you hear a knock at your door late at night, at a time that only you were home ( your roommate suspiciously out for the evening. ) in your bedroom for an extended period of time, you eventually move to your kitchen when your eyes see something on the kitchen counter… a glass vase filled with blood, a bouquet of daises beam up at you. you notice a note attached to the flowers, typed via type-writer. the following message reads: “regretting it yet? if not yet… you soon will. xoxo, the killer.”
tw: blood, themes of murder & death.
there was once a boy. perhaps not a boy like you or me, but a boy nonetheless. a boy whose smile grew dormant with time. a boy who’s insatiable thirst to know of the beyond excluded him from the sanctuary known as the now. a boy that looked up to the stars in times of desperation. a boy that had a heart, pulsating in his chest any time that he felt the promise of brushing fingers dance across his skin. that’s all the boy had ever wanted - not the wealth ordained to him, the knowledge he squirreled away as though on the precipice of an academic hibernation. no, that’s all he wanted; a reminder that he wasn’t alone.
his heart faltered as that reminder came in form of a vase, its crimson sheen adorned with the most innocent of flowers - and a pooled essence of someone else’s life.
nathaniel did not know where oz had found himself that night. the serendipitous unknown had been the integral hearth to the relationship the pair had fostered over the many years of their acquaintance, easily slipping together into one another’s lives without hovering precipitations of what could be considered the ‘norm’ in a friendship. predisposed to listening always to what the other had to say, the stoic man couldn’t help but be awash in a flood of malignant anxiety as his fingers grasped the end of the kitchen bend, his knuckles whitening as his eyes absorbed the horrific sight before him.
he’d been home all evening.
all alone.
in solitude, in isolation.
not a peep, not a sound.
the killer of daisey rutherford had breathed the same oxygen as nathaniel.
and he didn’t know.
what was that day known as the gossip blog wasn’t always of the same domain, nor branded with as malignant an intent. the blog once belonged to the girl, to daisey rutherford. privy to its existence in html alone, nate had never bothered to see what the page had contained. in fact, the academic hadn’t even seen the first message the killer sent shortly after the party where daisey was last witnessed. he lived in ignorance, and for once, not a willing ignorance, as the very foundation of that which he held dear began to crumble all around him. his knowledge of the poll in which people were to vote was something he hadn’t even fathomed the existence of, and it wasn’t until inquiries from some people who knew him reacted to his name being referenced in the most recent post to the blog. oh, he spent the entire afternoon drowning himself in the dialogue presented in that blog. combing each syllable, messing with flimsy assets that even the genius that was nathaniel struggled to understand, in the hopes of finding the hamartia that would underpin the killer who taunted not only nathaniel, but twenty nine others. twenty eight, when you consider the killer had admitted to being one of the recipients of said communication.
it didn’t feel real to nate. not the promise of death, nor the reaper with his name already inscribed in his touch. the academic couldn’t believe the audacity of a person to undermine nate’s intelligence, the only thing the man had ever had confidence in, and it had him rattled. shaken. nate couldn’t even bring himself to hold the note tied to one of the flowers for fear of amalgam with a killer’s touch. as his vision was drifting into a haze and his palms grew ever more coated in perspiration, nate struggled to intake breath as his eyes poured over the sight before him. it wasn’t even the threat that had him on the brink of collapsing to the floor, his body in a malaise state. no, it was the connotation. the meaning. the reality that he did not want to face.
this wasn’t about fear. this was about daisey rutherford.
to many, nathaniel maintained minimal contact. and although it was true, daisey was engaged to be wed with nate’s own brother. and as much as he despised his family, he couldn’t avoid the girl who sauntered around the manor with premonition of her future stake on the estate. and the truth was, daisey wasn’t like anyone else nathaniel had ever met. although insidious in her application, she was… intelligent. fiercely intelligent. a fire resided behind her eyes as she burned through any bridge that she did not want to travel on. the recognition that sparked in the caramel of her iris evoked a feeling in the academic that had never been placed before. despite being a villain to many, she gave nate so many things he’d never thought he had been without. but most importantly ? she saw his worth. she knew the price of the spindle that turned inside his head. and… she saw him. the boy that just wanted to not be so alone - he’d been seen. her spotlight had fallen onto him and then… her light. it had flickered out. flickered out. extinguished. gone. she was gone.
