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The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
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DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED

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First and foremost, by design this roleplay is to enable the reunion of a cabal of writers from 2024/early 2025 and provide an opportunity to write together again within an original setting and story.

These writers are tagged below, and they will have a priority position on the roster should they want to apply.


Applications for slots left open after these writers have had their opportunity to apply will be appropriately reviewed by the GMs for acceptance.



Hello! Welcome to Fashionably Late, a Casual/Advanced Crime-Thriller/Murder Mystery roleplay, concering the events of, and investigation into, the death of a particular invidiual at the 2025 New Year's Eve party, and the conspiratorial criminal web those in attendance are drawn into.

As stated above, primarily this roleplay is to facilitate the reunion of a writing group from 2024/early 2025, and the writers tagged above will have priority slots on the roster; however, beyond these individuals, any other slots are open for application - I always like seeing fresh faces.

Applications are open from NOW (09/01/2025) until January 26th 2026, at which point Rockette and I will announce our completed roster and look to launch the IC shortly thereafter. The sheet code can be found in the Character tab's Zeroth Post. Please ensure you properly read all rules and guidelines before applying.

In the meantime, come hang out! Ask questions, chat with the GMs/potential players, and discuss your potential applications! We're looking forward to your RSVP to the one non-negotiable, un-missable party of the year.
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a.. c r i m e.. t h r i l l e r.. r o l e p l a y


F A S H I O N A B L Y L A T E
F A S H I O N A B L Y L A T E


GMs: Roman | Rockette GENRE: Crime Thriller/Murder Mystery

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𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗖𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿'𝘀 𝗘𝘃𝗲. 𝗢𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝘀𝗽 𝗼𝗳 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗶𝘁𝘆'𝘀 𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗹𝘂𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗶𝘁𝘆. 𝗔𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼'𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 - 𝗼𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 - 𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲; 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘄𝘀, 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁-𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿'𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗰𝘁 𝗼𝗻 𝗽𝗹𝘂𝘀-𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘄, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰 𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗱, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗿 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗻 - 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 "𝗵𝗮𝘀𝗵𝘁𝗮𝗴 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆-𝘃𝗶𝗯𝗲𝘀" 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲, 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀 𝗳𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗶𝗹𝗹𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆'𝘀 𝗴𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗶𝗻. 𝗪𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗼𝘄, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗰𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝘂𝗹𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗴𝘆 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗯𝘂𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗲.

𝗢𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱-𝗻𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴; 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗳𝗮𝗿, 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗲𝗳, 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗻 𝗻𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗔 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝘂𝗺𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝗱𝗰𝗮𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 - 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗡𝗬𝗘𝟮𝟱 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗔𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗴𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗸𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗱𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗿𝘂𝗴-𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗹𝘂𝗿𝗸 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗶𝗱 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗽𝗮𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗮𝘇𝘇𝗶, 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘁, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗳𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲. 𝗔𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗱. 𝗜𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁; 𝗶𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗽𝗵𝗼𝘁𝗼, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗶𝘇𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗰𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗮. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗹, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴.

𝗨𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝗮 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗯𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗵𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗸 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁'𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗿𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝗶𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰 𝘁𝗼 𝗮 𝗵𝗮𝗹𝘁; 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘂𝗽 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆'𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴; 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝗮 𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆-𝗯𝗮𝗴 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗱 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘆 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻, 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝘀𝘂𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻, 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗼𝗹𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗯𝗶𝗴 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲: 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿'𝘀 𝗘𝘃𝗲 𝗠𝘂𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿.


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premise....


𝗠𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿, 𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗽𝗼𝗽𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿, 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘀 𝗮 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱-𝗰𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗗𝗝, 𝗮 𝗡𝗲𝘄-𝗬𝗼𝗿𝗸-𝗧𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀-𝗕𝗲𝘀𝘁𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿, 𝗮 𝗺𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗶-𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗼𝗻-𝘃𝗶𝗲𝘄𝘀 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗹-𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗹𝘂𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿. 𝗠𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗯𝗼𝗮𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗷𝗲𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲; 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱'𝘀 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗰𝗮𝘁𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗸𝘀. 𝗠𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗼𝗻 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗧𝘂𝗯𝗲 𝗼𝗿 𝗧𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵, 𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗡𝗲𝘅𝘁 𝗕𝗶𝗴 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗼𝗰𝗸'𝗻'𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗲. 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝗺𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿, 𝗮𝗱𝗼𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿, 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗹𝘁𝗵𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿, 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲: 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗼𝗿𝗸, 𝟯𝟭𝘀𝘁 𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟱, 𝗰𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿'𝘀 𝗘𝘃𝗲 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗸𝘆𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗸 𝗮𝘁 𝗠𝗮𝗻𝗵𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗮𝗻'𝘀 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗹𝘂𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆. 𝗗𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗻𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗱𝗿𝘂𝗴-𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 - 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝗻𝗼 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗶𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝘂𝗻-𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿.

𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗮 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗮 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗵 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗽𝘀𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘃𝗶𝗯𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗮 𝗺𝘂𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗯𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗼𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗻 𝗠𝗮𝗻𝗵𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗮𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝗰𝗶𝗲𝘁𝘆. 𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘀𝗲, 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗰𝗮𝗯𝗮𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝘀𝗼 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝘂𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗿𝘆 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝘄𝘀 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 - 𝘀𝘂𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝘃𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝘂𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝘄 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸, 𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗔𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗹𝗹, 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗴𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗷𝘂𝗿𝘆 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴; 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗰 𝗼𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲.

𝗔𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗹𝘀 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘆, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗲𝗳𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱: 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗶𝘃𝗮𝗹.

𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗮𝘆?
█ 𝘉𝘖𝘉𝘉𝘠 𝘙𝘐𝘍𝘖
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█ ███ ██ █ S U M M A R Y █ ██ ███ █

EPHRAIM LORENZO CATTANEO
AGE Thirty-one
GENDER Male
ETHNICITY/RACE Italian-American
MARTIAL STATUS Single
SEXUALITY Heterosexual
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Ephraim was born 1994 to an American mother and immigrant Italian father, and while their whirlwind romance was deep and passionate, it was also not destined to last. Following their dramatic blow-up and subsequent separation, Ephraim spent most of his childhood and formative adolescence being shipped between his mother's spacious and expensive Tribeca loft apartment, and his father's cozy and well-lived city house in Milan. Any time neither could take him, he was instead deposited at one of several boarding schools, never spending more than a single semester there before being pulled out and put back on a plane. His upbringing was, in a word, turbulent, and he found himself unable to put down roots in any one place, and while he was loved by his parents, the disconnect and lingering animosity between mother and father bled into the son's interactions with both. He was, as a result, a surly child, difficult at times, constantly re-adjusting; he got used to his own company, the only reliable, consistent relationship in his life.

The only other constant for Ephraim was music: at his mother's insistence he undertook classical training, her loft and many boarding school classrooms echoing daily with the sounds of piano, violin, guitar, cello, saxophone, drums; Ephraim was something of an omniglot for instruments, and found plying the desired sounds from each astonishingly easy. His father was more lax with the upkeep of Ephraim's carefully-curated musical syllabus, but still encouraged this burgeoning passion and obvious talent in his son; Milan offered many opportunities to explore the living artform of music, and the city's thriving electronica scene expanded Ephraim's horizons and showed him what music could be outside of graded tutoring - the ways the rules could be played with, experimented on, torn up and thrown out.

Once Ephraim came of age, the obvious choice was to carry on his musical studies - the only solid, persistant education he had - and enrol in university. He started at Berklee, found a student house, settled somewhere for more than a year for the first time in his life, met people, made friends, got a job; he maintained a distinctly private, individualistic lifestyle, always comfortable in silence, never lonely in his own company. He began to make his way in the world, music ever-present.

He never finished his studies or graduated Berklee; but that didn't seem to matter much in the long run.

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Ephraim began experimenting with music production at Berklee at the behest of his roommate, Hudson, who was starting a band and needed a discerning ear to clean up the demos. Ephraim was initially just mixing the early self-published mixtapes, but quickly began to branch out, playing with a fusion of his classical training and the electronica sounds of Milan - with increasing punk rock influence thanks to the escapades of Hudson's band and what he'd learnt mixing their EP. On Hudson's whim, he played one 'open mic' set at a local club, a show that met with enough success as to frighten Ephraim. The clamour to know who he was, where he came from, how he drew his influences and experiences together into his music - it was all too much and far too intrusive for the naturally private and reserved Ephraim. He couldn't open up his life like that, couldn't be the frontman he needed to be to see success on a wider scale. And then Hudson had an idea.

Thus was born "Bobby Rifo", a masked DJ of undeniable talent, his 'true identity' kept a well-guarded secret and his face never seen. Local shows built groundswell and word-of-mouth that 'Rifo' - and behind the scenes, Hudson - quickly converted into a record-setting sales and streaming explosion when Bobby Rifo dropped his first EP and then a full album a few short months later, and from there, he steamrolled into a full-blown electronica phenomenon. In between albums, Rifo sold out multiple Boiler Room shows, peaked charts in domestic and foreign markets, won awards, played Saturday nights at Glastonbury and Coachella, headlined Tomorrowland, and collaborated with other househould names like Deadmau5, Skrillex, Four Tet and Fred Again. All the while, Ephraim Cattaneo was able to move out of notice beneath the public eye, hidden from view and able to maintain a successful double-life.

More recently, in the wake of AI, Rifo has stripped back; his equipment has become increasingly analog, anyone in his employ wears anti-facial-recognition makeup, and he's begun streamlining out purely digital tools from his process. Across social media, Rifo's gone on the anti-AI warpath, his stance divisive but winning him as many new listeners as it's lost; and now, on the cusp of 2026, corporately-pushed AI infecting every facet of society it can find, Rifo's audience eagerly awaits his much-teased upcoming album - unaware that it will likely be his last.
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SUPPORTING CAST▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅


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FELIX
A friend of Rifo and carefully selected to be his PR/Press Agent. A level head and an affable personality, Felix is a far more public 'face' for Rifo than Ephraim himself has to be, and there's many an interview where Felix stands in as a buffer between Rifo and the press. Felix does his job well, but he's never actually spoken to Ephraim in-person - they communicate exclusively through proxy, whether that be call, text, or email.
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HUDSON
Ephraim's roommate at Berklee, frontman of his own band and also a member of an exclusive circle who knows Ephraim and Rifo, mostly because he came up with the persona in the first place. A tattoo artist in his day job, he's also a frequent collaborator behind-the-scenes, assisting on production and writing for Rifo's albums.
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MIRABELLA
Ephraim's on-again, off-again 'situationship' of a girlfriend, a Milan native he met during his adolescene when staying with his father. She's a semi-successful singer in her own right, though only within Italy and not breaking out of the country, and while she's fond of Ephraim, his privacy and reluctance to risk the double-life with papparazi connecting dots if Rifo was seen with her makes a true relationship difficult.
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GORDON
Rifo's direct manager at the label, a grizzled veteran of the music industry and a friend of Ephraim's mother from the old days, although Gordon himself isn't aware of the connection. He's deftly sheparded Rifo's career for over a decade now, securing important bookings and media coverage, and is well-respected by Ephraim and his peers for his future-sight and keen eye.
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a.. c r i m e.. t h r i l l e r.. r o l e p l a y


F A S H I O N A B L Y L A T E
F A S H I O N A B L Y L A T E


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casting call....



