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{SWP 9} The Wizard and the Wren
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February 19th, 1890 — Dempsey Estate near Galway, Ireland

This artifact nonsense...it presented as a mystery from the moment you first heard of it, a seductive one. Though your normal habit is to wander, you allowed your curiosity to get the better of you, to keep you in the country—at least for now.

It was an old school chum (a rather indiscreet one) at St Mungo's who revealed to you the case of Miss Porphyria Dempsey: an eccentric spinster who, after coming into contact with a comb later discovered to be Pictish in origin, was transfigured into a talking wren. None of the healers at the hospital had been able to put her to rights and, nearly a week later, she had since returned home. 

Though you've heard many rumours since the artifacts first started causing a ruckus, this proved to be the first concrete
example you've had—too tempting to pass up.

And so you stand now at the threshold of the Dempsey estate, toying with your options. You know a strange man asking to speak to the transfigured lady of the house is unlikely to get particularly far.


WHAT DO YOU DO?
a. Knock on the front door like any decent fellow would.
b. Sneak in through the servants' entrance.
c. Sit out on the lawn and hope she comes to you.

— @Arven Fisk


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Mid-thread crisis getting you down?
Unable to get that post up?
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SUFFER NO MORE!
With a little intervention from @The Suggestionizer your RP life could be back on track in no time!

--> Click here for more details <--

Known side-effects include: chronic ridiculousness, immense satisfaction, itching, uncontrollable laughter, burning, deep regret, despair, shock, horror, incidental dismemberment, joy, and death. Use at your own risk!
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Arven Fisk dusted down his greatcoat with some dim regret that he hadn't thought to dress with proprietary for this albeit peculiar occasion. He was quite as he appeared — a windswept adventurer with an eye for the unknown... but not so much for fashion.

It was for this reason among others that Arven hesitated before knocking on the door; he looked an intimidating sort, but was not about to force himself past a perturbed doorman, and he was far too unseemly to be invited in out of sheer courtesy. And so he decided to roam around the outside of the handsome Dempsey house before doing anything else, hands in his pockets, heading gradually towards the servant's entrance as if that were his intention — but also keeping a sharp eye out on every window he passed, hoping he might catch sight of a perching wren...
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To be honest, being a bird isn't the worst thing every—especially given that you can still talk. It brings with it a sense of freedom that you relish (though it does put you at risk of mauling by the estate's felines).

You're perched in a fir tree, still getting used to your new body, when you see him: someone who doesn't belong.


WHAT DO YOU DO?
a. Address the stranger
b. Observe the stranger
c. Defecate on the stranger

— @Porphyria Dempsey
[-] The following 1 user Likes The Suggestionizer's post:
   Porphyria Dempsey


Are your characters stuck in the smalltalk loop?
Does your imagination feel like it just can't perform as it used to?
Mid-thread crisis getting you down?
Unable to get that post up?
Is your relationship suffering because of your inability to satisfy your partner?
SUFFER NO MORE!
With a little intervention from @The Suggestionizer your RP life could be back on track in no time!

--> Click here for more details <--

Known side-effects include: chronic ridiculousness, immense satisfaction, itching, uncontrollable laughter, burning, deep regret, despair, shock, horror, incidental dismemberment, joy, and death. Use at your own risk!
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She had had to give up her room to her raven, in case the bloody thing ate her. Don Juan had delighted in pretending not to recognise her, either, so she had been dropping worms in his bed for the past few days. When she managed to catch them.

Better to be outdoors, then, and stretch her wings. Porphyria had never truly considered putting in the work to become an animagus - seemed like a lot of show for nothing - but one errant comb had done it all for her in one fell swoop, and here she was, a talking wren.

She’d have been better pleased if it were a hawk or a falcon or some other bird of prey, and not the tiniest, daintiest, stupidest bird in the lot. Her tail pricked up to hear someone pacing through the grass, skirting a little too close to the house to not seem suspicious. Well, she might be a wren, but she could certainly be her own deterrent -

Porphyria hopped to the next branch along to get a better angle from which to give the trespasser a particularly nasty greeting... but, in the process of alighting and landing, she realised that the blond was a man she’d met once before - and hadn’t loathed on sight! Mr. Fisk, wasn’t he? As such, shitting on him perhaps wasn’t the grand idea she’d thought it would be. (It might take some explaining later.)

That sudden change of heart did not serve her well, practically, however, as Porphyria bungled the landing and her frail wren-feet (not talons by any blasted measure!) missed the branch. Instead, she lost her balance backwards and, unable to right herself in the midst of the fir tree, she went tumbling down, bouncing from bough to bough and hitting the ground with a soft, stupid flump. “Looking for something, are you?” She piped up to get his attention if that had not done it alone, grumbling in tone and quite mortified by that show of magnificence.




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