Listed here are my writing samples and character sheets. If anything piques your fancy, please feel free to message me.
1- Brighthope, Arkansas, is a fictional town made solely for this role play. If you need a specific point of reference for it, it's largely based on Monticello, Arkansas and the geography of Lawton, Oklahoma.
2- Just a side note not connected to a specific point, a medical degree only took about 2 years to obtain during this era.
The chill of Winter had begun to set in, becoming increasingly evident as the blazing hues of autumn bathed the LebenVVald landscape in serotinal beauty.
The scene opens upon an autumnal forest of enormous god elms, gargantuan hard woods that loom benevolently above all in creation save for the misty LebenVVelsh mountain peaks. Dense moors part only for occasional icy basins scattered amongst the moor. Morella had always thought that whatever entity responsible for creation had erected the god elms to make people feel small and insignificant. At least, she felt ever so small in an unwelcoming world. Often she would be struck with moments of occhiolism, unable to satiate the melancholy in her heart.
Even if there ever were a higher purpose for her or people for which to place her confidence, she could never deign to trust the security or responsibility. There would always be a way for her to muck things up.
This area had once been a migratory lumber camp. Signs of human intervention still scar the landscape; god elms felled and half marred by human greed justified by their beliefs that nature is theirs to bend, contraptions of destruction still lie about among their dilapidated tar paper shacks. Such is the fickle way of man. Once they take all that they deem useful they leave the remnants of their sins to rot. At least Morella could get some use from this beacon of sin.
Occasionally she would find bits of old provisions like jars of preserves or salted meats buried from winters past. More oft the fruits of her efforts are various shiny trinkets, glimmering from the depths of the loch. Discarded rusty saw blades or axe heads, empty tin cans, swords, silverware, shards of colorful glass, and other objects she could never dare to guess the persuasion of as the uncivilized heathen she is. They all adorn her dwelling in the abandoned tar paper shacks, glinting beautifully in firelight in the dead of night.
Each object's shimmering presence felt like a whisper set apart from the tender chorus of forest song, all of creation breathing as one. Each voice caressed her lonesome heart. She found that she felt least alone when she sits amongst her hoard during unrelenting downpour; the overwhelming roar of raindrops beating down on the caved hardwood roofs, beating the moor into submission until the cacophony devolves into white noise broken only by claps of thunder. The water washing over her would feel akin to an embrace, and it soothed her for just awhile.
Though true winter had yet to arrive for several weeks, it would not perturb the frigid wind from lapping at the surface of the unnamed lake's black surface. Submerged in the pitch lagoon, the nymph's idle fingers sifted through silty soil and viscous kelp at its floor for more trinkets to fawn over. Morella moved habitually, languidly in the depths, more serpentine than person. Her pale skin easily set itself apart from the black bodied lake, the contrast giving her the appearance of a natural bioluminescence. The crushing pressure of the lake upon her didn't feel like a hug, not like the familiar kiss of rain, but water had always provided for her and is a trusted friend. Or at least, she thought so.
A trill of intrigue rang through her senses as her finger tips brushed a top layer of soil from a shiny object. It was a color of metal she'd never seen before, yellow like summer dried hay. Even in the pitch black water her keen eyes could tell it apart from the common can or bottle.
She enthusiastically cleared the muck away the best she could, but it stayed sequestered deeply in a cradle of dead roots and kelp. No matter. No shiny object could escape her grubby clutches. She made easy work of clearing the kelp with her teeth, snacking occasionally on the stalks to fuel her efforts. The dead roots didn't taste nearly as pleasant.
Morella tore greedily, she could almost swear that the roots would grow back with her every slash as if the lake meant to keep its treasure to itself. Bastard Lake! This is my shiny thing!
She swiped her hair irritably from where it floated in front of her face, gripped her hands firmly around the long, flat object, and planted her feet sturdily into lake bed. Using every last bit of strength her small frame possessed, she used all the power her legs could offer to wrench the object from the lake's grasp. When the roots finally relinquished its treasure she was propelled backwards by the force, greedily clutching her spoils against her bare chest. Yes! Mine!
She floated there a while, admiring what she had discovered to be an extremely ornate sheath. Kelp and roots drifted all about her as she traced the charming golden illustrations absentmindedly with her fingertips, absolutely enthralled by it's fine craftmanship.
Morella was so enamored with her spoils that she didn't notice the warp in time-space until a body plummeted into the lake directly overhead. Her head snapped up quickly as a silent, water-filled scream cracked from her throat as she held out her hands in shock, instinctively bracing herself from the impact.
Underwater it's so difficult to tell depth when you're looking up at the surface, a few yards looks no different than a mile. All of the speed of the fall had been absorbed by the water's surface upon impact. The body sank slowly, slowly closer until Morella could just make it out to be the silhouette of a woman. A woman,,, With shiny things!!
Morella snatched greedily at the finery attached to the woman's clothes, but the craftmanship was simply too fine. The gold embellishments of the princess's lovely silks remained perfectly attached no matter how hard the nymph pulled. So she pulled, and pulled, and pulled until she threw the finely dressed woman against the mossy rocks of the shore.
