Current
Got a bad case of the "don't wanna"s. Dozen things I should do, but I don't wanna.
9
likes
2 yrs ago
Offered a job .. because the civil service list is stale and the people they wanted to hire withdrew. Do I really want to be the person that they settle for?
1
like
2 yrs ago
That's cause the coward has 80-90 years to work on those extra deaths, while the hero gets knocked off at 18.
4
likes
3 yrs ago
Wondering what modern genres could be considered "pulp," IOW written quickly for profit, sold cheaply in mass numbers. Romance is a long running good example. Seen a lot of military scifi ebooks.
1
like
3 yrs ago
Furiously packing. Oh, for the days when everything I'd need for a week would fit in one backpack.
3
likes
Bio
Mid-forties. Old enough to know better, yet here I am.
Falling out of love with dice as I get older. Getting tired of putting effort into scenes only to have them fall apart because of a bad roll.
Around the corner comes Junia, with bits of her scraping the wall as she makes the turn. She gives the receptionist a smile that is probably intended to be reassuring and takes Anna by the arm. Anna finds herself pulled along in Junia's wake until a sudden turn brings them to a small breakroom.
"Here, take a second to pull yourself together. You can tell Ellie that I needed to consult with you about the latest alchemical journal."
She drops a magazine on the frisbee-sized breakroom table. Alkahest Monthly. The sober cover is ruined by a blurb that reads, "Which of the four types of philosopher stone are you? Take our quiz and find out!"
Junia sniffs. "It says I'm the vegetative stone. Really, I get out more than that. But sit, sit, take a breather. You ... uh ... you might want to leave that burrito in the fridge, though. Ellie and Emma have been working in the morgue all morning. That's not a place for food. Or a full stomach, really."
Well, I don't know, but I've been told, You never slow down, you never grow old...
Physical Description: Hattie seems like a lot of woman in a small package. No more than 5'5", lean and lively, with skin that has refused to wrinkle but learned to crease. Her expression makes it clear that she has had enough nonsense for one lifetime. Her hair was fly-away black, now with some fly-away grey. It flutters everywhere as she moves around purposefully, never still for long.
Age: 62
Relationship with Hildon: Hattie was born and raised in Hildon, daughter of a long-haul truck driver and a long-suffering mother. She went to college to become a nurse but ended up with an MRS degree, married to a doctor. She moved down south, down to the big city, and worked as a nurse and a wife. She turned out to be better at the first than the second.
No one in Hildon is sure what happened, but one day Hattie came back. She was using her birth name instead of her married name and she had a strip of pale skin around her ring finger. She also must have had a wicked divorce settlement, because she bought the house she grew up in, renovated it and installed a kennel. She owns the surrounding bit of woods and keeps to herself.
Now she's something of a recluse. She's technically retired, but constitutionally incapable of relaxing. She volunteers at the Haggarty Clinic during the peak season. She breeds hunting dogs, harvests maple trees on her property, and sews clothing out of deerskin to sell on Etsy. She buys tanned deerskins from the reservation and has a cordial relationship with several members.
Occupation: Hattie is a nurse. She's a bit out of practice but she can still handle first aid and she keeps all her certifications up-to-date. Most of her money seems to come from her ex-husband; either from a divorce settlement or blackmail, the rumors disagree. She makes a bit through her hobbies, but most of that gets funneled into new hobbies.
Useful Supplies:
Dogs. She has just sold off her latest litter of pups, so she only has four full-grown Brittanys. Good all-around bird dogs.
Snowshoes, poles and other snowgear for harvesting maple sap.
Basic medical supplies
Backstory: Hattie lived in Hildon until she was 19, moved away, and moved back when she was 50. She was a nurse in a big city hospital for 20 years and saw some serious crap in her time. She soldiered through a marriage with an unfaithful husband for an equal amount of time before finally decided to quit both. Her father died in a truck roll-over. Hattie moved her mother into a retirement home near the city until she died as well.
Also do people feel like a discord would be helpful for this RP? Im not super familiar with creating channels and such but I could give it a go if there is interest.
