– mathematics / psychology double doctorate student.
quiet. clever. intelligent. ruthless. the last remaining member of the foss family; driven to succeed.
milo foss.
dependent for trial of hearts rp.
26 | he/him
"For me…home is both the…the house I grew up in, and somewhere I can never return. But I wouldn't say I have that connection to England. More those…specific four walls." He gave her a small shrug. "Blue Ivy is as much my home as England is. A place to stay." Blue Ivy had been a fresh start, but now it was tainted, too—the same discoloration that stained his home.
"…you might like California. It hardly rains. Really good fast food. Nice vineyards."
"Perhaps I'd have to visit. I've never been to the States," he murmured in response, taking a deep breath. "So...finishing up the degree and then starting over again. Won't be the first time."
STATEMENT FROM BLUE IVY UNIVERSITY:
Dear members of the Blue Ivy Community,
Recently, one of our graduate students has made headlines for their potential involvement in a criminal case. Blue Ivy would like to come out and publicly state that we are complying fully with the investigation. The student in question has not been observed on campus in weeks, and has missed their period of dissertation defense.
We have no information as to the whereabouts of this student, and would like to impress that their actions do not represent the views of the university as a whole.
Sincerely,
Blue Ivy University
After nearly ten years, new evidence may have cleared the name of Monique Abbott. Originally working as a housemaid for the Foss family, the woman has been long thought guilty in the murder of renowned bioscientist Aoibhin Foss. Recently, an anonymous tip as suggested that the sole remaining member of the Foss lineage, Aoibhin's son Milo, may actually be to blame for the death instead.
Aoibhin Foss was a renowned scientist in the field of biology, making waves throughout the entirety of her career. Her husband, Patrick, passed in 2005, whereas Aoibhin herself died in 2017. An autopsy revealed that the cause of death was mercury poisoning and the family maid, Monique Abbott, was arrested after the discovery of an empty vial in her garbage can containing traces of mercury.
Recent evidence suggests that the guilt of Abbott may have been planted by Milo instead, and that the now 26-year-old may have murdered his own mother. An anonymous tip provided evidence that Foss's husband was likely killed in the same manner, though according to the authorities there's no firm evidence who committed either crime.
Milo Foss is currently a student at Blue Ivy University, in Switzerland. When questioned, police said his last known whereabouts were at a local hospital in the area after a devastating fire swept through a historic villa in Switzerland. Past that, his current location is unknown. Authorities are on the lookout.
Read more about the villa fire here at @trialofheartsrpg .
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The halls of Blue Ivy were quiet after hours, the only sound being the soft weight of his own footsteps as he moves through the corridors. There wasn't much to rattle the walls, especially not during winter break – not when so much of the campus was home for the holidays, off spending time with family and friends alike.
The concept of going home for the holidays was not something that had ever resonated with Milo, for a number of reasons.
Firstly, his home had never quite been the pinnacle of holly nor jolly. There wasn't much festive around the holidays – a winter dinner, of course, but for a family of atheists, they generally got away with just setting up a tree in the foyer and giving gifts to each other on December twenty-fifth. He remembers when he was young, receiving small wooden toys; then when he grew, creations more like knick-knacks or statues, beautiful works (most of them now sitting forgotten back in the bottom drawer of his dormitory, which he hasn't set foot in for months – where his feet currently carry him now).
Secondly, there was no home to return to. Milo had moved on campus immediately upon admittance to Blue Ivy, and the grounds had been his home for nearly the past decade. Aside from a holiday or two spent with Clem, or potentially a visit to a friend's house, he can't remember the last time he spent the night in a building that wasn't the halls of the university. Tainted as they now are, there's an itch in the bottom of his gut, a fear: where does he go from here? Blue Ivy has been his home for nearly half his life. What does he do after graduation?
Thirdly, there was no one to spend it with – not unless he wanted to catch the train back to the cemetery in London and spend a night as frigid as the marble in his old house with two gravestones. Frankly, that seemed about as interesting as spending the holiday with his actual parents. But rather than spend the night in his room with his books as he usually would, tonight he does have an actual goal, small as it may be.