Morella kept the sheath clenched tightly in her teeth as she stared down unsympathetically at the drenched woman. She stood at full height, naked as the day she was born with her raven black hair splayed over her skin like inky seaweed. Unblinking, unmoving.
The scene opens upon an autumnal forest of enormous god elms, gargantuan hard woods that loom benevolently above all in creation save for the misty LebenVVelsh mountain peaks. Dense moors part only for occasional icy basins scattered amongst the moor. Morella had always thought that whatever entity responsible for creation had erected the god elms to make people feel small and insignificant. At least, she felt ever so small in an unwelcoming world. Often she would be struck with moments of occhiolism, unable to satiate the melancholy in her heart.
Even if there ever were a higher purpose for her or people for which to place her confidence, she could never deign to trust the security or responsibility. There would always be a way for her to muck things up.
This area had once been a migratory lumber camp. Signs of human intervention still scar the landscape; god elms felled and half marred by human greed justified by their beliefs that nature is theirs to bend, contraptions of destruction still lie about among their dilapidated tar paper shacks. Such is the fickle way of man. Once they take all that they deem useful they leave the remnants of their sins to rot. At least Morella could get some use from this beacon of sin.
Occasionally she would find bits of old provisions like jars of preserves or salted meats buried from winters past. More oft the fruits of her efforts are various shiny trinkets, glimmering from the depths of the loch. Discarded rusty saw blades or axe heads, empty tin cans, swords, silverware, shards of colorful glass, and other objects she could never dare to guess the persuasion of as the uncivilized heathen she is. They all adorn her dwelling in the abandoned tar paper shacks, glinting beautifully in firelight in the dead of night.
Each object's shimmering presence felt like a whisper set apart from the tender chorus of forest song, all of creation breathing as one. Each voice caressed her lonesome heart. She found that she felt least alone when she sits amongst her hoard during unrelenting downpour; the overwhelming roar of raindrops beating down on the caved hardwood roofs, beating the moor into submission until the cacophony devolves into white noise broken only by claps of thunder. The water washing over her would feel akin to an embrace, and it soothed her for just awhile.
Though true winter had yet to arrive for several weeks, it would not perturb the frigid wind from lapping at the surface of the unnamed lake's black surface. Submerged in the pitch lagoon, the nymph's idle fingers sifted through silty soil and viscous kelp at its floor for more trinkets to fawn over. Morella moved habitually, languidly in the depths, more serpentine than person. Her pale skin easily set itself apart from the black bodied lake, the contrast giving her the appearance of a natural bioluminescence. The crushing pressure of the lake upon her didn't feel like a hug, not like the familiar kiss of rain, but water had always provided for her and is a trusted friend. Or at least, she thought so.
A trill of intrigue rang through her senses as her finger tips brushed a top layer of soil from a shiny object. It was a color of metal she'd never seen before, yellow like summer dried hay. Even in the pitch black water her keen eyes could tell it apart from the common can or bottle.
She enthusiastically cleared the muck away the best she could, but it stayed sequestered deeply in a cradle of dead roots and kelp. No matter. No shiny object could escape her grubby clutches. She made easy work of clearing the kelp with her teeth, snacking occasionally on the stalks to fuel her efforts. The dead roots didn't taste nearly as pleasant.
Morella tore greedily, she could almost swear that the roots would grow back with her every slash as if the lake meant to keep its treasure to itself. Bastard Lake! This is my shiny thing!
She swiped her hair irritably from where it floated in front of her face, gripped her hands firmly around the long, flat object, and planted her feet sturdily into lake bed. Using every last bit of strength her small frame possessed, she used all the power her legs could offer to wrench the object from the lake's grasp. When the roots finally relinquished its treasure she was propelled backwards by the force, greedily clutching her spoils against her bare chest. Yes! Mine!
She floated there a while, admiring what she had discovered to be an extremely ornate sheath. Kelp and roots drifted all about her as she traced the charming golden illustrations absentmindedly with her fingertips, absolutely enthralled by it's fine craftmanship.
Morella was so enamored with her spoils that she didn't notice the warp in time-space until a body plummeted into the lake directly overhead. Her head snapped up quickly as a silent, water-filled scream cracked from her throat as she held out her hands in shock, instinctively bracing herself from the impact.
Underwater it's so difficult to tell depth when you're looking up at the surface, a few yards looks no different than a mile. All of the speed of the fall had been absorbed by the water's surface upon impact. The body sank slowly, slowly closer until Morella could just make it out to be the silhouette of a woman. A woman,,, With shiny things!!
Morella snatched greedily at the finery attached to the woman's clothes, but the craftmanship was simply too fine. The gold embellishments of the princess's lovely silks remained perfectly attached no matter how hard the nymph pulled. So she pulled, and pulled, and pulled until she threw the finely dressed woman against the mossy rocks of the shore.
