@ thespiderswalk
PLAYER
NAME: Erin
AGE: 20 (ohfu-- I’m old)
PERSONAL LJ: “nezbit”
EMAIL ADDRESS: pumpkin_queen130@yahoo.com (IT’S OLD. LIKE ME)
AIM SCREENAME: CupidsVictim2020
EXPERIENCE RPing: Hmm. Probably over five years now.
ARE YOU A RETURNING APPLICANT? IF SO, HOW MANY CHARACTERS DO YOU CURRENT PLAY?: Nope.
CHARACTER
NAME: Sherlock Holmes
CANON SOURCE: A blend of canon and the 2009 movie. I found it to be pretty faithful to canon, so I don’t think it’s much of a stretch.
TIMELINE: Post-movie, so roughly 1890, including the cases from A Study in Scarlet through the Adventures and some of the Memoirs.
CANON ABILITIES: As far as superpowers go, Sherlock Holmes is an entirely normal human being, but there is far more to him than that. He is a skilled chemist, and has extensive knowledge of poisons, dirt and its related forensic functions, and criminal history in all corners of the world. He is also an expert boxer and swordsman, and master of disguise and several forms of martial arts. He’s not a bad shot, either. All of this culminates in his knack for detective work and his unmatched skills of deduction. He is able to use the smallest bits of the environment to determine the truth of events around him, usually by reconstructing the events backwards in his head, as well as using a person’s mannerisms to determine what their immediate future actions will be. His mind is always on. Always. Oh, and he can speak French and play a pretty mean violin.
PERSONALITY: Well, with strengths like that, you better expect him to have more than one flimsy flaw. Oh, and that he does. Holmes can be a perfect gentleman, but only when he feels so inclined, which is usually when he needs data for a case. At this time he can be incredibly devious to get things to go his way, and be oozing with charm. Otherwise, his social skills aren’t the most graceful. Anywhere he lives reflects the generally full state of his brain; a cluttered mess of case information, weird science experiments, books, letters and the like. Oddly enough, one can’t quite call it disorganized, as he knows exactly where everything is (most of the time).
Holmes can also be quite the recluse, occasionally never leaving home for days-- even weeks-- on end if he has no case to occupy his mind. He loses all sense of those around him in these periods, as well as his sense of time. Sometimes he resorts to recreational drug use to stave off the boredom that threatens to consume him, as he believes morphine and cocaine keep his mind from stagnating, the greatest crime of all to him.
That leads to his ego, which is to say, Holmes is not the most humble man you’ll ever encounter. Though he’ll let police take credit for his brilliance, he is well aware of his genius and its absence in everyone else around him. Occasionally he’ll be showier than is necessary in order to impress those witnessing his methods of investigation, but fortunately, it doesn’t hinder his skills.
When Holmes is on a case, he is often compared to a bloodhound or a machine. Both are accurate comparisons, as once he enters a crime scene, there is very little that can distract his intense focus. This is what leads him to notice whatever the average person would more than likely miss. He is driven by a strong sense of justice, and to a lesser extent, loyalty to Queen and Country, though it’s never stopped him from taking the cases of foreigners.
CANON HISTORY: Little is known about the history of Sherlock Holmes before his friend and chronicler, Dr. John Watson, began recording it. The most that is known about his family is that he has a brother, Mycroft, who works in the British government, and we know that he was in his practice on Baker Street for a few years before Watson arrived, though without the circulation of stories about him, he was a relative unknown before the case that was published in A Study in Scarlet. This case led Holmes to unravel the mysterious poisoning death of one man and the later, connected stabbing death of another. From relatively nothing he was able to reveal that the two ex-freemasons were murdered by someone seeking vengeance for his lost fiancée after a tragedy involving the shady group in America.
Next, he and Watson hunted down a many times over stolen Indian treasure that belonged to a Mary Morstan through inheritance, which led to the discovery of another murder. A scaled rooftop and a high speed boat chase down the Thames later, Holmes and Watson put an end to the murderous New Guinea tribesman who was the true murderer and capture the brain of the plan. It was once this business was done that Watson became engaged to Mary, much to Holmes’ distaste. Marriage and love, after all, complicated one’s ability to rationalize.
Holmes’ reputation grew, and so did the range of his clients, from humble governesses to the king of Bohemia. The latter client led to his first encounter with the mysterious Irene Adler, who earned the distinction of being the only woman to ever outsmart him. Judging by the picture of her kept on his desk in the infamous Baker Street digs; she was also the only one to ever have a lasting impression on him.