Fingers thumb the small item in his pocket, footsteps tracing his way back to the familiar door. His keycard still works – somehow; he'd half-expected it to be invalid for the semester, though he's certain he's set off some sort of trial alarm or something. Every move you make is seen – let them. At the moment, he can't bring himself to care. The door opens, and he peeks into the room.
It's empty – thank god, Theo's out. He doesn't need to hear the complaining from his former roommate. Silently, he slips inside, immediately crossing the floor to the nightstand next to the folded bed. (Covers drawn; hasn't been used in months.) Squatting down, he slides open the bottom drawer. Wooden knick-knacks clack together softly as he does so.
From his pocket comes a small wooden creation of his own, a crow, beak tucked under one wing as it grooms itself, frozen in time. It nestles in, fitting perfectly amongst the other creatures and toys – the difference between craftsmen is almost impossible to see. "Nollaig shona," he whispers, sliding the drawer shut, closing them away once again. Usually, it would be until next year – however, he has a feeling he'll be getting them back out again soon.
"Cathy." He nods to the barista; she nods back. They've grown intimately familiar over the past few months, that careful, selective, limited relationship formed outside of an active death game. Hard to really give your all to someone when all you can think about is the fact that someone in your circle is a murderer. Without another word, the coffee maker whirrs to life, starting a drink he's ordered nearly every day for the past six months. The white noise is almost helpful, and he spaces out for a moment, mental gears turning as he tries, once again, to gnaw through all the information he's received. Starting from the beginning, trying to condense it all down. What is he missing? It should be obvious. Who's slipping through the cracks? What else can he use for process of elimination?
When you have eliminated all which is impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Even if it doesn't make any sense.
She calls his name – for what he suspects is not the first time, though she doesn't say anything about it – and that gets him to snap out of it, accepting the drink with a nod. Somehow, she's snuck whipped cream onto it, and at the raised eyebrow he gives her, she just grins. "Merry Christmas," she shrugs.
Neither asks the other why they're still here; why one stands behind a counter at a job, why the other carries a research notebook. For now, it's enough that they aren't completely alone.
"Happy holidays," he murmurs back, stepping out of the room, back towards his apartment. At least the quiet gave him a decent chance at finishing his dissertation before the final trial.
who are you to lead her? who are you to lead them? who are you to think that you can hold your head up higher than your fellow men? you got a lonesome road to walk and it ain't along the railroad track, and it ain't along the blacktop tar you've walked a hundred times before. i'll tell you where the real road lies: between your ears, behind your eyes; that is the path to paradise, likewise the road to ruin.
the memories of summer, spent strolling through the silent halls of your ancestral home. the memories of autumn, reading books in the garden on the swing under the dead falling leaves. the memories of winter, curled up under a fleece blanket two sizes too big. the memories of spring, working through complex equations to the sound of raindrops against the roof. years spent at this home, connection sundered by an aggressive departure. then another. then a quiet final curtain. exit, stage right.
It isn't the call of a higher power that finds him tracing an abnormal path up to the chapel of Blue Ivy. It isn't the hope of guidance that draws him to the rack of votive candles near the wall, and it isn't his faith in an omnipotent god that compels him to light the wick.
Milo Foss is not a religious man. He is, however, an educated one.
And he knows that throughout history, when times are hard, people in distress turn to their gods, their saints, their faith. And while these deities would likely not be able to (nor choose to) assist him, it isn't them he's attempting to send a message to now.
Both hands cup around the base of the candle as he walks to the altar in the middle of the floor. The flame sputters fiercely as the wind from his steps floods around it, but it does not extinguish. It is resilient. Like the person he attempts to reach now.
Head bows for a moment; deference to the customs of the worship he finds himself mirroring. Shifting and slipping into its skins, as if confession can save only a Catholic. The spirits of the dead cling heavy to his shoulders like a second skin; four in total, now—his parents, Renata, Vincent. The tally only continues to climb.
"If you're out there, Da," the words creak from his throat in a dry murmur, "duitse." The unfamiliar syllables wrap their way around his lips, broken word falling away as he does his best to copy the sounds he heard his father make all those years ago. Latin was always the language of academia, the one that required fluency, his mother's pride and joy. Irish was solely his father's; the language Milo heard stuffed into quiet corners of the household, hidden behind pillars or stuck in the grouted cracks of the marble. The phrases brief and far-between; no time dedicated towards its study the way he'd studied Latin.