Morella kept the sheath clenched tightly in her teeth as she stared down unsympathetically at the drenched woman. She stood at full height, naked as the day she was born with her raven black hair splayed over her skin like inky seaweed. Unblinking, unmoving.
The benevolent afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky overhead the serene Ozark landscape. Occasionally a welcomed breeze would roll through the self-contained town of Bright Hope, refreshing its inhabitants enough to go about their daily chores.
Dutch's snip toe boots squelched through the soft muddy roads, tracking the mess onto wooden boardwalks in front the most reputable businesses around. The streets were filled with a great many smells; manure, cigarette smoke, tanning leather, cured hanging meats. The dark brunette man noted each new scent as he passed each shop and stall. He knew what he was after, but even so remained open to whatever venture might catch his fancy.
His shirt remained unbuttoned perhaps one or two fastens lower than usual to compensate for the heat. It revealed a tuft of wild black hair upon a sun glistened chest, fiending for even just a little relief.
Relief didn't come as a cooling wind, but instead as the scent of freshly set pies wafting from the bakery's second floor windowsills. Dutch didn't usually divulge into the common chores of the camp like grocery shopping, so why was he here?
Well, he just happened to overhear that Jasper really enjoys the pies from this particular bakery. Maybe he was feeling a little kind today. Maybe, just maybe, he was looking to sweeten her up just a bit.
Gifts of silver and gold persuasions served to catch her eye when she was younger, but that was before she grew more accustomed to taking whatever she pleased. Before he had a hand in corrupting her, at least in his mind he had.
The thought made him smirk that crooked smile of his as he scratched his stubbled jaw and reflected upon that young girl he met on the road all those years ago. She had a fire in her like no other, a type of passion and fury that he had grown to respect.
If he were ever to be honest with himself, he began seeing Molly because he thought he saw the same fire in her. Little did he know that the warmth of a hearth is hardly the same as the roar of a wildfire.
Dutch's snip toe boots squelched through the soft muddy roads, tracking the mess onto wooden boardwalks in front the most reputable businesses around. The streets were filled with a great many smells; manure, cigarette smoke, tanning leather, cured hanging meats. The dark brunette man noted each new scent as he passed each shop and stall. He knew what he was after, but even so remained open to whatever venture might catch his fancy.
His shirt remained unbuttoned perhaps one or two fastens lower than usual to compensate for the heat. It revealed a tuft of wild black hair upon a sun glistened chest, fiending for even just a little relief.
Relief didn't come as a cooling wind, but instead as the scent of freshly set pies wafting from the bakery's second floor windowsills. Dutch didn't usually divulge into the common chores of the camp like grocery shopping, so why was he here?
Well, he just happened to overhear that Jasper really enjoys the pies from this particular bakery. Maybe he was feeling a little kind today. Maybe, just maybe, he was looking to sweeten her up just a bit.
Gifts of silver and gold persuasions served to catch her eye when she was younger, but that was before she grew more accustomed to taking whatever she pleased. Before he had a hand in corrupting her, at least in his mind he had.
The thought made him smirk that crooked smile of his as he scratched his stubbled jaw and reflected upon that young girl he met on the road all those years ago. She had a fire in her like no other, a type of passion and fury that he had grown to respect.
If he were ever to be honest with himself, he began seeing Molly because he thought he saw the same fire in her. Little did he know that the warmth of a hearth is hardly the same as the roar of a wildfire.
Several miles from Bright Hope lies Lake Tenkiller, nestled in seclusion behind untapped wilderness. Though the lake would make for a wonderful place to start a homestead, local legends of it being haunted by malevolent spirits have warded off settlers for the most part. Those that have disproved of such foolish thoughts have ventured to starting a life on the lakeside, only to perish from unforeseen tragedies.
On one instance, a family of six all passed from fever. Another, a young couple was murdered in the night by robbers. Once, a Romanian family almost astounded the citizens of Bright Hope by living there undisturbed for months, only for them to have been discovered as cannibals and were promptly hung in town square. A perfectly wretched place, all who traipse near are threatened to be cursed.
So wouldn't it just be Arthur's luck to spot a woman bathing in its clear, fresh waters- a beautiful woman, only for her to disappear as soon as he'd looked away?
It had been a week since that occurrence. He still wondered if it had been a trick of his eyes, maybe the sun glinting off the water had fooled him?
His eyes are surely too keen to be fooled, for he had in fact seen a bathing woman. In fact, said woman frequents the spot. It just so happens that she would repeat said promiscuous activity oft at sunset on days like this one to stave off the summer heat.
There was hardly ever chance of her being spotted due to the "cursed" status of the lake, but apparently she had forgotten to account for the ignorance of tourists.
No matter, she would enjoy what was here and now. And that was her, the refreshing chill of the lake, and the chirps of the white throated swifts overhead. She sat peacefully on the bank, in the shade and stealth of a river birch grove desperately clinging to the waterfront.
