But was there perhaps something else?
Olivia realized she had three possible leads to investigate; she could try searching the graveyard in general, and the crypt in particular, for clues. There could be something there overlooked by the journalists and constables. Maybe something more in line with her... Unusual talents. Or, she could try tracking down the writer of the article, one mr Simeon Gadd, and pry him for information. He would probably have been at the scene early. Maybe he had seen or heard something that didn't make it into the article, or wasn't possible to observe anymore. Finally, she could of course try to query the Worthington family in her quest for answers. Although why they would allow a detective, or a simple beat cop for that matter, to pry into what could possibly be private matters, she couldn't say.
One way or the other, the strange nature of the case called to her, no matter which lead she was going to choose.
Browns desk was neat and tidy. All the pencils and papers were in the right place, everything folded and tucked away. There was a ledger in the top drawer containing the files of his open cases, along with Browns own notes on each one. The rest of the drawers contained what you would expect, like additional materials, old notebooks (dated and sorted), a framed picture of his sweetheart (or daughter? Olivia wasn't sure), an unsealed but closed envelope which Olivia decided against opening, etc, etc, etc. In this perfect picture of serene order, one thing stood out like a fresh sore; the newspaper, a copy of The Caledon Courier, flung carelessly on top of everything else.
The newspaper lay with the first page up, the headline exclaiming its message to the universe: Graveyard Vandalized! There were no notes next to this one, no clues or indications, save one. A name in the article was underscored, followed by a question mark. Worthington. Worthington? Olivia read the piece, starting to understand the significance of the scrawl. There had been body snatchers at work, a usual enough problem in Caledon. The surgeons needed their samples, after all, and few families were keen on selling their beloved dead to the butchers of the hospitals. Resurrectionists were cheaper, anyway, and required less paperwork. That wasn't anything to furrow your brow over, gruesome as it was. No, it was another detail of an almost throwaway line that demanded closer inspection.
Apparently, the crypt of the Worthington family had been breached, the stone door smashed open, but no corpse had been stolen. The article made no mention of the ghouls having been disturbed or stopped while doing their skullduggery, which meant they had chosen to refrain from touching the dead in the crypt. Understandable enough, as the family in question was old, rich, and powerful, but that demanded the question as to why they had bothered breaking down the stone door in the first place. No body had been stolen... But was there perhaps something else?
Olivia realized she had three possible leads to investigate; she could try searching the graveyard in general, and the crypt in particular, for clues. There could be something there overlooked by the journalists and constables. Maybe something more in line with her... Unusual talents. Or, she could try tracking down the writer of the article, one mr Simeon Gadd, and pry him for information. He would probably have been at the scene early. Maybe he had seen or heard something that didn't make it into the article, or wasn't possible to observe anymore. Finally, she could of course try to query the Worthington family in her quest for answers. Although why they would allow a detective, or a simple beat cop for that matter, to pry into what could possibly be private matters, she couldn't say.
One way or the other, the strange nature of the case called to her, no matter which lead she was going to choose.
The newspaper lay with the first page up, the headline exclaiming its message to the universe: Graveyard Vandalized! There were no notes next to this one, no clues or indications, save one. A name in the article was underscored, followed by a question mark. Worthington. Worthington? Olivia read the piece, starting to understand the significance of the scrawl. There had been body snatchers at work, a usual enough problem in Caledon. The surgeons needed their samples, after all, and few families were keen on selling their beloved dead to the butchers of the hospitals. Resurrectionists were cheaper, anyway, and required less paperwork. That wasn't anything to furrow your brow over, gruesome as it was. No, it was another detail of an almost throwaway line that demanded closer inspection.
Apparently, the crypt of the Worthington family had been breached, the stone door smashed open, but no corpse had been stolen. The article made no mention of the ghouls having been disturbed or stopped while doing their skullduggery, which meant they had chosen to refrain from touching the dead in the crypt. Understandable enough, as the family in question was old, rich, and powerful, but that demanded the question as to why they had bothered breaking down the stone door in the first place. No body had been stolen... But was there perhaps something else?