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EPHRAIM CATTANEO

HEX CODE . #000000
FACE CLAIM . Sir Bob Cornelius Rifo
WRITER . @Roman
SUSPECT LEVEL .
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DAISY BLACK

HEX CODE . #9f6266
FACE CLAIM . Mara
WRITER . @Rockette
SUSPECT LEVEL . ██████████

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JAMES GORDON

HEX CODE . #4682b4
FACE CLAIM .Chris Wolstenholme
WRITER . @Lord Wraith
SUSPECT LEVEL . ██████████

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ANNA SVENSSON

HEX CODE . #ffc0cb
FACE CLAIM . Ana Mulvoy-Ten
WRITER . @Xandrya
SUSPECT LEVEL .
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SCARLETT WREN

HEX CODE . #ef476f
FACE CLAIM . Jessica Alexander
WRITER . @Melissa
SUSPECT LEVEL . ██████████

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JALEN DANIELS

HEX CODE . #ffa500
FACE CLAIM . LaKeith Stanfield
WRITER . @Hound55
SUSPECT LEVEL . ██████████

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HAYDEN FENWICK

HEX CODE . #969fab
FACE CLAIM . Ryan Corr
WRITER . @Stormyx
SUSPECT LEVEL .
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CHARLES APONTE

HEX CODE . #8e2d35
FACE CLAIM . Tom Hiddleston
WRITER . @Sleepy Tani
SUSPECT LEVEL . ██████████

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MARGOT STERLING

HEX CODE . #a7afcb
FACE CLAIM . Haley Lu Richardson
WRITER . @Qia
SUSPECT LEVEL . ██████████

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ELEANOR HILL

HEX CODE . #daa520
FACE CLAIM . -
WRITER . @Mole
SUSPECT LEVEL .
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WILLIAM TREMAYNE

HEX CODE . #FFFFFF
FACE CLAIM . Ray Wise
WRITER . NPC
SUSPECT LEVEL .
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JOSIE TATL

HEX CODE . #6A5ACD
FACE CLAIM . Anne Hathaway
WRITER . NPC
SUSPECT LEVEL .
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a.. c r i m e.. t h r i l l e r.. r o l e p l a y


F A S H I O N A B L Y L A T E
F A S H I O N A B L Y L A T E


GMs: Roman | Rockette GENRE: Crime Thriller/Murder Mystery

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𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗖𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿'𝘀 𝗘𝘃𝗲. 𝗢𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝘀𝗽 𝗼𝗳 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗶𝘁𝘆'𝘀 𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗹𝘂𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗶𝘁𝘆. 𝗔𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼'𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 - 𝗼𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 - 𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲; 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘄𝘀, 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁-𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿'𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗰𝘁 𝗼𝗻 𝗽𝗹𝘂𝘀-𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘄, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰 𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗱, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗿 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗻 - 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 "𝗵𝗮𝘀𝗵𝘁𝗮𝗴 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆-𝘃𝗶𝗯𝗲𝘀" 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲, 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀 𝗳𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗶𝗹𝗹𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆'𝘀 𝗴𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗶𝗻. 𝗪𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗼𝘄, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗰𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝘂𝗹𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗴𝘆 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗯𝘂𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗲.

𝗢𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱-𝗻𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴; 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗳𝗮𝗿, 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗲𝗳, 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗻 𝗻𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗔 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝘂𝗺𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝗱𝗰𝗮𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 - 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗡𝗬𝗘𝟮𝟱 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗔𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗴𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗸𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗱𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗿𝘂𝗴-𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗹𝘂𝗿𝗸 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗶𝗱 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗽𝗮𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗮𝘇𝘇𝗶, 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘁, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗳𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲. 𝗔𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗱. 𝗜𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁; 𝗶𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗽𝗵𝗼𝘁𝗼, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗶𝘇𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗰𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗮. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗹, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴.

𝗨𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝗮 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗯𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗵𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗸 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁'𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗿𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝗶𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰 𝘁𝗼 𝗮 𝗵𝗮𝗹𝘁; 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘂𝗽 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆'𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴; 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝗮 𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆-𝗯𝗮𝗴 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗱 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘆 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻, 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝘀𝘂𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻, 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗼𝗹𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗯𝗶𝗴 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲: 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿'𝘀 𝗘𝘃𝗲 𝗠𝘂𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿.


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premise....