Her lower half remained submerged as she worked her fingers steadily through her knotted locks. It mattered not that the water chilled her bones or gave her goosebumps. It was all just trivial, just as were the knots in her hair and the "curse" on this wretched lake. A constrained sigh pushed past her lips as if she had unknowingly been holding onto it for much too long. Is there no more to this world than this agrarian life?
On one instance, a family of six all passed from fever. Another, a young couple was murdered in the night by robbers. Once, a Romanian family almost astounded the citizens of Bright Hope by living there undisturbed for months, only for them to have been discovered as cannibals and were promptly hung in town square. A perfectly wretched place, all who traipse near are threatened to be cursed.
So wouldn't it just be Arthur's luck to spot a woman bathing in its clear, fresh waters- a beautiful woman, only for her to disappear as soon as he'd looked away?
It had been a week since that occurrence. He still wondered if it had been a trick of his eyes, maybe the sun glinting off the water had fooled him?
His eyes are surely too keen to be fooled, for he had in fact seen a bathing woman. In fact, said woman frequents the spot. It just so happens that she would repeat said promiscuous activity oft at sunset on days like this one to stave off the summer heat.
There was hardly ever chance of her being spotted due to the "cursed" status of the lake, but apparently she had forgotten to account for the ignorance of tourists.
No matter, she would enjoy what was here and now. And that was her, the refreshing chill of the lake, and the chirps of the white throated swifts overhead. She sat peacefully on the bank, in the shade and stealth of a river birch grove desperately clinging to the waterfront.
Her lower half remained submerged as she worked her fingers steadily through her knotted locks. It mattered not that the water chilled her bones or gave her goosebumps. It was all just trivial, just as were the knots in her hair and the "curse" on this wretched lake. A constrained sigh pushed past her lips as if she had unknowingly been holding onto it for much too long. Is there no more to this world than this agrarian life?
Dr. Rose Mary Fuller-Festervan
Preferred nickname
Mary
Born on a Sunday
March 2, 1873
Age
23
Gender
Female
Race
Asian American
Height
165cm
5'5"
Weight
59kg
130lbs
Body Type
Notable Features
Brown freckles that line the bridge of her nose and tops of her cheeks, from ear to ear.
Occupation
Physician, surgeon, and botanical medicine merchant
Personality
Polite
Even if the conversation takes a turn she disagrees with, she'll feign interest to be polite. It's her eyes that betray her, though. They're her tell.
Proper
Being ladylike and upholding proper etiquette is natural for her. She would never go to bed with someone she isn't married to- that is of course, unless she thinks no one will find out.
Honest
Lying isn't something she enjoys. If she needs to, she would prefer to just lie by omission. But if she can get away with it, she'll be brutally honest.
Fair
Favoritism of any kind isn't something she adheres to. Even with loved ones, especially with loved ones.
Single minded
No matter where she goes, she will always be the same Boston girl with ideas above her station. She rejects the idea that she's a spinster, or somehow "damaged goods" for being unmarried at 23. Even more so, she advocates that women shouldn't need to marry to have legitimacy in the world.
These ideas, of course, are only shared in circles that she feels won't kill her for harboring them.
Compassionate
She feels empathy for most living things. After all, her line of work would make her quite bitter if she didn't feel an inherent empathy for people.
Mary
Born on a Sunday
March 2, 1873
Age
23
Gender
Female
Race
Asian American
Height
165cm
5'5"
Weight
59kg
130lbs
Body Type
Notable Features
Brown freckles that line the bridge of her nose and tops of her cheeks, from ear to ear.
Occupation
Physician, surgeon, and botanical medicine merchant
Personality
Polite
Even if the conversation takes a turn she disagrees with, she'll feign interest to be polite. It's her eyes that betray her, though. They're her tell.
Proper
Being ladylike and upholding proper etiquette is natural for her. She would never go to bed with someone she isn't married to- that is of course, unless she thinks no one will find out.
Honest
Lying isn't something she enjoys. If she needs to, she would prefer to just lie by omission. But if she can get away with it, she'll be brutally honest.
Fair
Favoritism of any kind isn't something she adheres to. Even with loved ones, especially with loved ones.
Single minded
No matter where she goes, she will always be the same Boston girl with ideas above her station. She rejects the idea that she's a spinster, or somehow "damaged goods" for being unmarried at 23. Even more so, she advocates that women shouldn't need to marry to have legitimacy in the world.
These ideas, of course, are only shared in circles that she feels won't kill her for harboring them.
Compassionate
She feels empathy for most living things. After all, her line of work would make her quite bitter if she didn't feel an inherent empathy for people.
She was born in Boston, Massachusetts to a doctor and an actress, as well as a gambler and a deviant, respectively.
They were named Thomas Virgil Fuller and Artimissa Festervan.
Her mother was of unknown Asian descent, adopted as an infant by a Catholic Irish household. Rose Mary's maternal grandmother was unable to bare children and had no qualms with race or gender, only wishing to have a baby of her own.
Her father was of questionable European heritage, mostly Welsh and perhaps some mixture of Scandinavian descent.
At the age of four, 1877, her mother eloped with a fellow actress to New York and hasn't been heard of since.