It was quite clear to the British public who was solving their greatest mysteries at this point, even if credit was usually given to Scotland Yard detectives such as Inspector Lestrade. It was in no small part due Watson’s publishing, who had become Holmes’ closest associate and, though the great detective was poor in wording such things, his greatest friend. The two grew in contention with each other as the wedding plans progressed between Watson and Morstan, Holmes slowly revealing through his actions that his chagrin was at losing his companion, not simply a loss of a logical mind. This came to a head after the solution of the case of the Catacomb Killer who was terrorizing London, the perpetrator being Blackwood of the House of Lords. Watson told him it would be their last case together, but Holmes refused to accept this fact, especially once Blackwood supposedly rose from the grave after the good doctor had pronounced him deceased. The case was deepening, and Holmes knew Watson couldn’t resist such a challenge.
In the midst of this, Adler resurfaced, only complicating matters further with her muse-like charm and her sinister, anonymous employer. Holmes eventually uncovered a plot to overthrow Parliament and establish a New World Order with Blackwood and his organization at the head. They would use the smoke and mirror tactics they had been hypnotizing London with to emulate the supernatural and dominate through fear. As they had already overtaken the police and put out an order for Holmes’ arrest and nearly killed both Irene and Watson, Holmes’ intensity towards solving the mystery of Blackwood’s plot only increased.
The culmination occurred in the sewers beneath Parliament and atop the still in construction London Bridge. The chemical weapon found in the sewers was one of the many instances of the magic Holmes had known to be false all along, and after accidentally giving Blackwood a proper hanging above the Thames, the case was closed, and England was safe, if only for a moment. Before parting with Irene, Holmes acquired the name of her employer, Professor Moriarty, who in turn had stolen a crucial piece of the weapon.
He had finally come to terms with Watson’s marriage, successfully resisted Adler’s temptations, and had a new, infinitely complex case on his hands. For Holmes, the game was once more afoot.
HOW DIFFERENT DO YOU WANT THE MEMORIES TO BE FROM THEIR CANON? Holmes will still be a skilled detective, as it sort of gives him meaning in life, but none of the book cases will have happened (or most of them, but none in their original context), nor the Blackwood case. He’s never met an Irene Adler, never lived in the 19th century, and he’s moved to New York in search of more exciting cases on a lower profile than what he would have in London, where he has some repute. As far as he’s aware, he’s only been in the States for a few months with his fellow English roommate, Watson. Also I don’t think he’d be as keen on drugs that are illegal, so he’ll probably just “borrow” things from Watson’s medical case or go over the counter.
PLANS FOR YOUR CHARACTER: Holmes is definitely not going to be clueless for very long, especially not once he finds the book, which he will be very keen on finding the truth about. He’ll be open for business as far as his consulting detective business goes, while he’s an amateur boxer on the side when his caseload leaves something to be desired. His primary interest in his off time will be solving that tingling mystery that is teasing him from the back of his brain.
SAMPLES
LOG SAMPLE:
Roasted chestnuts, caramelized in attempt to boost sales. A whiff of Cuban cigars before the slamming of a car door. Wheels screech, refuse skitters in the breeze. The mafia elites have left, I can surmise, as they are the only audience members who were in the boxing arena tonight who could have possibly afforded Cubans, and considering my location in the West Bronx, the only ones who would have roasted chestnuts that are only found from a vendor on Fifth Avenue and Thirty Seventh Street. By the sound of the car engine, they are departing in a Studebaker Dictator, the newest eight cylinder model.
I finally step out into the streetlights after collecting my winnings for the evening, a simple enough fight. I reminisce momentarily about fighting the Irish back in London; true challengers are they who have been battered all their lives. Americans do not have such dogged resolve, at least not displayed in their fists. A cold breeze snaps me from my thoughts, stinging at the cut on my left cheek while my right eye is not yet swollen shut. The cool air is somewhat of a relief to that side. No matter to either wound, as I have sufficient methods of healing at home.
A dog barks from an apartment (I have adjusted to no longer knowing them as “flats”) across the street several levels above ground. A toy breed, I can tell by the pitch, though probably a mongrel. A woman is yelling in the same apartment, though the words are unintelligible from my standpoint. Music is playing another floor down, though by the sound quality it is a record with more than one scratch. I finally begin to walk towards the nearest underground (or subway, as they would have you refer to it here) station, taking my simple brier pipe from the pocket of my trousers. Luckily there is still a bit of tobacco within, and with a spare match from the same pocket, I light it, beginning to puff thoughtfully as the sights and sounds of the neighborhood assault me. I have discovered in my time here that there is little difference between the West Bronx and the East End of London aside from their opposite directions, as far as debauchery is concerned. I know that I will have to rebuff more than one woman for sale on my walk as I always do, followed by the string of moans from the alley of a beaten drunk, either mugged or ejected from whatever dive he normally resides in. By witness experience, I postulate both.
