GraySkyl
New Member
Just a place for me to collect stuff I've written, so people who think about RPing with me have a place to see my writing style :-)
This day had been exhausting, as usual. Primrose Foxglove, a person about 1,70m tall, wearing a slightly scuffed padded vest and having some of this newfangled chewing gum in their mouth, left the editorial office of the “Redwick Post”-newspaper.
This day, as already mentioned, had been another bust. Primrose had such high hopes of being an investigative reporter, asking the hard-hitting questions. Reality, though, apparently had different plans. All of the other writers and reporters always threw around accusations of them being “too naïve” or “too trusting” and, worst of all, “too immature”. It’s not like Primrose was open to criticism, in fact, all she wanted to do was better.
Their colleagues, however, seemed to enjoy making them feel dumb by creating false leads and sending them on wild goose chases. That definitely wouldn’t make her a better journalist. It hadn’t even been a year, and they already were disillusioned with the life of a reporter; most days frustrated was all she was.
Those were the kind of thoughts that accompanied Primrose on their way home. Walking through the streets of this small town had been stimulating to their imagination, before they actually started working for this newspaper. She always thought about all the things she could find out and investigate as a journalist, whenever she took a stroll. Now, everything seemed so deeply disenchanted in a matter of speaking.
This day had definitely been their low point. Nothing to do but sit down in the dusty archive and sort old newspapers, day in and day out. It had been weeks, since she was allowed to actually do some reporting – and even then, it had been only three sentences about a travelling circus that would be coming to town. Not exactly riveting stuff. She seriously started to think about if it would even be worth it continuing this “career”; not that you could exactly call it that.
She had finally arrived at the door of the house where she lived. Just as they wanted to take out their keys, a small messenger boy came along and asked if their name was “Primrose Foxglove”. It was clear that this kid couldn’t read and had probably been muttering their name under his breath the whole way over. She nodded and the boy gave her a telegram. Primrose quickly took a few coins out of her pocket and let the kid take them. Before they could even ask, who it was from, the messenger was already heading down the street, running as fast as humanely possible, considering the short legs.
“Whatever”, Primrose thought and finally opened the door and entered the house. They had to climb quite a few stairs before arriving at their small flat. She let herself fall into a chair and took out the telegram.
They didn’t really expect for anything to come from this telegram, but they were way too curious, to just throw it away, even after the disappointing day they had.
“Unexplained murders in London –(STOP)- many have been killed –(STOP)- the constables don’t know what to do –(STOP)- the dead look dreadful”
Was this another one of her colleagues’ false leads? Another prank to ridicule them? Probably. Then again, would they take it so far as to send a telegram to her home? This could be a real chance to get the scoop on something big. Additionally, why would they lure them to London of all places.
Still, probably another hoax. In all likelyhood, it would be best to just burn the telegram and forget about it. Why endure another round of humiliation?
Yet, Primrose didn’t burn it, not even throw it away just to get rid of it. No, the telegram stayed not only in their home, but in the pocket of their vest. This decision, would mark the start of the adventure of her lifetime.
Prologue – A murderous telegram
This day had been exhausting, as usual. Primrose Foxglove, a person about 1,70m tall, wearing a slightly scuffed padded vest and having some of this newfangled chewing gum in their mouth, left the editorial office of the “Redwick Post”-newspaper.
This day, as already mentioned, had been another bust. Primrose had such high hopes of being an investigative reporter, asking the hard-hitting questions. Reality, though, apparently had different plans. All of the other writers and reporters always threw around accusations of them being “too naïve” or “too trusting” and, worst of all, “too immature”. It’s not like Primrose was open to criticism, in fact, all she wanted to do was better.
Their colleagues, however, seemed to enjoy making them feel dumb by creating false leads and sending them on wild goose chases. That definitely wouldn’t make her a better journalist. It hadn’t even been a year, and they already were disillusioned with the life of a reporter; most days frustrated was all she was.
Those were the kind of thoughts that accompanied Primrose on their way home. Walking through the streets of this small town had been stimulating to their imagination, before they actually started working for this newspaper. She always thought about all the things she could find out and investigate as a journalist, whenever she took a stroll. Now, everything seemed so deeply disenchanted in a matter of speaking.
This day had definitely been their low point. Nothing to do but sit down in the dusty archive and sort old newspapers, day in and day out. It had been weeks, since she was allowed to actually do some reporting – and even then, it had been only three sentences about a travelling circus that would be coming to town. Not exactly riveting stuff. She seriously started to think about if it would even be worth it continuing this “career”; not that you could exactly call it that.
She had finally arrived at the door of the house where she lived. Just as they wanted to take out their keys, a small messenger boy came along and asked if their name was “Primrose Foxglove”. It was clear that this kid couldn’t read and had probably been muttering their name under his breath the whole way over. She nodded and the boy gave her a telegram. Primrose quickly took a few coins out of her pocket and let the kid take them. Before they could even ask, who it was from, the messenger was already heading down the street, running as fast as humanely possible, considering the short legs.
“Whatever”, Primrose thought and finally opened the door and entered the house. They had to climb quite a few stairs before arriving at their small flat. She let herself fall into a chair and took out the telegram.
They didn’t really expect for anything to come from this telegram, but they were way too curious, to just throw it away, even after the disappointing day they had.
“Unexplained murders in London –(STOP)- many have been killed –(STOP)- the constables don’t know what to do –(STOP)- the dead look dreadful”
Was this another one of her colleagues’ false leads? Another prank to ridicule them? Probably. Then again, would they take it so far as to send a telegram to her home? This could be a real chance to get the scoop on something big. Additionally, why would they lure them to London of all places.
Still, probably another hoax. In all likelyhood, it would be best to just burn the telegram and forget about it. Why endure another round of humiliation?
Yet, Primrose didn’t burn it, not even throw it away just to get rid of it. No, the telegram stayed not only in their home, but in the pocket of their vest. This decision, would mark the start of the adventure of her lifetime.