This prompted her father to move to Brighthope1, Arkansas, in an attempt to escape his grief.
At that time, though Brighthope was the county seat of Drew county and naturally had the population density to prove it, the town was still in the throws of the Reconstruction era.
Though the formal timeline of reconstruction ended in about 1877, small town America wouldn't truly implement the new regulations for generations.
Brighthope was a far cry from Boston, but it would become their home.
And so, he became the 'good doctor' of Brighthope, indulging when possible in charity by waving medical costs.
At seven, 1880, Thomas began allowing Rosemary to apprentice under him in medicine.
Two years later, Thomas married a widow named Millie Evans and thus the Fuller family grew twofold. As such, the good doctor and his family could not bare to live in their overcrowded town flat. The family relocated to the countryside, west of Brighthope.
Millie brought with her a two year old girl from her previous marriage, Jane Temperance Evans.
Though Mary was terribly jealous of Millie and Jane becoming the new objects of her father's attentions, she grew to admire her step-mother's inner strength and felt responsible for Jane's wellbeing. It was a begrudging sort of love, but aren't they all?
Rose Mary, having learned to play guitar from her father, would often play nursery rhymes for Janie. Their little farm house would be filled with laughter when Janie would make up silly songs for Rose to play, accompanied by crudely drawn pictures of the subjects of the songs. There was one depicting a particularly nasty little girl being eaten by a giant shoe with antlers that Mary has kept to this day.
The Knowing of Maria Dunn
Following the tragic knowing of Maria Dunn, Maria's family moved to a nearby logging town south of Brighthope, Misty Hollow.
Sharing the evidence with Thomas bore little fruit. He knew the shoe to have once been Mary's, but was unaware that she had given it to her friend.
To put it simply, he felt doubtful of the validity of her claims, that Rose Mary was grasping at straws in an attempt to cope with the loss of her friend.
Old Thomas Virgil wasn't a nurturing father.
Instead of comforting his child, he took this opportunity to introduce her to the gore in their line of work.
She began training in surgery by practicing with cadavers.
It was grotesque work. Most people died filled with tumors, black and stomach turning.
One may also feel increasing confusion at what could be found inside of bodies, things not naturally meant to be within.
The most disturbing by far was the gut full of nails from the man that died not of that, but of a shot gun blast to the face. Evidence suggested that he had been living with the nails in his stomach for at least a few weeks.
In all honesty, Rose Mary preferred dissecting the dead more than the living.
When you open a body and pull a cat's skull from unmentionable places, it's easier to bury and forget the sight than to run into the same person at the bakery the next week.
As well, the dead bleed much less and don't mind a heavy hand.
By the time she was 15, her father's gambling problem had grown much worse. The tension in their home was unbearable, so much so that his second wife, Millie, sought fit to leave in the veil of night with her daughter.
Mary didn't blame Millie for leaving her behind. After all, if not for Mary's false testimony of Millie and Janie having been kidnapped by Native Americans, Thomas would have tracked them down.
As heinous of a lie that is, Mary thought it was the only plausible story those prejudiced sheriffs would believe.
As it would happen, they did buy the story, as did Thomas.
Because of that, Thomas developed a deep prejudice against Native Americans.
Time passed, Rosemary grew into the semblance of a polite, though opinionated, young lady. The local democrats would scowl at her progressive views, especially pertaining to voting laws, Jim Crow, and lynching.
If she hadn't saved quite a few of them time and again from infection and/or sickness, she might have already been the victim of a lynching.
At the same time, Dr. Thomas Fuller was working very hard at besmirching their name. He'd become a mean drunk and meaner gambler. He'd pawned away anything of relative value in their home that Mary didn't think to stash away.
His medical practice was going tits up. With him not being in to help patients most days, Mary was left to make excuses day after day for his absence as she helped who she could.
As she grew nearer to her 17th birthday, her father would frequently mention her pursuing a more official education in medicine. His connections in Boston would surely allow her admission to Boston University's female medical college (especially since they should know nothing of his disgrace), and they still owned the property to the clinic at the port.
She had a leg up on all the competition, could begin her own practice without a hitch.
Though, she didn't need a college degree to tell that there was something suspicious about his urgency to send her away.
After months of him barely being home, and when he was never truly being lucid enough to resemble the once proud man he was, even a blind man could see there was something wrong.
As it would happen, Thomas had gotten in too deep with his gambling debts. He put his house and medical office up for collateral and goons were lurking about, looking to collect.
In a final effort to protect his only child, her sent her on a one way trip to visit her estranged maternal grandmother in Boston.
It wasn't until about a week later that her grandmother finally told her that her father wouldn't be joining them. That was the last time she'd seen her father.
She had not seen her grandmother since she was a toddler and her father did not speak much of Catherine, but Rose Mary truly wished she had known how much of a frigid old shrew her grandmother was before resigning to be her charge.
As well, Mary had no idea that her mother's mother was the same age as her father. It seemed uncanny. It was common place, sure, but truly strange when thought was placed upon it too long.