“take me !!” the academic roared, his entire being vibrating with the white hot amalgam of fear and loathing aching in his every syllable. “you have started a game you can never win, so take me while you have the fucking chance.”
he stopped. and with all his might, nathaniel screamed as his arms latched onto that godamn vase, his shaking fingers twisting knots across the glass as he threw it to the other end of the room.
the glass shattered as it was embraced what was once a plain white wall, a chandelier of glass temporarily lighting up the room as the prismatic shards of what was in essence an urn fell in tune with the erratic thrum of nathaniel’s heart. the blood smeared the walls and floor, the most primitive of paints spilling into scarlet apparitions, forever soaked into the walls. the ghost that would remain with him forever.
the academic struggled to breathe. his archaic phone buried underneath a pile of books in his bedroom, his entire constitution shaking within him as his feeble limbs tried to get their bearings his mind ordered of them. his mind hadn’t even contemplated thorough forensic testing, nor the cloth he would soon cradle in his hands as he endeavoured to clean the mess before his roommate got home. but… nate was afraid. not of the killer, not of the promise of death. no, nathaniel ballantyne feared the unknown. never getting an answer to his questions in knowing whether the boy would ever find what he’d spent his entire life looking for in the stars.
or… if the very thing his soul screamed for was already gone.
you hear a knock at your door late at night, at a time that only you were home ( your roommates suspiciously out for the evening. ) in your bedroom for an extended period of time, you eventually move to your kitchen when your eyes see something on the kitchen counter… a glass vase filled with blood, a bouquet of daises beam up at you. you notice a note attached to the flowers, typed via type-writer. the following message reads: “regretting it yet? if not yet… you soon will. xoxo, the killer.”
When the first message regarding the killer popped on her phone days prior, Cassidy hardly thought anything of it. She had lived in Ashmont long enough and met the people around town to not put this kind of pranking past people. Of course, it would have been extra fucked if someone was pranking, considering there was an actual dead person in the equation.There was something about the way the “killer” spoke in the initial message that felt like bluffing. Cassidy Turner was not going to fall victim to some sick joke.
Of course, everything shifted when the second message came through, containing a link. The list that the anonymous source had provided put an immediate pit in her stomach as she read it. It was all names she knew. Her friends, her family, and even acquaintances that she had shared a class or two over the years with. St E’s was a big school, so why were these thirty being targeted specifically? What did this person want? It suddenly felt a bit more real, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt that sat in her stomach, knowing that she could be the cause of someone’s biggest secrets being exposed. If it was real, that is.
As she read over the names, she couldn’t bring herself to pick anyone peson. In her mind, nobody deserved to be betrayed like that. She had spent years buliding trust with everyone that she met, and she’d be damned if she allowed that to all go away, even if this all turned out to be a big joke. She didn’t think that it would actually affect her in any way, and definitely not that of the people she loved most. Nobody was capable of that, right?
The knock on her door was something unexpected, especially at the hour. After a whirlwind of a week, Cassidy had opted to stay in bed as long as she could, just trying her best to process everything that had happened. It was a lot of time spent talking to her brother, trying her best to put on a happy face for her online content, and keep herself balanced, but it was tough. She couldn’t stay in bed forever. After some contemplation (and a rumble as her body’s way of screaming at her to actually eat something, she made her way to the kitchen, only to be stopped in her tracks immediately by the sight on her counter.
A vase.
Not one she owned, at that. No, this was a type of glass that was darker (at least, that’s all it seemed from a distance), filled with daisies. Her chest tightened, inching her way closer to the vase until she caught a glimpse of the card hanging carefully from the flowers. Brows furrowed and she stepped closer, slowly and taking her time until she reached the vase, carefully lifting it to examine the flowers, and then the note attached. Delicate fingers lifted to show the words on the card.