𝗠𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿, 𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗽𝗼𝗽𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿, 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘀 𝗮 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱-𝗰𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗗𝗝, 𝗮 𝗡𝗲𝘄-𝗬𝗼𝗿𝗸-𝗧𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀-𝗕𝗲𝘀𝘁𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿, 𝗮 𝗺𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗶-𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗼𝗻-𝘃𝗶𝗲𝘄𝘀 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗹-𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗹𝘂𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿. 𝗠𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗯𝗼𝗮𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗷𝗲𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲; 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱'𝘀 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗰𝗮𝘁𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗸𝘀. 𝗠𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗼𝗻 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗧𝘂𝗯𝗲 𝗼𝗿 𝗧𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵, 𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗡𝗲𝘅𝘁 𝗕𝗶𝗴 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗼𝗰𝗸'𝗻'𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗲. 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝗺𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿, 𝗮𝗱𝗼𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿, 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗹𝘁𝗵𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿, 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲: 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗼𝗿𝗸, 𝟯𝟭𝘀𝘁 𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟱, 𝗰𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿'𝘀 𝗘𝘃𝗲 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗸𝘆𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗸 𝗮𝘁 𝗠𝗮𝗻𝗵𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗮𝗻'𝘀 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗹𝘂𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆. 𝗗𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗻𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗱𝗿𝘂𝗴-𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 - 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝗻𝗼 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗶𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝘂𝗻-𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿.

𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗮 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘂𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗮 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗵 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗽𝘀𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘃𝗶𝗯𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗮 𝗺𝘂𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗯𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗼𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗻 𝗠𝗮𝗻𝗵𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗮𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝗰𝗶𝗲𝘁𝘆. 𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘀𝗲, 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗰𝗮𝗯𝗮𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝘀𝗼 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝘂𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗿𝘆 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝘄𝘀 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 - 𝘀𝘂𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗹𝘆, 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝘃𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝘂𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝘄 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸, 𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗔𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗹𝗹, 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗴𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗷𝘂𝗿𝘆 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴; 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗰 𝗼𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲.

𝗔𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗹𝘀 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘆, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗲𝗳𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱: 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗶𝘃𝗮𝗹.

𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗮𝘆?
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rules and guidelines....

A P P L I C A T I O N P R O C E S S
A P P L I C A T I O N P R O C E S S
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➣ Please use the sheet skeleton provided in the Character tab to create your application. Feel free to add additional sections or information as necessary for your character, but do not remove anything requested in the base skeleton, or omit any information from your sheet that may be pertinent for GMs or other players.

➣ Players will be permitted one primary character each. Supporting cast can be included in your sheet if these are necessary to your character. Second characters will be considered should a player's primary character perish or otherwise exit the IC in circumstances where the player hasn't simply abandoned their character/the game, but these will be subject to a fresh application and review process with the GMs.

➣ Character applications should be posted in the OOC tab for consideration. Sheets can be sent directly to GMs for coding assistance, but no review of characters will occur privately. Please do not post WIP sheets if it can be avoided, or multiple iterations of the same sheet; if you absolutely must post an incomplete sheet, please continue to work on it in the original post, and notify the GMs when complete and ready for review. Please do not post un-accepted sheets to the Character tab.

➣ Initial sheet reviews will take place from Monday 26th January, and the accepted roster will be announced Tuesday 27th January. The GMs will be looking to accept a cast of 10 to 12 players/characters, and will review all sheets submitted by this time to create the most well-balanced and dynamic cast. Following this initial round of acceptances, any future recruiting will be done on a first-come first-served basis.

➣ GMs reserve the right to deny applications based on any number of factors that may make the character or player unsuitable for the game, including poor character dynamic with other members of the cast, unpleasant or disruptive player behaviour, sub-par quality of writing, or lack of engagement.


P O S T S A N D C O N T E N T
P O S T S A N D C O N T E N T
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➣ Please contain OOC chatter/discussions to the OOC thread. Similarly, IC posts should be contained to the IC thread. Only accepted character sheets should be posted to the Character thread, and no further posts should be made here unless second characters are accepted.

➣ IC post formatting examples will be available in the IC zero post and GM posts, for both GM characters and GM plot advances. Feel free to use these, or otherwise format your IC posts however you wish; however, please ensure that on each IC post, whether solo or collaborative, it is clear which character(s) is/are the primary POV for the post, and keep in mind indicating any interactions if seeking direct links to/with a specific player/character.

➣ Players are expected to post within 14 days of the last GM plot-advance post, or within 21 days of their last post, whichever is longer. Extensions will be granted in extenuating circumstances, but only if asked for and GMs properly notified. Missing the deadline will cause your character to become Inactive, and if the GMs cannot reach you or a further 7 days elapse, your character will be forfeit and dealt with as necessary by the GMs in the IC.

➣ There is no enforced posting order; however, back-to-back posting is discouraged, except in cases of collaborative posts immediately following solo posts, or vice-versa. If you were the last post before a GM plot advance, feel free to post again immediately following the GM post. Players are encouraged to run their own character-driven scenes and sub-narratives; in these instances, those involved will be responsible for driving the sub-plot and determining any posting order and/or frequency.

➣ Players are asked to ensure their posts drive the current scene forward. If a post doesn't add anything to the current scene, and neither encourages nor offers interaction or reaction with/from other players, players are asked to consider the content of their post, and how it might be delivered in a way that better serves the narrative and the game as a whole.

➣ There may be times or circumstances that conspire to require specific characters and player posts to drive the plot forwards. In these instances, GMs will reach out to the player(s) directly, and provide information or direction to guide their post to serve the narrative needs.

➣ This is a game involving mature themes, subject matter, and individuals, and we cannot escape or ignore the in-character behaviours that form part of these. However, with that in mind, the Guild's official rules forbid mature/explicit sexual content - in these instances, please 'fade to black', or keep posts to a PG-13/14A standard ("may contain violence, coarse language, and/or sexually suggestive content"), in order not to violate RPG's TOS and keep the site a safe place for all players.