Rose Mary doesn't care to speak of the belittlement, or the degradation she endured during her stay with Catherine Festervan. Rosemary simply wished to finish her degree in medicine and wash her hands of having known her grandmother.
Though, not all of her time in Boston was spent in shame. For a short time, she courted with a handsome, young, dark haired man with eyes to match, setting a stark contrast to his pallid skin.
Detective Edward Raeburn. Eddie, she would call him.
They'd met while he was investigating a smuggling ring in the ports. She had been cleaning the old harbor master's office, which had once been her father's charity clinic. It had been abandoned for years, uncared for and forgotten.
Eddie knew this, so when he overheard a shuffling within he deemed it justifiable means to investigate.
He traipsed into her life like he owned her, and perhaps the order and control steadied her at the time.
It felt good to have someone calling the shots for her. To have someone there to be steadfast when everything was uncertain.
Eddie came from a working class family. His father an alcoholic and his mother too timid to stop him from drinking himself into an early grave. Being the eldest son of five, he was forced to work as soon as he was able to hold himself up on his own two feet.
It made his wits keen and his fists hard, and perhaps that was what Rose Mary adored about him. A man that could rely on himself, that's what really gets her going.
He seemed to have a great deal of conventional values, though, despite being from progressive New England.
He didn't so much mind her ideas above her station, but he needed to control her. Her every thought and action. If he could have had it his way, she would have stayed home, bore his children, came to his every beck and call; but she couldn't thrive in a life such as that. Her purpose was higher than to remain in a state of semi-permanent pregnancy and to look after a homestead.
When her medical schooling concluded in 1895, as did her time in Boston. Without telling a soul, she gathered her things and set off for her old stomping grounds.
For a long while she wondered if Eddie would search for her, if he would find her, what he'd do if he did, but he never came.
And so, she's since found herself back in Brighthope sharing a medical office with an older gentleman, Dr. David Venton Rochester.
For the most part she acts as his aid and stand in when he isn't available, as well as being his sole supplier of herbal medicines.
They were named Thomas Virgil Fuller and Artimissa Festervan.
Her mother was of unknown Asian descent, adopted as an infant by a Catholic Irish household. Rose Mary's maternal grandmother was unable to bare children and had no qualms with race or gender, only wishing to have a baby of her own.
Her father was of questionable European heritage, mostly Welsh and perhaps some mixture of Scandinavian descent.
At the age of four, 1877, her mother eloped with a fellow actress to New York and hasn't been heard of since.
This prompted her father to move to Brighthope1, Arkansas, in an attempt to escape his grief.
At that time, though Brighthope was the county seat of Drew county and naturally had the population density to prove it, the town was still in the throws of the Reconstruction era.
Though the formal timeline of reconstruction ended in about 1877, small town America wouldn't truly implement the new regulations for generations.
Brighthope was a far cry from Boston, but it would become their home.
And so, he became the 'good doctor' of Brighthope, indulging when possible in charity by waving medical costs.
At seven, 1880, Thomas began allowing Rosemary to apprentice under him in medicine.
Two years later, Thomas married a widow named Millie Evans and thus the Fuller family grew twofold. As such, the good doctor and his family could not bare to live in their overcrowded town flat. The family relocated to the countryside, west of Brighthope.
Millie brought with her a two year old girl from her previous marriage, Jane Temperance Evans.
Though Mary was terribly jealous of Millie and Jane becoming the new objects of her father's attentions, she grew to admire her step-mother's inner strength and felt responsible for Jane's wellbeing. It was a begrudging sort of love, but aren't they all?
Rose Mary, having learned to play guitar from her father, would often play nursery rhymes for Janie. Their little farm house would be filled with laughter when Janie would make up silly songs for Rose to play, accompanied by crudely drawn pictures of the subjects of the songs. There was one depicting a particularly nasty little girl being eaten by a giant shoe with antlers that Mary has kept to this day.
The Knowing of Maria Dunn
Following the tragic knowing of Maria Dunn, Maria's family moved to a nearby logging town south of Brighthope, Misty Hollow.
Sharing the evidence with Thomas bore little fruit. He knew the shoe to have once been Mary's, but was unaware that she had given it to her friend.
To put it simply, he felt doubtful of the validity of her claims, that Rose Mary was grasping at straws in an attempt to cope with the loss of her friend.
Old Thomas Virgil wasn't a nurturing father.
Instead of comforting his child, he took this opportunity to introduce her to the gore in their line of work.
She began training in surgery by practicing with cadavers.
It was grotesque work. Most people died filled with tumors, black and stomach turning.
One may also feel increasing confusion at what could be found inside of bodies, things not naturally meant to be within.
The most disturbing by far was the gut full of nails from the man that died not of that, but of a shot gun blast to the face. Evidence suggested that he had been living with the nails in his stomach for at least a few weeks.
In all honesty, Rose Mary preferred dissecting the dead more than the living.
When you open a body and pull a cat's skull from unmentionable places, it's easier to bury and forget the sight than to run into the same person at the bakery the next week.