That didn't mean he hadn't picked up some things.
Their ghosts have haunted him for long enough. He's gaining spectres of his own now; he doesn't need the years-old ball-and-chains in addition to the new weights on his soul. Something has to give.
It's been almost a decade. Let them go.
The candle burns silently in his hands for a moment longer before he sets it down on the altar. A second bow of his head, and he turns to leave. His footsteps echo on the cold tile, scrubbed freshly white from the tragedies it has so recently seen.
Milo Foss is not a religious man. But he is certainly one that remembers.
She was not a flower and never had been; it was not in her nature to bloom, to catch eyes, to be sought after. Ask she had goaded him in the secret common room, before the interrogations, but she’d been aware of what she was asking. The limits imposed by the presence of the others, the likelihood that caution would ultimately check his curiosity. But here, on the stone steps of the library, she was forced to admit that she couldn’t treat him like anyone else. She couldn’t shake his attention, but she couldn’t satisfy him either. Archer examined her limited options as he spoke, lifting her hands to press them against her cheeks, as if she could squeeze her flush away. Her fingernails were painted pale pink, dotted with little strawberries, a perfect match for the color that suffused her skin.
arc iii. connections archer + @cogitxre
milo foss. what would we be, without our ghosts? the opposite of a haunting is something very lonely.
then -
It would be easier, if you were like the rest. If you just let your head turn, your attention falter. But every time I make a move, there you are, watching. Should I stumble more? Or maybe less? What are you even looking for?
now -
You're the only one who always sees me. Who always asks the right questions. I should hate you for that, and instead...I think I understand, what Vincent saw in you.
( sources: pinterest, pinterest, pinterest, pinterest, pinterest, pinterest, sylvia plath, pinterest, pinterest, pinterest, pinterest, it will come back - hozier, pinterest )
the vintage silver mask, threaded through curls and tied with a navy ribbon, glints under the delicate light of the castle, reflecting a dull blue light off its surface. the cornflowers and cobalts of the waistcoat tie in to the rest of the outfit, dancing in a way that is the antithesis of the person wearing it. it is to be a night of glamour and disguise...you hope that this will be enough to hide in plain sight.
content warnings & mentions: mentions of blood, death, manipulation.
THE PRINCE @honeyedking, THE OBVIOUS @theobviousone, & THE TRAGEDY vincent burghardt.
The pieces are starting to click into place, edges of a puzzle finally slipping together to create an image he's been circulating for far too long. His steps back from the common room are brisk, hurried, at odds with the cold, immovable stature of his expression. He knows what back roads to take, how to stay as far as possible from the majority of the student body—he's been doing it for years. Practically training for this moment—he just never quite imagined this would be the context.
His own journal is clutched in a white-knuckle grip, leather groaning softly under the stress of his fingers. It thunks against his thigh as he jogs back to the studio apartments, winding his way back to his door as quickly as possible.
Once inside, the lock flipped, he tosses the journal to the bedspread, leaning over to grab a small stack of papers from the desk. Folding himself up cross-legged atop the covers, papers in front—for just a moment, he freezes; weight of his actions finally settling on his shoulders.
...is digging a good idea? When searching for secrets, you just might uncover answers—and some things are best left alone.
But if he wants to see the full image, the only strategy is to put the puzzle together, for he can only stare at the box lid so long. And so, slowly, he flips the cover of his journal open, back to the page he had scrawled minutes prior, crow-feather ink stark against bone-white paper.
The first three pages of the journal stick out in his mind. There had been a lot of information there alone, without even counting the rest of the book (or at least what remained legible). The hastily scribbled notes he'd taken stare back up at him; unblinking, unflinching, in a hand far too similar to the one he's spent the morning dissecting.
Determine the victor. A tailored experience.
So the truth finally comes out—it seems highly likely, if not confirmed, that the Trials are rigged. He supposes he can't be surprised. For a group to have this much control over everything going into the game, why would the Society leave anything else to chance? Still, it isn't his biggest concern—it isn't one of his top priorities. Depending on certain circumstances, it may not even be relevant. His gaze shifts instead to the other page: The Dealer.