Regretting it yet? If not yet… you will soon. xoxo, the killer.
A pause. Silence so intense that she wasn’t even sure she was breathing. She felt herself leave her own body for a moment, out of pure fear, only to come back to earth at the sound of glass shattering. She had let the vase slip from her hands, contents now spread across the tile floor of the kitchen, staring back at her. Only then did she realize what was inside of the vase the entire time, and what was now all over her floor.
Blood.
Shit, fuck, fuck, shit. This was real. It was all real, no sick prank, no jokes. Someone had killed Daisey Rutherford, and this person was out to attack her and her peers. What had she done? Sure, maybe ignore what she thought was a prank, but what else? Cassidy and Daisey never had any bad blood. Once upon a time, they were the best of friends. Even after their friendship ended, they still remained civil, even sharing a kind glance between them. Now she was gone, and someone was out to get her for it.
The worst part of it all? She had tried so hard to keep people from getting hurt, to avoid guilt. Now she was faced with even more than before, because someone she knew and loved deeply was in danger. The feeling of guilt and sickness sat at the pit of her stomach, weighing her down more than ever before. Someone was in trouble, and it was all her fault. This is not how she wanted it to go.
you woke up feeling good, but that feeling doesn’t last long as you enter your bedroom and see it on your bed. an earring, pristine diamond and gold. the backing, and it’s pair, are long since gone. you know for a fact that you are looking at the earring of daisey rutherford. accompanying the earring is a note written with a typewriter, stating: “ if you throw me away, i’ll know about it. and trust me, you’d regret it. ): love always, cassidy turner.”
Fear. That’s a feeling you’re well acquainted with. It’s an intrinsic feeling, so you don’t quite remember the first time you met it, but you remember the first time the feeling began to stalk you. The first time you got hit by someone who was meant to love you, you remember tracing your fingers along the blossoms of red and pink that formed beneath your skin. You can recall when fear became a permanent fixture in your life, like a painting on the wall of your life. The first time your sister got sick. Really sick. The summer washing away from pine needle kissed paths, to clinical linoleum flooring and the steady beeping of machines. Even after she recovered, you could still feel a whisper of the fear that lives on in the pit of your stomach, thoughts resorting to when the baby fat had melted from her face from her sick, from wafer thin in your arms. Fear was temporary numbed for some time. By drugs, by alcohol, and by too much sex. At the time, you thought that you were truly living, fluttering from party to party, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Things felt alright even if you knew they weren’t. It was a bandaid for a battle wound, and none of it would last. One day grew up, learning to accept the fear, to accept reality. You learned to coexist with this emotion. It would creep back in, sometimes in crashing waves, making it hard for you keep your head above water as you slipped into the arms of a new lover, shrouded by secrets. This was a new fear. But at least you had her, to hold your hand through this. To talk to. You felt safe then… But now, now you’re fully fucked.
The earring lays at your desk, twinkling under the light of your lamp that had been flicked on almost as if to mock you. At first, you assume it’s your girlfriend’s. Discarded before a shower, or perhaps lost in the heat of the moment. It was lost during the heat of the moment, when Daisey Rutherford was being killed. The typed note lays beside it, illuminating you regarding it’s presence in your room. Evidence. This was fucking evidence, a piece of jewelry taken off of a fucking dead girl and placed in your room. Your breathe is dead in your throat, as dead as Daisey. You want to scream so fucking badly, but the sound is mute on your lips. All you can do is stare blankly down at the rock at your desk, tears welling up in your eyes. You were implicated, the girl you are set to married is implicated. A match truly made in heaven.