Other sounds buzz around me, a thousand things on the sidewalk do not escape my notice: Pockmarks on the side of a nearby building’s bricks, doubtlessly made by bullets, small caliber rounds. Cat carcass sticking out of nearby storm drain, decay indicating it has been dead for several days, as do the maggots writhing in its flesh beneath the flickering street lamp. A group of disposed cigarette butts by an apartment’s stoop, only one not having traces of cherry red lipstick. In all likelihood, a brothel. The sounds coming from it do not contradict me. I keep in mind the address; street women are excellent at acquiring information. However, I am nearly overcome by every facet of my environment. Minutiae are endless, and my mind seeks them all.
Focus, old boy.
Pipe smoke slips through my teeth as I finally exhale, returning to what others would foolishly label as a simple world. Simplicity can only be labeled as such once the complexities are understood, then all becomes simple. I am nearing the station; now is no time for meandering. My dearest puzzle awaits me in my quarters, bound in leather and splashed with ink. The underground swallows me. C’est la vie, the French would say. C’est la vie.
JOURNAL SAMPLE:
From what I can so far understand, this journal has been placed here for me to utilize. However, I only bothered to do so once I had inspected every bit of it. The leather smells fresh, while the ink on the back has a rather exotic aroma that I have yet to place--- all seems American made. Imports have been expensive these days, legally. Did the landlady place it here? It seems a ridiculous question; her handwriting possesses a far more ladylike looping, and she would have tried in vain to tidy my room to her own specifications. All is in place.
But what has driven me to write here, as I have a fair quantity of my own notebooks as it is, is the writing that keeps appearing. Again, unknown handwriting, many different styles, childlike, distressed, and proper, near illiterate scrawls, also different languages. A new, unheard of communication technology, perhaps? That is the immediate judgment to make, but it is an uninformed one.
It is as if it has been placed here in order to be solved. Well then. Challenge accepted.
If answers are present, they are welcome to reveal themselves to me. Though that hardly seems as entertaining.
NOTES: Ffff oh God, I hope this doesn’t suck. This is the last character I want to rape. Also, Ant referred me, if that gives her any sort of kudos.
NAME: Erin
AGE: 20 (ohfu-- I’m old)
PERSONAL LJ: “nezbit”
EMAIL ADDRESS: pumpkin_queen130@yahoo.com (IT’S OLD. LIKE ME)
AIM SCREENAME: CupidsVictim2020
EXPERIENCE RPing: Hmm. Probably over five years now.
ARE YOU A RETURNING APPLICANT? IF SO, HOW MANY CHARACTERS DO YOU CURRENT PLAY?: Nope.
CHARACTER
NAME: Sherlock Holmes
CANON SOURCE: A blend of canon and the 2009 movie. I found it to be pretty faithful to canon, so I don’t think it’s much of a stretch.
TIMELINE: Post-movie, so roughly 1890, including the cases from A Study in Scarlet through the Adventures and some of the Memoirs.
CANON ABILITIES: As far as superpowers go, Sherlock Holmes is an entirely normal human being, but there is far more to him than that. He is a skilled chemist, and has extensive knowledge of poisons, dirt and its related forensic functions, and criminal history in all corners of the world. He is also an expert boxer and swordsman, and master of disguise and several forms of martial arts. He’s not a bad shot, either. All of this culminates in his knack for detective work and his unmatched skills of deduction. He is able to use the smallest bits of the environment to determine the truth of events around him, usually by reconstructing the events backwards in his head, as well as using a person’s mannerisms to determine what their immediate future actions will be. His mind is always on. Always. Oh, and he can speak French and play a pretty mean violin.
PERSONALITY: Well, with strengths like that, you better expect him to have more than one flimsy flaw. Oh, and that he does. Holmes can be a perfect gentleman, but only when he feels so inclined, which is usually when he needs data for a case. At this time he can be incredibly devious to get things to go his way, and be oozing with charm. Otherwise, his social skills aren’t the most graceful. Anywhere he lives reflects the generally full state of his brain; a cluttered mess of case information, weird science experiments, books, letters and the like. Oddly enough, one can’t quite call it disorganized, as he knows exactly where everything is (most of the time).
Holmes can also be quite the recluse, occasionally never leaving home for days-- even weeks-- on end if he has no case to occupy his mind. He loses all sense of those around him in these periods, as well as his sense of time. Sometimes he resorts to recreational drug use to stave off the boredom that threatens to consume him, as he believes morphine and cocaine keep his mind from stagnating, the greatest crime of all to him.