➣ In the interests of protecting underage players, players above Age of Majority (18 years) are barred from writing romantic scenes, situations, or relationships with players below Age of Majority. Of-age players found engaging in this behaviour with minors will be evicted from the game and reported to site staff.

➣ Please use common sense when writing and when seeking a relationship between characters in the game. For the good of the roleplay, the players, the site, and the hobby and art form as a whole, you are expected to adhere to these guidelines, and will be handled without leniency or delay if you fail to.


P L A Y E R B E H A V I O U R
P L A Y E R B E H A V I O U R
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➣ If you are taking the time to create and submit an application, the GMs will take that as an indication of commitment to the roleplay, and will be putting their faith in you that you will be committed to the game, that the character played will be consistent with the sheet accepted, and the player behaviour is in line with expectations.

➣ While the game itself will contain mature themes, subject matter, and anti-social persons, please don't let that bleed into OOC interactions. The world has enough problems - we don't need it here. Disrespectful, distasteful, unpleasant, or outright hateful behaviour OOC will absolutely not be tolerated. If this kind of behaviour is part of your character and forms part of the IC, please keep it as tasteful as possible.

➣ In all cases, please reach out to the GMs directly in the first instance with any issues, whether that be your own schedule, problems with character behaviour, problems with player behaviour, or even problems with GM behaviour or decisions. Please don't disappear unexpectedly if you know something's coming up; on the other hand, if there is an emergency, let the GMs know so we can manage your absence appropriately. Please don't sit silently and nurse grudges, or let small slights grow into large resentments. Please don't feel like you don't have an equal voice and can't share in the narrative being told or scene being written. We are all here to tell a story - let's work together to get the most out of this game for everyone involved.

➣ Finally, where possible, please avoid using images hosted at imgur.com. Following the introduction of the Online Safety Act in the United Kingdom, many websites chose to discontinue their services to users based in the UK rather than implement the necessary additional infrastructure or third-party support services needed to adhere to the Act's age verification requirements. Imgur has chosen to be one of those services that have switched themselves off for the UK; thus, I cannot see any image hosted there and embedded within your sheets or posts. Please find an alternative hosting service to embed images; the Guild now has its own, which you can find in your profile beneath your bio, in the new 'Images' tab.
Keeping tally on what everyone might prefer so far and we are skewing in favour of the murder mystery - but want to give the others of the old squad time to respond and also see what fresh faces might still be out there. Thanks for the interest so far!

First and foremost, by design this interest check is to encourage the reunion of a cabal of writers from 2024/early 2025 and provide an opportunity to write together again within an original setting and story.

These writers are tagged below, and they will have:
a) a weightier vote in which setting they'd prefer to play (if at all)
b) priority position on the roster if they want to apply.




Hello, and welcome to an Advanced Interest Check with options! As mentioned above, I'm primarily looking to put a group back together that I enjoyed writing with very much last year in an original setting with original characters again, seeking an interaction- and character-driven experience guided with a careful hand along a loose background plot, while also encouraging players to pursue their own personal arcs and stories within the setting as a whole.

To this end however I have brought two potential settings (one very graciously borrowed from Wraith), which you can find in the below hiders. I won't be running both at this juncture, so it's up to YOU, THE PLAYERS, to decide which enthralls you more, and that's the one I'll go with!

I'm looking for a group no bigger than 12 at the absolute maximum, myself included, and as mentioned those above will have priority placements in eventual applications - however any slots they don't fill may be open to the teeming masses who might like to participate! This is not a guarantee I will accept up to 12 characters even if priority slots remain un-filled. It might just be that we end up with a strong core roster and I decline further applications for the health of the game. I'm laying this all out on the front line so as to avoid disappointment and perceived slights as best I can; if I accept 12 for the sake of it, I'll only be making things more difficult for myself and be doing the other players a disservice.

With that said, on to the settings!





Please feel free to ask questions, spitball potential character concepts (I'll supply the CS code in the eventual OOC based on the chosen setting for official applications), provide feedback, or even offer suggestions for either setting that may be conducive to a better scenario for the players.

Thank you for your time, and I look forward to chatting!
Location: The House
#2.04
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𝕸𝖞 𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖘𝖔𝖎𝖑𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖞 𝖆 𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖙-𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖜𝖆𝖘𝖍 𝖘𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖐𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖉 𝖒𝖊,
𝕾𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖒𝖕𝖆𝖈𝖙 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖆 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖊.

𝕿𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖆𝖉 𝖔𝖓 𝖍𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖒𝖊:
"𝕯𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖓, 𝖞𝖔𝖚'𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐."
𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖘 𝖒𝖊 𝖍𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖋𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐.



ℌ𝔬𝔴 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 ℑ 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔡𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰?

ℌ𝔬𝔴 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 ℑ 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔬?

ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔯𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰; 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔰 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔰, 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡?

ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨𝔰 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫. ℑ𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣-𝔣𝔲𝔩𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔶𝔠𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥, 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫, 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔲𝔫𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤. 𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔟𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔩 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔣𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯'𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔴. 𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔰𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔡 𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔤𝔲𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔱.

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔞 𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔱𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔢𝔬𝔭𝔩𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤.

ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔦𝔤𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔠𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔰𝔪𝔬𝔰, ℑ 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱 𝔞 𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔩.
𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯-𝔥𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔯𝔶.

ℌ𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔬, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫, 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔬. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔱 𝔞𝔩𝔩, 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢. 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢, ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲; ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢.

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔞 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢, 𝔴𝔢 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔰. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔡𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔞 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲.

𝔉𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫.

𝔒𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔢𝔫.




John didn't feel himself hit the ground, but he was certainly pretty bloody sore. Slowly, achingly, he pushed himself up with one hand and rolled his protesting body over, lying on his back to stare up at the ceiling. He was on the rug, the rug having apparently reappeared once more in place of the hole, and though he couldn't see from his angle, the intense red circular pattern emblazoned upon the threads haloed him quite neatly. With languished movements, he pivoted his head about the room, checking that all had returned to normal, or at least what passed for it in this House. Everything seemed in order; the hole was gone, the furniture back in its place, the front door still quietly and obstinately shut. John pulled himself to his feet, silently registering that Astra was missing, but could not find it in him yet to do anything but collapse onto the sofa and sink back into the cushions. His eyes bore into the fireplace, sifting through long-cold ashes, and then pulled up, up, past the mantle and settling on the mounted bow and arrows proudly displayed above the hearth, modern and powerful in their construction. Hmm. That hadn't been there before.

The eclectic decor John had noticed the first time he'd passed through the antechamber was absent entirely and instead replaced with items and artefacts that felt just as disconnected as the previous jumbled collection but yet somehow also more pointed and deliberate. John swivelled about on the sofa as he swept his gaze across the room, cataloguing the new ornaments; they seemed in some way significant, though he could not summon even a fraction of personal relevance or grasp a shared correlation between a single pair of fresh relics. Including the new bow and quiver above the fireplace, there were eleven curios now spaced evenly around the room, and John spent several minutes examining each one, trying to discern the reason for their sudden appearance.

A chunk of otherworldly rock laced with hints of crystalline green sat on a small plinth next to an imposing and taxidermied black bat, wings posed as if spread in flight and snout contorted into a frightening snarl. Between them was a replica sword, or at least John hoped it was a replica, old in its styling but masterfully crafted and well-maintained. On the wall hung a length of thick, indomitable steel chain, crossing over itself against a backdrop of delicate but artfully-made green silk, upon which was inked the stylised symbol of a dragon. Moving his eyes back to the fireplace, resting upon the mantle beneath the bow stood a hand-carved statue of distinctly Egyptian artform, a righteous figure bearing the skull of a heron. The statue was flanked by headdresses of equally sophisticated taste and expense; one was a tiara of rich gold, elegant and cultured with a large shining diamond acting as the statement centrepiece, while the other spoke out in deep crimson, harsh-angled bands lashing about themselves to form a woven circlet dotted with rubies. Looking now toward the other side of the room, only a few items were left: a small scale-model of a nuclear warhead, sat upon mirrored glass that by some trick or illusion of the mind showed a humble microscope in its reflection; and a worn pair of old-world revolvers, well-used but well-loved, crossed in front of a simple, but powerfully symbolic weapon - a humble wooden stake, hand-hewn from a shard of strong ironwood.

John didn't have a single idea what any of it meant, or if it was indeed supposed to mean anything at all.

He stood up from the sofa. The longer he sat, the more he felt the strange sensation of being watched, and he was struck by the realization that he simply couldn't waste time sitting around being stared at by inanimate objects. Astra was still missing after their impromptu fall, and her absence weighed heavily on his conscience as he was seized with the fear that something else might find her before he did, and this time he may happen upon her too late; that dark, hungry thing may return, or even worse, whatever doppelganger of his stalked these halls that had cast them into the hole to begin with. He shivered at the thought of that harried duplicate, unable to shake the feeling that something far more sinister and perverse than he realised was transpiring within this House. Spurred on only by a deep fright beginning to take root at the base of his spine, John pushed against his own aching and bruised body to cross the room, leaving through the same double doors his own double had burst through previously - wholly unprepared for what new horror he might find beyond, but launching headlong into it nonetheless.



It didn't take long for the House to turn on him once more; now that the illusion any of this was even remotely 'normal' had been shattered, the environment seemed almost eager to disturb him, delighting in subjecting him to wickedness. No longer was the House satisfied with mere distortions - now it engaged in depravity, pushing John through rooms that would turn stomachs in an abbatoir, let alone a home. Floorboards gave way to metal grating suspended above yawning abysses, the walls covered in blood and viscera and gore displayed to sickening extremes. More rooms even further in changed track, swapping carnage for revulsion, dingy mould-caked plaster the only dressing for floors smeared with excrement, furnishings reduced to stained mattresses and tarpaulins. Those dim-lit dungeons were themselves transfigured into stone caverns, the rock slick and slimy and the air fetid, hot and reeking of soured meat, rancid, beastly. When John's surroundings shifted one last time to sterile linoleum and faded-white corridors, he found himself missing topsy-turvy rooms with impractical decor and impossible blueprints very deeply.

