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Recent Statuses

8 mos ago
Current All I needed to hear, have a nice day.
8 mos ago
I can't remember, what's the rule about advertising discord rps?
1 yr ago
Most vaccines take years - and I mean, like, 7-10 is normal - to develop. The vaccines developed didn't poison people and so despite their limited efficacy, they were sent to market years early.
2 likes
1 yr ago
Considering the status bar usually is fairly comforting, it IS a little surprising it's being so unsympathetic. Can't comment on the actual situation, reminds me too much of a past shitty roommate.
2 likes
1 yr ago
This cannot be happening, on this abandoned and neglected website of all places.
1 like

Bio

I live in the EST time zone. Due to work, unless I think it's important not to leave someone hanging, I will be off by 11 PM. I will rarely post daily, but I can at least guarantee I'll never give you a substance-less post.

Currently active rps:

Most Recent Posts

As funny and amusing as I find Candy's idea, when I wrote Mitra's transformation, I did not expect the police to show up before I could have Mitra collect his old skin and clothing back. As such, to prevent the police from finding a whole human skin with clothes, I think the magic pants (with the way the clothes 'evaporate' and reappear) trope is the way to go for now. Gotta establish that precedent anyways as to how things work, yeah?
<Snipped quote by rush99999>

They might be referring to this.


What Fellsing said. Namely the "They may lose them during the Transformation Sequence, but once the dirty work is done, they'll appear back in them often right where they were standing." part since otherwise his clothes are outside at best.
@rush99999 can I use the magic clothes trope to get Mitra redressed or nah?
Mitra


Mitra drops the pieces of the compass, his other hand dragging down across his face. Were it not for his scales, he likely would have left significant claw marks. "Christ." He looked at Misty. "What'd you do to be on his bad side? Besides exist." The Hunter seems to really have it out for Misty, judging by his parting words and the fact that it wasn't even her who ultimately ruined the compass.

He seems to come to a realization, though, and moves over to Kendra. "First, jacket and shotgun if you don't mind. Unless you feel like explaining those to the police. Second, you need to get a story straight and get out there before they come in here and see a ghost and a demon." Already he's looking around for hiding spaces. After all, it's not like the entire police force is familiar with the supernatural beings roaming their city, and even those who are aren't guaranteed to be friendly. If there's a Hunter among them, Mitra's in trouble and the spirit is probably screwed. Ghosts aren't his wheelhouse either, but he can tell she's badly injured. One more bad blow from someone with ill intentions would - could ghosts even die again? Or would something else happen? Mitra doesn't know and doesn't care to find out.
<Snipped quote by XxFellsingxX>

Grace: And yet…it makes so much sense now!!! He’s not taking time to reason with anyone probably because he’s blinded by the desire for vengeance!!!


Mitra: Nah, I'd bet money the guy's still alive. A living asshole grafting pieces of the supernatural to himself like temporary tattoos.


Jeremiah Dupree




Location: TIME Agency office - Downtown Arkham
Hit Points: 12 Sanity Points: 70 Luck: 40
Mental State: Sane
Skill: (Edu/Know roll for Cornthwaite: 56 Regular success)




The day started as any other day for Professor Jeremiah Dupree would have. He woke up a few minutes before the knocker-upper arrived, in a cold sweat with the dredges of some unremembered nightmare sauntering off. Next was feeding Autumn, for otherwise she would cry at his door as he got ready, and she knew how to cry in the most heartbreaking manner that made her difficult to ignore. Today’s breakfast was mutton for her. Then it was time for his own breakfast, a fried egg and toast, and the two ate in companionable silence, only interrupted by chewing noises. As he cleaned up after the meal, he could hear the mail being delivered and vowed to get it after he cleaned up for the day and got dressed. As he did so, the mail delivery completely slipped his mind as he focused on what he had to do today instead. Today, he had no classes and was between research projects; he’d need to pick his next anthropology topic soon, so why not make that his focus today? Maybe he could do a synthesis of the political ruling styles of the various tribes he’d observed in Africa. Surely he could see if he had enough material for that and have some grad students confirm that his old notes reflected the reality of these tribes currently. That actually didn’t sound like a bad idea. He’d have to go into the university today, something he was otherwise loath to do in this chilly weather, but if it meant being ahead of things, it would be worth it.