I'm not sure. I don't think it's absolutely necessary, but it could be very helpful when we're doing the brainstorming to put all the clues together. I have a feeling that stage could be rapid-fire plotting.
She dreamed of lights. Shimmering, glowing lights that never faded and never dimmed. They shown up from beneath the water, like a lighthouse in reverse, guiding her ever deeper. There were hints, down there, of a city. A city with spires that seemed to ripple as the water flowed through them. A city with streets that turned ever inwards.
A city with some serious electric bills ...
Junia stared at the ceiling. She needed less sleep these days, but what she got was infected by those images. They didn't bother her at all, and that fact bothered her. She should be worried. But there was nothing sinister about the dreams. They just were. The city felt like it had waited for eons, it could wait a few more.
Her bladder, however, was far less patient. She shoved the comforter aside, which earned her a displeased look from a cat, and forged her way to the bathroom. Her little duplex wasn't much, but some thoughtful soul had made sure it had a spacious bathroom with a full soaker tub. That - and its convenient location not far from the Sunday Group headquarters - more than made the rent worth it.
Morning ablutions taken care of, she wandered towards the kitchen, traveling only as fast as the cats around her ankles would allow.
"You two would get fed a lot faster if you stopped trying to trip mommy, you know."
Ellsie, as always, was imperious. She stayed just out of reach, her profile stately, as she loudly proclaimed her hunger. Dewey - dear sweet, stupid Dewey - tried to brush against her legs, tripped over his own paws, and tumbled onto his fuzzy behind. She'd found both as strays, and she was becoming increasingly convinced that Dewey was part ferret.
She fed them both from the same tuna can, then punched the button on the coffee maker. Breakfast would be miso soup again. Well, after she cleared the papers off the kitchen table. It was just a little too convenient sometimes. But the dashi was already bubbling before she even halfway finished sorting, and so it was breakfast in the living room again.
After that, it was time to face the mirror. The lines on her neck had gotten no darker, thank God. She'd spent a week with blurry vision when the nictitating membrane showed up, but that would still be better than explaining gill slits to the hairdresser.
Still, better to wear a light scarf. A dress, a cardigan, and the uniform was complete. She was almost close enough to work that she could walk, but her old Subaru still had boxes and boxes of paperwork that really did need to be accessioned. No reason for anymore delays. Time for work.
The building draped itself on the slope. It was made of the same yellow-ish brick as every other small office complex on this half of the city. Beside it was an old grocery store converted into a warehouse, and on the other side was an old warehouse converted into a food co-op. The circle of life.
Naturally, the parking lot was on the steepest part of the slope. There was a railing at the bottom in case of a failed parking brake. Thankfully the Subaru never budged. Once again she decided against unloading the boxes.
The sign out front listed a half-dozen organizations with well-meaning, nonsensical names. All of them were just slightly true. The "Council for Stress-Related Disorders" could certainly refer to the Sunday Group, given how many members developed PTSD. The "District Library Assistance Board" was her baby; grants went from the state to the local libraries through D-LAB. No one needed to know that the whole organization ran on a laptop in her office.
The trick to the office building was to think of it as a mushroom: the visible part was just for show. The real action was underground. Each floor looked like it was terraced onto the slope, but they actually ran back into the slope for more than twice their apparent length. Then they turned down, deep underneath the city. God only knew how deep, really, and She wasn't telling.
It was bigger than it ought to be, and older than it could possibly be, and stranger than anyone could imagine. It was the Sunday Group. And, eh, it was a job.
So what are we thinking for the headquarters to the Sunday Group?
I'm thinking "hiding in plain sight." A sprawling little office building in an unfashionable part of downtown. The kind of place that usually houses a handful of obscure non-profit organizations. Much bigger than it looks, with basements and sub-sub-basements. Room for the archives, room for the weapons shop, room for the morgue, etc.
Junia Harris is a tall woman with an ample build. Her skin is the color of a green tea chai: creamy brown with a hint of olive green underneath. She has a wealth of kinky black hair that she keeps in a birth-control bun while working and lets spill down her back other times. She has a wardrobe of eShakti dresses (they've got pockets!) tailored to complement her plus-sized build and several sets of sensible shoes. Cooler weather brings out the cardigans. Everything is dusted with a fine layer of cat hair.