These hallways were well-known to John; he had trodden these floors for eighteen months in a previous lifetime, piecing back together what had been left of his mind with little help from staff more concerned with ridicule than repair. Ravenscar was unmistakable; time had done nothing to distance him from what he'd experienced there. Cautiously walking these halls, he relived the scalding showers and ice-cold hoses, the scorn of the nurses and the stomach pains from weeks on gruel, the bruises inflicted by bored orderlies; bile rose in the back of his throat, and in swallowing it back down he flashed forcibly to choked consumption of pills meant to numb and sedate, medication designed for pliability rather than care. Cell doors lined either side of the corridor and John could hear ghostly moans and soft wails, occassional metal crashing, the distinct creaking echoes of a door swinging open and closed again to be followed by low, fleshy thuds. This was not a place of healing, and the House knew. The House inflicted harm, and revelled in it.

John's terrible reminiscence was interrupted by lilting sobs distinct from the background noise of haunted memories. Little hitches and cries, clear distress stifled into sniffles for fear of being heard. It was the weeping of someone who wished to hide, lest the root of their woe sought them out. He followed the sound carefully, quietly, treading softly to conceal his footsteps so as not to frighten away whoever he was looking for, and as he approached, he peered through cell door windows and feeding slots to determine the source of the noise; only after checking a good seven or eight cells did he find her.

Astra was huddled into the far corner, facing away from the door and doing her apparent utmost to shrink herself away, minimize the space she occupied in hopes of disappearing entirely. Her clothes were more ragged and soiled than when John had last seen her before the fall, but John could not suppress the feeling of immense relief at having found her again, and seemingly unharmed at that. Gently, he opened the door and crept in, keen to have them both alight this twisted place.
"Astra, Jesus. I'm glad I found you," he began, resting a hand on her shoulder as he neared. Her entire body flinched and went rigid before she whipped her head around to look at him; in the next second she was up and on her feet, rushing across the small cell to sequester herself against the opposite corner. John didn't move.
"Don't touch me! Who are you?! How did you find me?!"
"Astra, it's me, you're okay-"
"I don't know you! How do you know my- I don't even know if that is my name!"
"It's John - John Constantine - we got separated by the fall-" as he spoke he took slow, tiny steps toward her, opening his arms and displaying empty hands to show he meant no harm, bore no weapon.
"No!" She screamed, wild and frantic.
"I'm just trying to help you- us- I'm just trying to get us out of here, but we lost each other after the fall. Don't you remember?"
"You're not real! You're a trick! A clever game - just going to hurt me again! I won't let you!"

She was away, throwing the cell door open and flying through it, sprinting down the corridors. John gave quick chase, painfully aware that pursuing her would only further cement the false suspicions in her mind, but seeing little alternative available. If he lost her down here in these transmuted nightmares he might never find her again, nor forgive himself for doing so. They fled and flew in sync, hunter and quarry, John desperately flinging pleas and promises ahead of him while Astra only shrieked back to leave her alone, let her be, quit his chase and go back from whence he came. Around them the corridor began to loop, the same cracked tiles and stained floors passing by again and again, uncaring for whichever way they turned, whatever direction they picked; every new corner was merely a fresh iteration of that same hallway, inescapable. As they looped, the lights began to dim, fluorescent tubes blinking out one by one until their flight was illuminated only by the bare, worn-out bulbs within the cells, casting striped shadows through barred windows out onto their shared path - yet even these began to burn out with each new repetition. John was sure they'd ran for miles, yet they'd not moved an inch, every footfall plunging them further and further into recurring darkness until they were sprinting through the black.

John didn't see the wall before he slammed into it, mid-stride but managing to twist just as he made impact and baring the brunt of the collision with his shoulder. He yelled out in pain as he felt the joint pop out of the socket, bouncing off the ceramic tiles and tumbling to the floor, eliciting another agonised cry as he landed awkwardly on his freshly-dislocated shoulder. He gingerly cradled his arm, breathing heavy on his back, exhausted and in pain before summoning the strength to sit himself up and blink in the black. He waited for some time for his eyes to adjust, but the grainy darkness was impenetrable, blinding him on all sides. John sighed. He could no longer even hear Astra - and now he barely knew which way was forward, although he suspected that sort of thing didn't matter much here anyway. Whichever way you went, you went the way the House wanted you to go.

To this end, he carefully stood up, removing his jacket and fashioning a rudimentary approximation of a sling for his arm, hissing through his teeth every time a movement jostled the shoulder. Once secured as best as he could manage, John reached his free arm out into the darkness and crept forward on shuffling feet until his fingers brushed the wall in front of him. He pushed his palm against the tile, and the slowly began to move sideways, keeping his hand against the wall for orientation as he guided himself further down the dark corridor. John walked like this for a long while, listening out for Astra again; around him, the air shifted and grew colder, and he felt his breath fogging in front of him even if he couldn't see it.

-

He walked for what may have been five miles or fifty feet before stumbling, falling against the opposite wall. He hadn't fallen far, but paid it no mind, preoccupied by the hot bark of pain from his shoulder; still the darkness prevailed, and he was still unable to see. He reached out and found the wall again, progressing onwards steadily - until he began to feel the other wall brush against his shoulder once more. He winched and shrank in closer, bending more at the elbow, carrying on; slowly, he felt the wall encroaching again. He pushed himself into his palm. Still the walls drew together. John tutted; the corridor must taper and end here. He had walked all this way into a dead end.