You know better than this. You should call the police. Explain to them that you, and twenty-nine others are being toyed with. Poked and prodded like animals in a cage. How bad could it be right? Wrong. Your secret tightens itself around your neck like a noose, reminding you of your place. Of how lucky you are to not have handcuffs around your wrists instead of that Rolex you got for Christmas. Your fortune that would run out as soon as you dialed those three numbers. Instead you accept your fate, tears still hot in your eyes, and hands sweaty and shaking. You exhume a box. An empty one… One that is meant to house an engagement ring, the ring already sitting upon a certain finger. You place the earring within the box, embraced by the black velvet. You wonder if this is symbolic of the lengths you were willing to go to to exonerate yourself from sins against this girl you thought you loved. You snap the box closed, a sob bubbling up at your throat as you toss the box in the desk drawer, under lock and key. You have to remember to breathe, feet finding themselves staggering to your bed as you finally collapse. You can’t help yourself. You allow yourself to be weak, curled up small and trembling as fear has its way with you as it always has. A long time companion. The tears drip down your face, pooling into pillow, cries muted against the fabric. You could have been there for hours. You’re not sure. You ignore the first call. Then the second. But by the third, you will yourself to sit up, glancing at the screen of your cell with red-rimmed eyes. It’s your best friend, wondering where you are. You sigh, pressing your lips together as you concoct a good enough lie, rehearsing it in your head a few times before you finally call back once your breath stabilizes, and voice clears.
“Jesus fucking Cripsy bro, what do you want? You calling me while I’m fuckin’ trying to sit here and keep up with the Kardashians, have some respect,”
Fear was strong, there was no doubt about that. But you, you can be strong too.
wow. ok first they are both gorgeous aesthetically. the skeletons at veritashq look amazing but most of the ones i’d be into are taken unfortunately but maybe i’ll keep an eye out in case more come out or any of them open up. ladderhqs also looks great, i wasn’t expecting a GoT RP but as soon as i saw the quote on the main *chef’s kiss* i love that quote. i’ll keep my eye on both - thanks anon!
you woke up feeling good, but that feeling doesn’t last long as you enter your bedroom and see it on your bed. a photograph, only of a forearm… with the number three carved into the flesh. you know for a fact that you are looking at the arm of daisey rutherford. accompanying the photograph is a note written with a typewriter, stating: “ if you throw me away, i’ll know about it. and trust me, you’d regret it. ): love always, julian bernard.”
for a long time, now, julian bernard’s name has been written across kiera kibler’s heart — the short, swift strokes of his familiar scrawl ( that hours upon hours of time spent together with heads bent over their respective homework assignments had made as easily recognizable to her as her own wide, curling penmanship ) etched there long before he even KNEW the extent of the hold that he had on her.
it’s not uncommon for kiki to find herself consumed by thoughts of him, but THIS — the frantic way her mind repeats his name in a chilling mantra that she cannot ignore or will away — is a FAR CRY from the tender way she used to allow herself to be lost in the thought of his smile, his laugh, his shoulder brushing against her own. those were the naive dreams of a girl who hadn’t the faintest idea what was on the horizon and, although the confession of her feelings for jules were still fresh enough on her lips to TASTE, she cannot shake the feeling that those dreams are being ripped from her trembling fists.
this fear — this reality that feels like it has been summoned from one of her most paralyzing nightmares and breathed life into — began the moment that the news of the discovery of daisey’s body first broke over ashmont and has only grown to overtake her all the MORE when she saw his name round out the list of those whose lives were now placed in a state of DANGER. the knowledge that this is a monster too big for even HER to try and protect him from only makes her stomach sink further every time it crosses her mind.
it all comes to a head when she walks into her bedroom and she sees IT.
there, on her bed, is a photograph. she cannot make out its contents from where she stands in the door, but something in her tells her that she should be afraid. very afraid.
every step forward that she takes makes her feel increasingly unsteady on her feet and, by the time she finally makes it close enough to see what’s been left for her, there’s no strength left in her to carry the weight of everything that’s been thrust upon her shoulders.
it’s an arm, she realizes quickly. the photograph is of an arm — the arm of DAISEY RUTHERFORD, recognizable despite the fact that the ugly, jagged THREE hadn’t been carved into her porcelain skin the last time that kiki had seen her.
and — it’s not POSSIBLE. there’s nobody home. she had been the last one to leave that morning and she’d locked the door. she knew because she had checked, double-checked, triple-checked. it had been locked when she’d returned, only moments ago. she had heard the click of the bolt unlatching as she’d twisted the key. how had it gotten there? how had the person who had delivered it gotten in?