Her face is just this side of ugly. Her eyes protrude, her mouth is a hair too wide, and her toothy smile is cheerful but unsettling. There's a little webbing between her fingers and her nails are getting pointed.
Junia is a professional. She lives her job most days. Her attitude is helpful and friendly, but there's a wall between you and her personal life. Even when she lets her hair down - literally - she still usually keeps herself removed from other people. When she's actually rude to you, that's when you know you've got a friend.
Concept: Aphra Marsh from Ruthanna Emrys' "The Litany of Earth," taken in the opposite direction.
Junia is a hybrid. Hybrid of what, she doesn't know. (Deep One, if nothing else in the story presents itself.) She's an archivist, librarian and records manager. She's the one who retreats to the archives of the Sunday Group and comes back with that apocalypse log from the last expedition that disappeared in the same region.
Powers/skills: Hybrid Vigour: Junia is changing into something that is not human. It has made her extra-large (6'3", *mumble* lbs), strong, energetic and bouncy. Literally bouncy; she's rubbery and will bounce when she falls off the shelving ladder.
Librarian Powers Activate!: Junia's primary skill is her experience as a librarian and researcher. Given a few crumbs and a basic question, she can ferret out the answers - or at least where to find the answers - within a reasonable amount of time. She has Google as her start page and dozens of online databases bookmarked.
She has a librarian's memory: abbreviated, but extremely powerful. She can't quite remember the fact that she's looking for, but she almost always remembers where she found it. Her brain is a storehouse of unrelated links, like an index to an encyclopedia.
Her experiences have made her open to practicing magic. Mostly the neo-platonic, Hermetic variety. Perhaps her alien background gives her an advantage. She's just getting started, but she hopes to master the evocation of wisdom spirits; that is, magically summoning entities that can teach her more magic. She's not confident enough yet to try, but she's getting closer.
She can read twelve languages, three of which were never spoken with human tongues. She's an excellent cook with flawless knife skills and a weakness for sushi. She's got an encyclopedic knowledge of Ani DiFranco and Indigo Girls songs. She can curl her tongue, but not wiggle her ears. On any given day she has two cats.
Things Your Character Wants to Happen (probably won't): Junia wants to know what she is. She wants to become skilled in High Magic and summon a spirit of wisdom through the seven layers of theurgic ritual. She wants to become a master sushi chef. She wants to ask that cute barista out on a date to the museum. She wants to understand everything that can be understood. She wants to punch a genealogist. She wants to keep her cats from shredding her new sweater. She wants to know.
Things You as a Writer Want to Happen (Maybe will): I want to play Junia, who I created for a RP that died on the vine. She's become one of my favorite characters that I've never played, and I want to find her voice. I want creepy, surreal adventures that ask more questions than they answer.
Writing Sample?
The locked door was taunting Junia.
No one had the key. The building had changed hands six times in the past ten years, and the key had been lost early in the process. Thing was, there was absolutely reason for there to be a room down here. On the blueprints, it was just labeled "office."
Who puts an office in a church basement?
This was just a quick check by the Sunday Group. The Head Office had told her not to get into any trouble, just poke around, get a feel for the place. The complaints weren't anything solid at the moment. An old Catholic church that had been sold off due to a graying congregation and some stiff legal settlements. It had since been a yoga studio, a brewery, and a laser tag arena.
Who knew laser tag was still a thing?
It was scheduled to be turned into apartments next month. The rumors were nothing big: a feeling like the building was trembling, and the sound of laughter in the distance. Given that it had been a brewery for a couple of years, you have to expect some crazy stories around it.
So she should just shrug off the door and walk away. She'd do that. Any minute now...
Finally admitting defeat at the hands of her own curiosity, she tried the door handle. Locked, of course.
Pretending to be getting a pebble out of her shoe, she leaned against the door. Why she bothered pretending with no one around, she couldn't explain, it just seemed appropriate. With a sudden lurch, she straightened and swung her too-large hips into the door.
They say use it or lose it, and I can't seem to lose it, so ...
