Murder, She Wrote [IC]

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Kimberlyn, Aug 24, 2016.

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    Alexander Tate was a man of quiet dignity. He was rarely ever forceful in his words, and it would be rare to hear him raise his voice. Those who knew him intimately called him kind, considerate, and a man worth respect. Despite that, there was no mistaking the air of mystery surrounding the sudden success and wealth of the Tate family. With no sons to call his own, many worried his wealth would waste away after his death.

    Perhaps that is why he was murdered.

    Let it be known for certain. There are secrets lurking in the halls of Tate Manor. From the lowest scullery maid to Mistress Tate herself, everyone has something to hide. But one--just one--is guilty of murder.

    Be mindful of who you trust. They could just end up stabbing you in the back...literally.

    Adelaide Tate : twin daughter : @Mippu
    Annabelle Tate : twin daughter : @Boss Megu
    Silas Crowley : cook : @Yun Lee
    Thomas Williamson : butler : @Yang Lee
    Dawn Marie Laurel : parlour maid : @Starrnico
    Angelina Tate : Mistress Tate : @~Dark Disney~
    Vincent Rook : first footman : @The Classy Mog
    Louella Forge : house maid : @Zora18
    Clara Lyle : lady's maid/valet : @kuukakulily
    Georgina Smith : housekeeper : @kimsim12
    Carlton Nelson : undercoook : @kimsim12
    Jimmy Marius : head groundskeeper : @Ringmaster

    It is the morning after Master Tate was found murdered in his study. The weapon and exact time of death are unknown, and the raging blizzard keeps everyone inside and without outside contact. For now, the servants are expected to do their work and do it well.
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    Frigid, I sank a dry towel cloth into a soapy, steel bucket of cold water, and got on my knees to scrub with it. The smell of the floor seemed to induce a disgusted delirium within me, and the crimson color around me amplified in its intensity. I stepped back, to give my nose and eyes a rest, and regain some sense of sanity and equilibrium. No chance. The shaky dizziness continued, so I grabbed the edge of the desk for support. I stood there holding the edge of the desk for a while, breathing calmly. Once I gained control of my senses, I felt capable of processing my thoughts clearly again. Just the disbelief and shock still persisted. I still cannot believe that Master Tate is dead. They found him last night, slumped in a corner in this very study. The rest of the night was chaotic, as many suffered insomnia, such as I. A collective restlessness took hold of the manor. I took the duty of cleaning up the study this morning.
    I finally retract my hand from the edge of the desk, only to find it stained in blood. I wipe it frantically off my apron and get back to work. This place will be spotless. I scrub the edge of the desk, the sides of the desk, the lamp. I wipe the bookcases, and the spines of some books, their pages marked with blood. I ignore the smell, and in fact, relish in it. It feels like a form of intimacy with Master Tate, to be among his blood and among his books and letters. it feels like connecting with his inner vitality and mind. I observe his handwriting across several documents strewn on his desk. I only lament that I cannot read, but the documents are soaked in blood anyways, so it would be too much of an eyestrain in all cases.
    I mop the floor vigilantly, the handles of his armchair, the handle of the door. All evidence of the blood is gone. After clearing all the crimson, I snoop in his drawers a bit, out of curiosity about him. One of the drawers is jammed. I pull on it too hard, until it breaks, and buried in the back of it, I find a red knife.
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