As well, the dead bleed much less and don't mind a heavy hand.
By the time she was 15, her father's gambling problem had grown much worse. The tension in their home was unbearable, so much so that his second wife, Millie, sought fit to leave in the veil of night with her daughter.
Mary didn't blame Millie for leaving her behind. After all, if not for Mary's false testimony of Millie and Janie having been kidnapped by Native Americans, Thomas would have tracked them down.
As heinous of a lie that is, Mary thought it was the only plausible story those prejudiced sheriffs would believe.
As it would happen, they did buy the story, as did Thomas.
Because of that, Thomas developed a deep prejudice against Native Americans.
Time passed, Rosemary grew into the semblance of a polite, though opinionated, young lady. The local democrats would scowl at her progressive views, especially pertaining to voting laws, Jim Crow, and lynching.
If she hadn't saved quite a few of them time and again from infection and/or sickness, she might have already been the victim of a lynching.
At the same time, Dr. Thomas Fuller was working very hard at besmirching their name. He'd become a mean drunk and meaner gambler. He'd pawned away anything of relative value in their home that Mary didn't think to stash away.
His medical practice was going tits up. With him not being in to help patients most days, Mary was left to make excuses day after day for his absence as she helped who she could.
As she grew nearer to her 17th birthday, her father would frequently mention her pursuing a more official education in medicine. His connections in Boston would surely allow her admission to Boston University's female medical college (especially since they should know nothing of his disgrace), and they still owned the property to the clinic at the port.
She had a leg up on all the competition, could begin her own practice without a hitch.
Though, she didn't need a college degree to tell that there was something suspicious about his urgency to send her away.
After months of him barely being home, and when he was never truly being lucid enough to resemble the once proud man he was, even a blind man could see there was something wrong.
As it would happen, Thomas had gotten in too deep with his gambling debts. He put his house and medical office up for collateral and goons were lurking about, looking to collect.
In a final effort to protect his only child, her sent her on a one way trip to visit her estranged maternal grandmother in Boston.
It wasn't until about a week later that her grandmother finally told her that her father wouldn't be joining them. That was the last time she'd seen her father.
She had not seen her grandmother since she was a toddler and her father did not speak much of Catherine, but Rose Mary truly wished she had known how much of a frigid old shrew her grandmother was before resigning to be her charge.
As well, Mary had no idea that her mother's mother was the same age as her father. It seemed uncanny. It was common place, sure, but truly strange when thought was placed upon it too long.
Rose Mary doesn't care to speak of the belittlement, or the degradation she endured during her stay with Catherine Festervan. Rosemary simply wished to finish her degree in medicine and wash her hands of having known her grandmother.
Though, not all of her time in Boston was spent in shame. For a short time, she courted with a handsome, young, dark haired man with eyes to match, setting a stark contrast to his pallid skin.
Detective Edward Raeburn. Eddie, she would call him.
They'd met while he was investigating a smuggling ring in the ports. She had been cleaning the old harbor master's office, which had once been her father's charity clinic. It had been abandoned for years, uncared for and forgotten.
Eddie knew this, so when he overheard a shuffling within he deemed it justifiable means to investigate.
He traipsed into her life like he owned her, and perhaps the order and control steadied her at the time.
It felt good to have someone calling the shots for her. To have someone there to be steadfast when everything was uncertain.
Eddie came from a working class family. His father an alcoholic and his mother too timid to stop him from drinking himself into an early grave. Being the eldest son of five, he was forced to work as soon as he was able to hold himself up on his own two feet.
It made his wits keen and his fists hard, and perhaps that was what Rose Mary adored about him. A man that could rely on himself, that's what really gets her going.
He seemed to have a great deal of conventional values, though, despite being from progressive New England.
He didn't so much mind her ideas above her station, but he needed to control her. Her every thought and action. If he could have had it his way, she would have stayed home, bore his children, came to his every beck and call; but she couldn't thrive in a life such as that. Her purpose was higher than to remain in a state of semi-permanent pregnancy and to look after a homestead.
When her medical schooling concluded in 1895, as did her time in Boston. Without telling a soul, she gathered her things and set off for her old stomping grounds.
For a long while she wondered if Eddie would search for her, if he would find her, what he'd do if he did, but he never came.
And so, she's since found herself back in Brighthope sharing a medical office with an older gentleman, Dr. David Venton Rochester.
For the most part she acts as his aid and stand in when he isn't available, as well as being his sole supplier of herbal medicines.
1- Brighthope, Arkansas, is a fictional town made solely for this role play. If you need a specific point of reference for it, it's largely based on Monticello, Arkansas and the geography of Lawton, Oklahoma.
2- Just a side note not connected to a specific point, a medical degree only took about 2 years to obtain during this era.
Ms. Morella Edinburgh
Preferred Nickname
Mora
Age
24
Race
Asian American
(1/2 Caucasian, 1/2 Chinese)
Height
165cm
5'5"
Weight
59kg
130lbs
Body Type
Notable Features
Brown freckles that line the bridge of her nose and tops of her cheeks, from ear to ear.