The wood around the latch splintered. For the first time in most of a decade, light spilled into the room. It was ... an office.
Well, phooey.
An old metal desk sat at the center, as drab as it was impersonal. At some point, the office had turned into a storage room. Boxes were now stacked in every corner. Alas, none were labeled "secret confessions."
Starting at the center, Junia rifled through the desk drawers. The bottom right drawer was neatly organized. That alone was suspicious. Junia was an old hand at removing drawers, since that is frequently the easiest way to move documents. A quick twist and yank popped the entire drawer out of its socket. Sure enough, behind the drawer was a dusty leather-bound book. Junia flipped it open ...
"... and He looked upon His creation and proclaimed it good. In a loud voice he called out, "Hear Me, I am Lord, and I am One! I was the first, I am now, and I am above all things to come!" And did the Heavens resound in laughter, and did the archons and the powers mock Him for His arrogance. But He understood it not, for He was too limited to see the divine pleroma above Him, and He heard the sounds as cheers from those below."
Huh. Sounds Gnostic. What's an ancient heretical text doing in the basement of a Catholic church?
Junia clutched the book to her side and headed up the side stairs and out of the building. The lighting was actually worse out here, but at least there was cellphone reception. When the weird and spooky got religion, there was only one person to call. The one person on her contact list that knew more about cults and esoteric theology than the rest of the Sunday Group combined.
I really ought to ask the Lovecraftesque writers if I can hack it for urban fantasy, that would be rad...
From what I've read, they tried to duplicate the flow of a mythos story: slow buildup of hints that ratchet up the tension until a final resolve. That structure ought to work for most mystery stories as well.
@Penny Can you expand a bit on how you expect the "collaborative RP" aspect to go? I haven't gotten my hands on Lovecraftesque yet, but my understanding is that it has no GM. Everyone takes turns telling part of the story and there is only one main character. Everyone provides a 'clue' that gets wrapped up at the end of the game.
Are you going to provide the setting and plot hook while we describe our actions and provide a clue? And we all discuss how the clues fit together, with you deciding on which theory to go with?
Junia Harris is a tall woman with an ample build. Her skin is the color of a green tea chai: creamy brown with a hint of olive green underneath. She has a wealth of kinky black hair that she keeps in a birth-control bun while working and lets spill down her back other times. She has a wardrobe of eShakti dresses (they've got pockets!) tailored to complement her plus-sized build and several sets of sensible shoes. Cooler weather brings out the cardigans. Everything is dusted with a fine layer of cat hair.
Her face is just this side of ugly. Her eyes protrude, her mouth is a hair too wide, and her toothy smile is cheerful but unsettling. There's a little webbing between her fingers and her nails are getting pointed.
Junia is a professional. She lives her job most days. Her attitude is helpful and friendly, but there's a wall between you and her personal life. Even when she lets her hair down - literally - she still usually keeps herself removed from other people. When she's actually rude to you, that's when you know you've got a friend.
Concept: Aphra Marsh from Ruthanna Emrys' "The Litany of Earth," taken in the opposite direction.
Junia is a hybrid. Hybrid of what, she doesn't know. (Deep One, if nothing else in the story presents itself.) She's an archivist, librarian and records manager. She's the one who retreats to the archives of the Sunday Group and comes back with that apocalypse log from the last expedition that disappeared in the same region.
Powers/skills: Hybrid Vigour: Junia is changing into something that is not human. It has made her extra-large (6'3", *mumble* lbs), strong, energetic and bouncy. Literally bouncy; she's rubbery and will bounce when she falls off the shelving ladder.
Librarian Powers Activate!: Junia's primary skill is her experience as a librarian and researcher. Given a few crumbs and a basic question, she can ferret out the answers - or at least where to find the answers - within a reasonable amount of time. She has Google as her start page and dozens of online databases bookmarked.
She has a librarian's memory: abbreviated, but extremely powerful. She can't quite remember the fact that she's looking for, but she almost always remembers where she found it. Her brain is a storehouse of unrelated links, like an index to an encyclopedia.