That leads to his ego, which is to say, Holmes is not the most humble man you’ll ever encounter. Though he’ll let police take credit for his brilliance, he is well aware of his genius and its absence in everyone else around him. Occasionally he’ll be showier than is necessary in order to impress those witnessing his methods of investigation, but fortunately, it doesn’t hinder his skills.
When Holmes is on a case, he is often compared to a bloodhound or a machine. Both are accurate comparisons, as once he enters a crime scene, there is very little that can distract his intense focus. This is what leads him to notice whatever the average person would more than likely miss. He is driven by a strong sense of justice, and to a lesser extent, loyalty to Queen and Country, though it’s never stopped him from taking the cases of foreigners.
CANON HISTORY: Little is known about the history of Sherlock Holmes before his friend and chronicler, Dr. John Watson, began recording it. The most that is known about his family is that he has a brother, Mycroft, who works in the British government, and we know that he was in his practice on Baker Street for a few years before Watson arrived, though without the circulation of stories about him, he was a relative unknown before the case that was published in A Study in Scarlet. This case led Holmes to unravel the mysterious poisoning death of one man and the later, connected stabbing death of another. From relatively nothing he was able to reveal that the two ex-freemasons were murdered by someone seeking vengeance for his lost fiancée after a tragedy involving the shady group in America.
Next, he and Watson hunted down a many times over stolen Indian treasure that belonged to a Mary Morstan through inheritance, which led to the discovery of another murder. A scaled rooftop and a high speed boat chase down the Thames later, Holmes and Watson put an end to the murderous New Guinea tribesman who was the true murderer and capture the brain of the plan. It was once this business was done that Watson became engaged to Mary, much to Holmes’ distaste. Marriage and love, after all, complicated one’s ability to rationalize.
Holmes’ reputation grew, and so did the range of his clients, from humble governesses to the king of Bohemia. The latter client led to his first encounter with the mysterious Irene Adler, who earned the distinction of being the only woman to ever outsmart him. Judging by the picture of her kept on his desk in the infamous Baker Street digs; she was also the only one to ever have a lasting impression on him.
It was quite clear to the British public who was solving their greatest mysteries at this point, even if credit was usually given to Scotland Yard detectives such as Inspector Lestrade. It was in no small part due Watson’s publishing, who had become Holmes’ closest associate and, though the great detective was poor in wording such things, his greatest friend. The two grew in contention with each other as the wedding plans progressed between Watson and Morstan, Holmes slowly revealing through his actions that his chagrin was at losing his companion, not simply a loss of a logical mind. This came to a head after the solution of the case of the Catacomb Killer who was terrorizing London, the perpetrator being Blackwood of the House of Lords. Watson told him it would be their last case together, but Holmes refused to accept this fact, especially once Blackwood supposedly rose from the grave after the good doctor had pronounced him deceased. The case was deepening, and Holmes knew Watson couldn’t resist such a challenge.
In the midst of this, Adler resurfaced, only complicating matters further with her muse-like charm and her sinister, anonymous employer. Holmes eventually uncovered a plot to overthrow Parliament and establish a New World Order with Blackwood and his organization at the head. They would use the smoke and mirror tactics they had been hypnotizing London with to emulate the supernatural and dominate through fear. As they had already overtaken the police and put out an order for Holmes’ arrest and nearly killed both Irene and Watson, Holmes’ intensity towards solving the mystery of Blackwood’s plot only increased.
The culmination occurred in the sewers beneath Parliament and atop the still in construction London Bridge. The chemical weapon found in the sewers was one of the many instances of the magic Holmes had known to be false all along, and after accidentally giving Blackwood a proper hanging above the Thames, the case was closed, and England was safe, if only for a moment. Before parting with Irene, Holmes acquired the name of her employer, Professor Moriarty, who in turn had stolen a crucial piece of the weapon.
He had finally come to terms with Watson’s marriage, successfully resisted Adler’s temptations, and had a new, infinitely complex case on his hands. For Holmes, the game was once more afoot.
HOW DIFFERENT DO YOU WANT THE MEMORIES TO BE FROM THEIR CANON? Holmes will still be a skilled detective, as it sort of gives him meaning in life, but none of the book cases will have happened (or most of them, but none in their original context), nor the Blackwood case. He’s never met an Irene Adler, never lived in the 19th century, and he’s moved to New York in search of more exciting cases on a lower profile than what he would have in London, where he has some repute. As far as he’s aware, he’s only been in the States for a few months with his fellow English roommate, Watson. Also I don’t think he’d be as keen on drugs that are illegal, so he’ll probably just “borrow” things from Watson’s medical case or go over the counter.