...oh, Vincent. What did you do?
The Dealer may not intervene unless the integrity of the narrative collapses.
What determines collapse? What determines integrity, in a game centered around airing closeted skeletons and long-buried pasts. What integrity exists in tearing individuals down to build others up? And what can define the dysfunction of that?
What would a hypothetical intervention look like? A veiled threat? A more...physical form of communication? A combination of the two? Milo tries to ignore the presence of the whittling knife in his pocket. It isn't helping to keep his train of thought firmly on the rails. The patterns are spinning out of control, and all he can do is hold on for the ride.
The Dealer may not reveal themselves as such. (Otherwise, a new Dealer may be chosen?)
A question mark dots the end of the sentence, as if the Tragedy Prodigy was uncertain. But the handwriting isn't that of someone who is unsteady; it's firm, stable as ever.
Who is the only replacement in these games so far; the one who sticks out like a sore thumb. The one who hasn't participated in a single event thus far; the one who keeps tabs and stirs a pot of boiling trouble from afar. The pattern, continuing. Careful hands write in the margins of the notes: Ryosuke.
Milo's own words from the dining room in Italy come spiraling back to him then, from a somehow simpler time, ringed in a quiet morning light: Which would mean this had been planned for months. What if he knew because...he helped? The piece of paper, clenched in his paling hand, crunching in Nicolai's trembling grip. The option they had both dismissed.
...but it was also the theory that has been nagging at him the longest. The red thread on his endtable stares back at him, silently daring him to deny the facts. He cannot. He never can. Vincent knew that.
The red words still like a bloodied slash across his memory: I. WOLF GAME. The red web still strung behind his eyelids, connecting newspaper to photograph to damned clipping. All points converging on a line. The illegible word scratched out before his own personal role—because that's what they were, according to this ghost's notes: roles. Chosen, hand-picked, reworked to perfection. Vincent would never settle for less.
Why else would there be a replacement? The edges of the puzzle come together, snap into place: the man so many of them considered close had been the one to choose them at the start, to plan these specific encounters. Working closely with the Gamemaster, all to design a 'tailored experience'.
...so then why wasn't he still here? To spectate, to supervise, to...close the deal? What had gone wrong?
The Dealer may not reveal themselves as such. Otherwise, a new Dealer may be chosen.
Had he been planning to tell someone? Unlikely. Vincent wasn't the type to squander a chance such as this—who knows where it could have led? Up the ladder, most likely. Up was the only direction he had ever been interested in. Had someone discovered his secrets, his plans, schemes? Potentially. Had the Society felt him unable to handle the scenario? Surely nonsense—if Vincent couldn't be trusted to control the narrative, how could any of them be expected to wrest it from his cold fingers, twist it into a shape to call their own? (And yet, that was the goal. Turn fate into destiny; rewrite the future.)
And if Vincent wasn't in charge any longer—not that it seemed he ever was to begin with; the illusion of control was a thin veneer, even to a third-person point-of-view. The Tragedy had always clung to extensive pride. But if Vincent wasn't around to puppet the narrative any longer, why did it fall to Red, of all people? Why was he the Society's choice?
Just how much of Vincent's original plan still remained, and how much had already differed? How much would still change?
The guardrails were gone, discarded on the floor of the chapel on an early Sunday morning. The training wheels had long since snapped, a crimson smile splitting the spokes. All that remained was a chalk outline—with no one to enforce its stringent rules. They were off-road, hurtling inevitably towards a conclusion. There were no brakes, no pit stops—nothing. It was this until the end.
And if they weren't following Vincent's work any longer...was there still a predetermined winner? Or was the winners pot a soup once more?
He has more than he started with, and yet it still isn't enough to even begin to unravel the web surrounding this game. Somehow, he once again has more questions than answers, and not enough strings to tie the two together—plus a deficit of hands to hold said strings. And still, he is no closer to figuring out who killed the Tragedy?
It's a start, though. However little he wants to hear it. He still has a lot of questions—what did Vince want to tell him, why was he working with the Society, how long had he been doing so—but if they didn't take it one piece at a time, there was no way they would ever come to the conclusions they needed. So he sets them aside.