Her experiences have made her open to practicing magic. Mostly the neo-platonic, Hermetic variety. Perhaps her alien background gives her an advantage. She's just getting started, but she hopes to master the evocation of wisdom spirits; that is, magically summoning entities that can teach her more magic. She's not confident enough yet to try, but she's getting closer.
She can read twelve languages, three of which were never spoken with human tongues. She's an excellent cook with flawless knife skills and a weakness for sushi. She's got an encyclopedic knowledge of Ani DiFranco and Indigo Girls songs. She can curl her tongue, but not wiggle her ears. On any given day she has two cats.
Things Your Character Wants to Happen (probably won't): Junia wants to know what she is. She wants to become skilled in High Magic and summon a spirit of wisdom through the seven layers of theurgic ritual. She wants to become a master sushi chef. She wants to ask that cute barista out on a date to the museum. She wants to understand everything that can be understood. She wants to punch a genealogist. She wants to keep her cats from shredding her new sweater. She wants to know.
Things You as a Writer Want to Happen (Maybe will): I want to play Junia, who I created for a RP that died on the vine. She's become one of my favorite characters that I've never played, and I want to find her voice. I want creepy, surreal adventures that ask more questions than they answer.
Writing Sample?
The locked door was taunting Junia.
No one had the key. The building had changed hands six times in the past ten years, and the key had been lost early in the process. Thing was, there was absolutely reason for there to be a room down here. On the blueprints, it was just labeled "office."
Who puts an office in a church basement?
This was just a quick check by the Sunday Group. The Head Office had told her not to get into any trouble, just poke around, get a feel for the place. The complaints weren't anything solid at the moment. An old Catholic church that had been sold off due to a graying congregation and some stiff legal settlements. It had since been a yoga studio, a brewery, and a laser tag arena.
Who knew laser tag was still a thing?
It was scheduled to be turned into apartments next month. The rumors were nothing big: a feeling like the building was trembling, and the sound of laughter in the distance. Given that it had been a brewery for a couple of years, you have to expect some crazy stories around it.
So she should just shrug off the door and walk away. She'd do that. Any minute now...
Finally admitting defeat at the hands of her own curiosity, she tried the door handle. Locked, of course.
Pretending to be getting a pebble out of her shoe, she leaned against the door. Why she bothered pretending with no one around, she couldn't explain, it just seemed appropriate. With a sudden lurch, she straightened and swung her too-large hips into the door.
They say use it or lose it, and I can't seem to lose it, so ...
The wood around the latch splintered. For the first time in most of a decade, light spilled into the room. It was ... an office.
Well, phooey.
An old metal desk sat at the center, as drab as it was impersonal. At some point, the office had turned into a storage room. Boxes were now stacked in every corner. Alas, none were labeled "secret confessions."
Starting at the center, Junia rifled through the desk drawers. The bottom right drawer was neatly organized. That alone was suspicious. Junia was an old hand at removing drawers, since that is frequently the easiest way to move documents. A quick twist and yank popped the entire drawer out of its socket. Sure enough, behind the drawer was a dusty leather-bound book. Junia flipped it open ...
"... and He looked upon His creation and proclaimed it good. In a loud voice he called out, "Hear Me, I am Lord, and I am One! I was the first, I am now, and I am above all things to come!" And did the Heavens resound in laughter, and did the archons and the powers mock Him for His arrogance. But He understood it not, for He was too limited to see the divine pleroma above Him, and He heard the sounds as cheers from those below."
Huh. Sounds Gnostic. What's an ancient heretical text doing in the basement of a Catholic church?
Junia clutched the book to her side and headed up the side stairs and out of the building. The lighting was actually worse out here, but at least there was cellphone reception. When the weird and spooky got religion, there was only one person to call. The one person on her contact list that knew more about cults and esoteric theology than the rest of the Sunday Group combined.
Mid-forties. Old enough to know better, yet here I am.
Falling out of love with dice as I get older. Getting tired of putting effort into scenes only to have them fall apart because of a bad roll.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Mid-forties. Old enough to know better, yet here I am.<br><br>Falling out of love with dice as I get older. Getting tired of putting effort into scenes only to have them fall apart because of a bad roll.</div>
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