Jeremiah nearly tripped over Autumn as he left his room, dressed for the day. Autumn, as any cat would, took offense and practically flew down the stairs away from him. He sighed as he regained his balance, letting go of his door frame. He would scold her, but he didn’t think she understood. She’d just tilt her head and mew quizzically, and he’d give up and offer pets. It was just best to let it go and move on. In fact, as he reached the bottom of the stairs, Autumn looked up at him and meowed, flopping down. He knelt and rubbed her back, listening to her purr. Cats. What else was there to say?

He headed to the door and only then, seeing envelopes in his mail basket, did he remember the mail had been delivered. Right. He picked up the mail and shuffled through it. There wasn’t much: a paycheck from the university, a letter from his Cornell roommate Adrien, and - hello, what was this? The final letter had no postmark, possibly hand-delivered while he had been getting dressed. What was far more interesting was the sender, Harry Peacock. TIME had a case for him and his other recruited agents (none of whom he knew especially well, mostly just that they existed), it seemed. The university would have to wait, he supposed as he grabbed his coat and hat. At least until he determined why this case was worthy of TIME.


The drive over had been peaceful, allowing Jeremiah time to get his thoughts in order. He knew of Arthur Cornthwaite, but the details were proving maddeningly elusive. The man studied the cultures of - he wasn’t sure. But surely he could recall his archaeological work in... He wasn’t sure. To be fair to himself, he was usually too caught up in his work to do his civic duty of keeping up with the rich and famous. But he knew Cornthwaite was an anthropologist as well, so why couldn’t he remember his work? By the time he’d parked his car and made the walk to the detective agency, he’d begun chewing away at the nail on his ring finger on his right hand.

The warmth of the office knocked him out of his head a little, and he shrugged off the coat, sticking his right hand into his jacket pocket as soon as he was able. His left hand fumbled with his hat a little, but he managed to hang it on a hook. Miss Henrietta spoke, but the words escaped Jeremiah’s notice and he just said, “Good morning”, hoping she had not asked a question.

He entered Harry’s office, giving the man an acknowledging nod and seating himself, tapping the fingers of his left hand against his leg in rhythm with the music playing. It was preferable to the smell of smoke that pervaded the office, something which he knew complaining about would be pointless. Jeremiah tried to avoid pointless chatter as a matter of principle. The door opened and closed a few more times, fellow agents (he was sure) entering and seating themselves. He was almost disappointed when the man turned the music down, but it meant it was time for business.

"Let's play 20 questions, gumshoes. What do you know of a certain Mr. Arthur Cornthwaite, you Snoops-in-making? Ready to figure out if he's really missing, or just acting like millionaires do?"

Well, he could partially answer that. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Arthur Cornthwaite is well-known for his work in anthropology, archaeology, and philanthropy.” But if only he could remember what kind of work...
@ONL
Checking in with everyone?
Mitra


In retrospect, maybe getting shot at again would've been alright.

Mitra stares down the weapon, his twitching tail betraying his fear. He doesn't know why Abberline wants this compass so badly, or what he's planning on hunting tonight. Maybe it'd be for the best to return the compass. Their plan was impulsive and contingent on several factors, none of which seem to have panned out. But also, giving Abberline the compass feels like letting him win. Like he and the spirit got shot for no damn reason. Like he handed over his shotgun and trusted these people for nothing.

Then the shotgun goes off. Then the handgun.

Mitra yelps and feels his hand contract. Hears a crunch. Feels pain. It turns out the sound of a shotgun and a gun going off in rapid succession is actually quite startling when you're not the one pulling the trigger. He opens his hand to reveal, to himself and Abberline, assuming Abberline's even capable of paying attention at this point, the broken toy compass.

Some magic could probably fix it. But that's a resource Abberline doesn't have the most regular access to, Mitra's pretty sure.
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