The Dealer goes into the journal, followed by a name: Vincent Burghardt. A moment's hesitation leads to an abrupt scratch, a bowed line, curving like the corners of a smile; a single alteration. Next to it goes a singular word: Red.
Missing. The morning following your "CONGREGATION", you wake and it is simply no longer where it should be. Did you misplace it (if we are being generous)? Has someone borrowed it, now that you’ve so carelessly abandoned it?
When you next step into the SECRET COMMON ROOM, you will notice the main desk cleared with intent. At its center, a LEATHERBOUND JOURNAL lies open, unmistakably placed. You sigh in relief, at first.
Page five greets you:
A SKETCH OF A HAND CAUGHT IN CHECKMATE.
══════════════════
You may now view the restored contents of THE TRAGEDY's journal.
he didn’t fall for you—he outmaneuvered you, clean and cruel, like a blade slipped between ribs. you should’ve walked away, but now it’s a fixation: you’ll find a way to break him, because some people don't bend, and that makes them worth shattering.
NOW / i've got my eye on you.
you can’t stop circling him, can’t stop sharpening yourself on the idea of his end—because if you can’t have him, maybe you can at least haunt him. obsession is just another way of staying close, isn't it?
BLUE. The dyed leather of illuminated, bound books, shelved in cavernous quiet of Blue Ivy's main library. The dark of the sky that settles around shared, late night scholarship. A pair of glasses. The old inkwell, the strokes of calligraphy. Plucked forget-me-nots. The drip of melted wax to seal secret letters. The blue flecks of familiar eyes, now grey. Gone.
THEN • Once, at the beginning, his presence may have offended him - an interloper in his sacred space with Vincent. But they've developed their own friendship, through insistent text messages on Nicolai's end and succinct replies from Milo. There is a quiet comfort there he cannot fully explain.
NOW • There is kinship in their shared desperation to learn the truth of the friend that was taken from them. But each new discovery is a daunting revelation that their sentimental hearts refuse to consider. Vince's image is seared into their memories - but it's all beginning to burn at the edges.
THEN
— Quiet friendship forged in study rooms at late hours of the night; you and the Prince are an unlikely match. To others, he may look like an easy replacement for your late friend—to you, he's an intellect you would be unwise to ignore.
NOW
— One of the only close bonds that you trust implicitly outside of the Lamb—though is that really the smartest decision? The counterargument is staggering, and you would be a fool to turn a blind eye. Even so, you manage to ground each other, yanking the other from the clouds when they spiral too high to come down. What is he to you? And what has he done? Do you care?
THEN
— Completely unknown to each other at the start of this event, the threads between you and the Geist pulled taut from the start. Accusations in public, yet quietly curious behind closed doors. You quickly learned not to underestimate each other; even to hold a begrudging respect.
NOW
— Friends, enemies, lovers, rivals, or something dangerously in between? You're past the point of putting a label on it, instead choosing to lurk in the shadows between definition. Perhaps this way is safer. Perhaps this way, it won't become a weapon for external forces to wield. Perhaps this way, the only ones that can hurt you are yourselves.
THEN
— An academic rivalry spun wildly out of proportion, you and the Insatiable have been tugging that rope of war for quite a while now. Nothing faltered when you were pitted against each other, though perhaps it convinced you to take a closer look.
NOW
— That wary eye softens slightly when run through the lens of your experiences. The land still shifts under both your feet, but is it pulling together or pushing apart? You continue to harass and probe in the public eye, but in private, there's a cautious inclination, like a scientist lifting a cage door. Will your hesitance be rewarded? Or will you lose an eye in the process?
"I hope you at least try to figure it out. I'd hate to get there on my own."
"Challenge accepted, Archer Drake."
come a little closer by cage the elephant // pinterest // pinterest // pinterest // pinterest // ashley moore as archer drake // we all crucifix ourselves in our own ways // unteachable, leah raeder // on earth we're briefly gorgeous, ocean vuong // liam samuels as milo foss // pinterest // excerpt from a book i'll never write // pinterest // pinterest // pinterest // from dusk till dawn [2014-2016] // it will come back by hozier // pinterest // off balance by victor ray // pinterest // what love can heartbreak allow by ben caplan // 花樣年華 in the mood for love [2000] // pinterest