He pivoted, a slow one-eighty turn until he faced the way he'd come, and set off to find another route. The walls grew closer. John did not allow himself to panic. In a darkness so deep, how could he really tell that he'd turned around? Another pivot; the passageway grew narrower still. It pressed against his shoulder and he grimaced, feeling the dislocated joint grinding against itself; John flattened his back against the wall and sidled along. Closer - tighter - the wall pressed on his belly and chest, made it hard to breathe, hard to move; he was becoming stuck, wedged between concrete in the silent dark. He reached an arm out for purchase, searching for a way out, an opening, a door - anything to pry himself free, loosen the architecture from its vice grip about his body, a crevice or a handle; he found only a pinch point where the walls finally met. The House rumbled, stone scraping across stone reverberating through his ears.

Ever-so-faintly, he saw a light. A sliver, a fraction, a single pixel-thin line projected to his right over his aching shoulder. He couldn't reach it with his free arm, and in a panicked, excruciating movement, he pulled his arm loose of its sling and wrenched it up, feeling the joint slither and creak with stabs of pained protest until his fingertips brushed the smallest crack in the pinning wall. John shuffled sideways, trying to push his fingers into the gap; his breath was shallow and difficult to find, but he felt his hand find purchase, however miniscule. The House fought him every step of the way, but the crack was here for a reason, surely? Mercy, or a cruel joke, John cared not which; he just focused on worming his fingers further into the crevice, and the more he pushed the wider it seemed to grow until he was sidling into it entirely, pushing with all his might against the walls, expanding this new space. The House shuddered, wobbling him about as if spasming, retching. The light grew brighter, enveloping John whole - and then the floor convulsed, and with a great lurching movement, he was out.

He hit the ground hard and swore loud as the impact forced his shoulder back into place. He groaned, writhing on the floor in pain for the second time in as many...hours? Days? Weeks? He couldn't tell; there was no tracking calendars or clocks in the House, and the passage of time seemed fluid and ultimately irrelevant. He was tired, and could feel his mind slipping away, lapsing into sleep. Perhaps he could just lie here, lie here and rest...the House could wait, just for a couple hours...

Any thought or temptation of sleep was expelled with a piercing scream that shook through John's bones and jolted him up, and was then cut off so suddenly that the silence left behind was far more bloodcurdling than any shriek could be. John shot to his feet, any feeling of pain or lethargy forgotten as he sprinted down wooden hallways and through carpeted rooms, the House architecture having returned to something cozy and warm, in mockery of whatever new horror it had now unleashed. He tore through the House to the source of the scream, and found it all-too-quickly.

A crowd of the black creatures loomed over something on the floor, tearing and gnashing at it. The egg-with-wings from John's first encounter with these strange beings was not present but there was no mistaking: though these monsters varied wildly in shape and size, some resembling human and some in contempt of anything approaching 'natural', they were all of the same ilk, kin to one another. They shared the same shimmering-black skin, and regardless of form all sported that same maw that split their bodies in half and kept going. There was a body beneath them, deep dark fears welling up within John as he caught glimpses through the frenzy. It was shredded, rent asunder, pulled apart. He saw a flash of dirty blonde hair, and turned away in a rush of unspeakable emotion. The creatures did not notice him, so engrossed in their feast, but Astra's corpse would not last much longer under their hungry mouths, and John did not want to be here when they began seeking another meal-

One of the creatures sank its teeth into a section of the wall and tore away a chunk of brick and plaster and what was left behind John could not say. The wall was gone. Only an absence truly fundamental remained; 'remained' was not even the right word for it, but John couldn't comprehend anything else. The creature took another bite of the wall and the hole grew bigger, a gap in the very fabric of reality; where this beast tore with its fangs, nothingness crept in behind it.

The others finished with the corpse, no more Astra left to eat and they too started in on the wall, moving to the floor, the corners, the ceiling. Everywhere the things dined, patches of nothing were left behind, not mere darkness or holes in the material but a true absence of anything. Their appetites swallowed up the entire room, until not a single feature was left; not the wall, light fixtures, furniture, coving, window lintels, carpet, floorboards, not the corners or skirting or ceiling nor switches or hooks or ornaments. Even the sparse furniture was consumed, until John stood on a precipice overlooking the nothing that had once been the room.

The House was being eaten.

There came from that nothing something deep and gutteral and ancient, so very very far below John, something akin to a laugh. There was no peering into that darkness, for there was no darkness. But still - in the last second before he turned on his heels and fled, shaken to his soul - he thought he saw something move down there.



𝕭𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖑𝖊, 𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖑, 𝖔𝖗 𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖊𝖑? 𝕬𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖙𝖞; 𝖉𝖚𝖌 𝖔𝖗 𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖐 𝖔𝖗 𝖕𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖙 𝖔𝖚𝖙.
𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖙𝖔𝖔 𝖒𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖎𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖞 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖆𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉.

𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖚𝖕 𝖜𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖞 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖊 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖊'𝖛𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖊𝖓;
𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖚𝖕 𝕴 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖘𝖆𝖞 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖊.
𝕳𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖑.
𝕴'𝖒 𝖌𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖎𝖓.
Crime Mystery Thriller where celeb/VIP OCs are at a party and there's a MURDER and then the PCs are all suspects in the ensuing investigation, while also interacting with each other as they get to know other suspects/attendees of the party, and potentially launching their own impromptu investigations
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