Occupation
Court Stenographer
Personality
Sardonic
Her sense of humor can be a bit mean at times, but her intention is never to harm you permanently. She's just trying to poke fun.
Generous
Gift giving and performing acts of service are things she takes very seriously. She loves to be kind to others. She would give you the shirt off her back if you needed it.
Independent
She was raised to be self reliant. She thinks there isn't a thing a man can do for her, save for maybe one or two tasks to be exact, that she can't do for herself. Time and again she's been proven wrong on this, but that's an issue for another day.
Outspoken
She isn't afraid to express her opinion. This gets her in trouble from time to time, but she'll never stop standing up for her beliefs. She will relent to others if it's something that's inconsequential, but if it's something she cares about she'll have to agree to disagree.
Honest
Lying isn't something she enjoys. If she needs to, she would prefer to just lie by omission. But if she can get away with it, she'll be brutally honest.
Nurturing
She wants nothing more than to kiss and hold someone she loves. Life is too short not to tell someone you love them, or at least she claims.
Preferred Nickname
Mora
Age
24
Race
Asian American
(1/2 Caucasian, 1/2 Chinese)
Height
165cm
5'5"
Weight
59kg
130lbs
Body Type
Brown freckles that line the bridge of her nose and tops of her cheeks, from ear to ear.
Occupation
Court Stenographer
Personality
Sardonic
Her sense of humor can be a bit mean at times, but her intention is never to harm you permanently. She's just trying to poke fun.
Generous
Gift giving and performing acts of service are things she takes very seriously. She loves to be kind to others. She would give you the shirt off her back if you needed it.
Independent
She was raised to be self reliant. She thinks there isn't a thing a man can do for her, save for maybe one or two tasks to be exact, that she can't do for herself. Time and again she's been proven wrong on this, but that's an issue for another day.
Outspoken
She isn't afraid to express her opinion. This gets her in trouble from time to time, but she'll never stop standing up for her beliefs. She will relent to others if it's something that's inconsequential, but if it's something she cares about she'll have to agree to disagree.
Honest
Lying isn't something she enjoys. If she needs to, she would prefer to just lie by omission. But if she can get away with it, she'll be brutally honest.
Nurturing
She wants nothing more than to kiss and hold someone she loves. Life is too short not to tell someone you love them, or at least she claims.
Ms. Morella Edinburgh
Preferred Nickname
Mora
Age
25
Race
Asian American
(1/2 Caucasian, 1/2 Chinese)
Height
165cm
5'5"
Weight
59kg
130lbs
Body Type
Notable Features
Brown freckles that line the bridge of her nose and tops of her cheeks, from ear to ear.
Occupation
Secretary
Personality
Sardonic
Her sense of humor can be a bit mean at times, but her intention is never to harm you permanently. She's just trying to poke fun.
Generous
Gift giving and performing acts of service are things she takes very seriously. She loves to be kind to others. She would give you the shirt off her back if you needed it.
Independent
She was raised to be self reliant. She thinks there isn't a thing a man can do for her, save for maybe one or two tasks to be exact, that she can't do for herself. Time and again she's been proven wrong on this, but that's an issue for another day.
Outspoken
She isn't afraid to express her opinion. This gets her in trouble from time to time, but she'll never stop standing up for her beliefs. She will relent to others if it's something that's inconsequential, but if it's something she cares about she'll have to agree to disagree.
Honest
Lying isn't something she enjoys. If she needs to, she would prefer to just lie by omission. But if she can get away with it, she'll be brutally honest.
Nurturing
She wants nothing more than to kiss and hold someone she loves. Life is too short not to tell someone you love them, or at least she claims.
Preferred Nickname
Mora
Age
25
Race
Asian American
(1/2 Caucasian, 1/2 Chinese)
Height
165cm
5'5"
Weight
59kg
130lbs
Body Type
Brown freckles that line the bridge of her nose and tops of her cheeks, from ear to ear.
Occupation
Secretary
Personality
Sardonic
Her sense of humor can be a bit mean at times, but her intention is never to harm you permanently. She's just trying to poke fun.
Generous
Gift giving and performing acts of service are things she takes very seriously. She loves to be kind to others. She would give you the shirt off her back if you needed it.
Independent
She was raised to be self reliant. She thinks there isn't a thing a man can do for her, save for maybe one or two tasks to be exact, that she can't do for herself. Time and again she's been proven wrong on this, but that's an issue for another day.
Outspoken
She isn't afraid to express her opinion. This gets her in trouble from time to time, but she'll never stop standing up for her beliefs. She will relent to others if it's something that's inconsequential, but if it's something she cares about she'll have to agree to disagree.
Honest
Lying isn't something she enjoys. If she needs to, she would prefer to just lie by omission. But if she can get away with it, she'll be brutally honest.
Nurturing
She wants nothing more than to kiss and hold someone she loves. Life is too short not to tell someone you love them, or at least she claims.
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