Olivia realized she had three possible leads to investigate; she could try searching the graveyard in general, and the crypt in particular, for clues. There could be something there overlooked by the journalists and constables. Maybe something more in line with her... Unusual talents. Or, she could try tracking down the writer of the article, one mr Simeon Gadd, and pry him for information. He would probably have been at the scene early. Maybe he had seen or heard something that didn't make it into the article, or wasn't possible to observe anymore. Finally, she could of course try to query the Worthington family in her quest for answers. Although why they would allow a detective, or a simple beat cop for that matter, to pry into what could possibly be private matters, she couldn't say.
One way or the other, the strange nature of the case called to her, no matter which lead she was going to choose.
@Fuzzybootz Working on yours now. You can expect it tomorrow!
@CollectorOfMyst
A gust of cool air greeted Desmond as he went through the doors of the boarding house and ventured out into the night. The dark streets were illuminated by the burning light of the lamp posts, casting sharp shadows across Desmonds face as he made his way uptown. A carriage drove past, splashing water as it passed through a puddle, it's wealthily clad inhabitants peering warily at Desmond as the carriage turned a corner and disappeared into the night. Most windows were dark, save for the rare few here and there, melding into the stars of the night sky in the horizon.
He was looking for one ms Agatha Blakes, a journalist in employ of the Caledon Times. Their offices were located in the north east, if he remembered correctly, in the same neighborhood as several other of Caledons journals and newspaper establishments. It was only a short treck to get there, but as he arrived, he found the building vacated. Not one to be easily disheartened, however, he took his search onwards. There were a few pubs and restaurants that journalists were known to frequent, and he decided to try his luck with one of them.
Desmond soon found himself inside the Bugle, a drinking establishment of good repute, well furnished and not too expensive. The salon was full of potential informants as to Blakes whereabouts, and Desmond wasted no time in asking around. It was not too long before he found a colleague of ms Blakes, mr Goodman, who, after having been persuaded with a pint and some charming conversation, divulged her adress. Desmond thanked him for his kindness and was soon on his way once more.
He found the townhouse only a few blocks away. It was a good house, made of stone, well looked after and with beautiful windows. Ms Blakes was not the owner; apparently she let a room from an old widow, mrs Twain, who mr Goodman had informed Desmond was a prudent but rather unjovial sort. The house was dark, save for a lit window on the upper floor. Was that perhaps ms Blakes room? Desmond could only guess, but he found it likely. He could try the front door, potentially risking to disturb the old widow in her sleep, or try some other more... discreet method of contacting ms Blakes. Both strategies held merits and risks. The night wore on as he contemplated his approach.
A gust of cool air greeted Desmond as he went through the doors of the boarding house and ventured out into the night. The dark streets were illuminated by the burning light of the lamp posts, casting sharp shadows across Desmonds face as he made his way uptown. A carriage drove past, splashing water as it passed through a puddle, it's wealthily clad inhabitants peering warily at Desmond as the carriage turned a corner and disappeared into the night. Most windows were dark, save for the rare few here and there, melding into the stars of the night sky in the horizon.
He was looking for one ms Agatha Blakes, a journalist in employ of the Caledon Times. Their offices were located in the north east, if he remembered correctly, in the same neighborhood as several other of Caledons journals and newspaper establishments. It was only a short treck to get there, but as he arrived, he found the building vacated. Not one to be easily disheartened, however, he took his search onwards. There were a few pubs and restaurants that journalists were known to frequent, and he decided to try his luck with one of them.
Desmond soon found himself inside the Bugle, a drinking establishment of good repute, well furnished and not too expensive. The salon was full of potential informants as to Blakes whereabouts, and Desmond wasted no time in asking around. It was not too long before he found a colleague of ms Blakes, mr Goodman, who, after having been persuaded with a pint and some charming conversation, divulged her adress. Desmond thanked him for his kindness and was soon on his way once more.
He found the townhouse only a few blocks away. It was a good house, made of stone, well looked after and with beautiful windows. Ms Blakes was not the owner; apparently she let a room from an old widow, mrs Twain, who mr Goodman had informed Desmond was a prudent but rather unjovial sort. The house was dark, save for a lit window on the upper floor. Was that perhaps ms Blakes room? Desmond could only guess, but he found it likely. He could try the front door, potentially risking to disturb the old widow in her sleep, or try some other more... discreet method of contacting ms Blakes. Both strategies held merits and risks. The night wore on as he contemplated his approach.
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