her stomach lurches at the thought that her room — the only safe-haven she had left in a world where it seemed like everything she loved was being stolen away from her — was no longer CLEAN. it was tarnished, vandalized by the very person who was digging their claws into every other part of her life.
it’s too much — it’s all TOO MUCH.
her arm shoots out in search of something to steady herself, to hold herself up, but her hand finds only empty air and she is powerless to the way that her knees buckle and she crumples to the ground. for a moment, her vision goes BLACK and she cannot keep herself from wondering if this is how daisey felt in the last moments of her life — slipping, falling, surrounded by nothing but a cold, silent EMPTINESS.
she remains fixed in the place where she fell to the floor for a moment, even after her sight returned. it takes her a moment to, somehow, gather the strength to pull herself back up and continue towards the photograph lying, waiting for her. her fingers are trembling so VIOLENTLY as she reaches out for it that she’s surprised she even managed to get a hold on it, at all.
and, then, she turns it over and the contents of her veins turn to ICE.
there’s a note — a note signed by JULIAN, though the dark, angry stamped letters bear no resemblance to any writing julian’s own hand might have produced — and kiki thinks she might be SICK.
she thinks about the text that she’d received from sutton — THERE’S THESE RUMORS GOING AROUND ABOUT BLOOD BOUQUETS. she’d brushed it off, then, stupidly believing that if a blood bouquet had appeared in jules’s home that he SURELY would have told her. but, now, with her own eyes transfixed over the promise of REGRET followed so closely by his name, she’s not so certain. she cannot even begin to fathom telling him about this, not as she begins to process that this is the direct consequence of his actions that daisey’s killer had promised — an attack on someone they LOVED as retaliation for not playing their game.
only, julian HAD played. he voted in the poll, he had told her that himself.
she feels like she’s DROWNING as she tries to make sense of what’s happening, but the only thought that makes itself heard inside of her mind is that this might be her only chance at protecting him. if she is the one who takes the fall, the one who she bears the brunt of this punishment intended for him, to keep him SAFE, then so be it.
her hands are steady as she folds the photograph and the note, alike, and tucks them into one of the textbooks that rests on her bookshelf. she allows herself a moment to gaze at the page she had opened to — CHAPTER THREE, THE CLASSICAL SCHOOL OF CRIMINOLOGICAL THOUGHT — and an empty, strangled sounding laugh somehow falls past her lips. she knows classical theory by heart, sixteen pages deep into a thesis she’s writing about it. only, now, she thinks it’s BULLSHIT.
crime is a choice and that choice must be a selfish one? no. sometimes crime — crime like harboring a piece of evidence in an active murder investigation in attempt to protect someone you love — is SELFLESS.
she closes the book, slides it back into its place on the shelf, and turns away as though she’d never picked it up in the first place.
hiya mars !! wondering if we could have an opinion ? (~: thank you so much. <3
lilAC FSJKLDSFDJLK. suRE Y’ALL. would definitely recommend this lovely place! graphics are fucking beautiful, luv the plot, big phat fan of Daisey ( rip girl... ) man, it wouldn’t be enough for me to JOIN but i’d even admIN HMMMM.. SUPER recc lmao.
hiya lara !! would it be okay if we had a shoutout ? thank you so much. x - veritashq is a new semi-appless & literate college rp that follows the harrowing disappearance and subsequent murder of head cheerleader daisey rutherford. what’s frightening is not only the fact you could be next… but that the killer is there, right by your side on the grounds of the prestigious st etienne university. that is, if the killer isn’t you.
If you’re looking for a college roleplay that delves in intrigue and murder, then you’re in for a treat! Go check this group out!
hiya zahra !! would it be okay if we had a shoutout ? thank you so much. x - veritashq is a new semi-appless & literate college rp that follows the harrowing disappearance and subsequent murder of head cheerleader daisey rutherford. what’s frightening is not only the fact you could be next… but that the killer is there, right by your side on the grounds of the prestigious st etienne university. that is, if the killer isn’t you.