PLANS FOR YOUR CHARACTER: Holmes is definitely not going to be clueless for very long, especially not once he finds the book, which he will be very keen on finding the truth about. He’ll be open for business as far as his consulting detective business goes, while he’s an amateur boxer on the side when his caseload leaves something to be desired. His primary interest in his off time will be solving that tingling mystery that is teasing him from the back of his brain.
SAMPLES
LOG SAMPLE:
Roasted chestnuts, caramelized in attempt to boost sales. A whiff of Cuban cigars before the slamming of a car door. Wheels screech, refuse skitters in the breeze. The mafia elites have left, I can surmise, as they are the only audience members who were in the boxing arena tonight who could have possibly afforded Cubans, and considering my location in the West Bronx, the only ones who would have roasted chestnuts that are only found from a vendor on Fifth Avenue and Thirty Seventh Street. By the sound of the car engine, they are departing in a Studebaker Dictator, the newest eight cylinder model.
I finally step out into the streetlights after collecting my winnings for the evening, a simple enough fight. I reminisce momentarily about fighting the Irish back in London; true challengers are they who have been battered all their lives. Americans do not have such dogged resolve, at least not displayed in their fists. A cold breeze snaps me from my thoughts, stinging at the cut on my left cheek while my right eye is not yet swollen shut. The cool air is somewhat of a relief to that side. No matter to either wound, as I have sufficient methods of healing at home.
A dog barks from an apartment (I have adjusted to no longer knowing them as “flats”) across the street several levels above ground. A toy breed, I can tell by the pitch, though probably a mongrel. A woman is yelling in the same apartment, though the words are unintelligible from my standpoint. Music is playing another floor down, though by the sound quality it is a record with more than one scratch. I finally begin to walk towards the nearest underground (or subway, as they would have you refer to it here) station, taking my simple brier pipe from the pocket of my trousers. Luckily there is still a bit of tobacco within, and with a spare match from the same pocket, I light it, beginning to puff thoughtfully as the sights and sounds of the neighborhood assault me. I have discovered in my time here that there is little difference between the West Bronx and the East End of London aside from their opposite directions, as far as debauchery is concerned. I know that I will have to rebuff more than one woman for sale on my walk as I always do, followed by the string of moans from the alley of a beaten drunk, either mugged or ejected from whatever dive he normally resides in. By witness experience, I postulate both.
Other sounds buzz around me, a thousand things on the sidewalk do not escape my notice: Pockmarks on the side of a nearby building’s bricks, doubtlessly made by bullets, small caliber rounds. Cat carcass sticking out of nearby storm drain, decay indicating it has been dead for several days, as do the maggots writhing in its flesh beneath the flickering street lamp. A group of disposed cigarette butts by an apartment’s stoop, only one not having traces of cherry red lipstick. In all likelihood, a brothel. The sounds coming from it do not contradict me. I keep in mind the address; street women are excellent at acquiring information. However, I am nearly overcome by every facet of my environment. Minutiae are endless, and my mind seeks them all.
Focus, old boy.
Pipe smoke slips through my teeth as I finally exhale, returning to what others would foolishly label as a simple world. Simplicity can only be labeled as such once the complexities are understood, then all becomes simple. I am nearing the station; now is no time for meandering. My dearest puzzle awaits me in my quarters, bound in leather and splashed with ink. The underground swallows me. C’est la vie, the French would say. C’est la vie.
JOURNAL SAMPLE:
From what I can so far understand, this journal has been placed here for me to utilize. However, I only bothered to do so once I had inspected every bit of it. The leather smells fresh, while the ink on the back has a rather exotic aroma that I have yet to place--- all seems American made. Imports have been expensive these days, legally. Did the landlady place it here? It seems a ridiculous question; her handwriting possesses a far more ladylike looping, and she would have tried in vain to tidy my room to her own specifications. All is in place.
But what has driven me to write here, as I have a fair quantity of my own notebooks as it is, is the writing that keeps appearing. Again, unknown handwriting, many different styles, childlike, distressed, and proper, near illiterate scrawls, also different languages. A new, unheard of communication technology, perhaps? That is the immediate judgment to make, but it is an uninformed one.
It is as if it has been placed here in order to be solved. Well then. Challenge accepted.
If answers are present, they are welcome to reveal themselves to me. Though that hardly seems as entertaining.
NOTES: Ffff oh God, I hope this doesn’t suck. This is the last character I want to rape. Also, Ant referred me, if that gives her any sort of kudos.