They say the sea knows your secrets.
That if you lie as you cross it, the water will reach up and pull you under.
That if you cry, it sings back.
That the ship never docks for the ones who want to be saved.
But there’s more—older whispers, passed from dockhand to lighthouse keeper, from sailor to sailor’s child.
They speak of things beneath the water. Not fish. Not whales.
Watchers.
Monsters who linger just below the surface, waiting for children who cry “Save me.”
They don’t attack the strong or the cruel or the numb.
They only want the soft-hearted ones—the ones who still hope for rescue.
The sea tests you. And if you fail, you never reach the island at all.
Of course, that’s just rumor.
Then again, everything about Crista’s Institute for Unruly Youth is rumor.
The school has no records. No website. No phone number.
Just a name, and a letter, and a promise: free boarding and elite education for those who need it most.
No one ever applies. The invitations arrive unprompted—always printed on thick, cream paper, always sealed in dark wax, and always for the parents of children who are just a little too much for the world to hold.
And once the child accepts, there’s no going back.
The ferry arrives at night. Always foggy. Always quiet. No captain. No crew.
Just a boat.
And a choice.
The school itself rests on a jagged island, said to be a forgotten British territory, though no one can name it. Old students claim it’s built from black stone that hums if you touch it. The hallways are cold. The dormitory mirrors never reflect quite right. The library moves when you're not looking. The teachers never blink at the same time.
But again—just rumors.
And rumors are all you’ll have to go on.
Some students swear they saw Madame Crista once, though no two descriptions match. Some say she’s a ghost. Others say she’s something older. Older than the island. Older than the sea.
One popular theory is that she drowned years ago, and the school is just finishing what she started.
What is known—what even the staff quietly confirm—is that students are grouped into six per dorm. That everyone takes the same courses. That everyone keeps to their schedules. And that no one breaks the rules twice.
Discipline is the school’s cornerstone.
And detention?
Well. No one ever talks about detention.
They just say that the ones who go in don’t always come out the same.
Or at all.
Statistically, only one in four children sent to the island ever returns home.
Some are pulled out by desperate families. Some are confirmed dead.
And the rest?
No one knows.
They vanish.
Just like Madame Crista.
But maybe it’s all nonsense.
A swirl of campfire stories and hallway whispers.
An elaborate myth built by bored teenagers and half-remembered nightmares.
After all, the brochure says it’s safe.
The teachers are polite.
The uniforms are pressed.
The library is vast.
And it’s all completely free.
Welcome to Crista’s.
The bell rings at dawn.
Try not to listen too closely to the walls—they lie.
Or worse:
They don’t.
That if you lie as you cross it, the water will reach up and pull you under.
That if you cry, it sings back.
That the ship never docks for the ones who want to be saved.
But there’s more—older whispers, passed from dockhand to lighthouse keeper, from sailor to sailor’s child.
They speak of things beneath the water. Not fish. Not whales.
Watchers.
Monsters who linger just below the surface, waiting for children who cry “Save me.”
They don’t attack the strong or the cruel or the numb.
They only want the soft-hearted ones—the ones who still hope for rescue.
The sea tests you. And if you fail, you never reach the island at all.
Of course, that’s just rumor.
Then again, everything about Crista’s Institute for Unruly Youth is rumor.
The school has no records. No website. No phone number.
Just a name, and a letter, and a promise: free boarding and elite education for those who need it most.
No one ever applies. The invitations arrive unprompted—always printed on thick, cream paper, always sealed in dark wax, and always for the parents of children who are just a little too much for the world to hold.
And once the child accepts, there’s no going back.
The ferry arrives at night. Always foggy. Always quiet. No captain. No crew.
Just a boat.
And a choice.
The school itself rests on a jagged island, said to be a forgotten British territory, though no one can name it. Old students claim it’s built from black stone that hums if you touch it. The hallways are cold. The dormitory mirrors never reflect quite right. The library moves when you're not looking. The teachers never blink at the same time.
But again—just rumors.
And rumors are all you’ll have to go on.
Some students swear they saw Madame Crista once, though no two descriptions match. Some say she’s a ghost. Others say she’s something older. Older than the island. Older than the sea.
One popular theory is that she drowned years ago, and the school is just finishing what she started.
What is known—what even the staff quietly confirm—is that students are grouped into six per dorm. That everyone takes the same courses. That everyone keeps to their schedules. And that no one breaks the rules twice.
Discipline is the school’s cornerstone.
And detention?
Well. No one ever talks about detention.
They just say that the ones who go in don’t always come out the same.
Or at all.
Statistically, only one in four children sent to the island ever returns home.
Some are pulled out by desperate families. Some are confirmed dead.
And the rest?
No one knows.
They vanish.
Just like Madame Crista.
But maybe it’s all nonsense.
A swirl of campfire stories and hallway whispers.
An elaborate myth built by bored teenagers and half-remembered nightmares.
After all, the brochure says it’s safe.
The teachers are polite.
The uniforms are pressed.
The library is vast.
And it’s all completely free.
Welcome to Crista’s.
The bell rings at dawn.
Try not to listen too closely to the walls—they lie.
Or worse:
They don’t.
Spoiler
Just a couple little things:
This storybook is a bit darker, so if you're not comfortable with that then I wouldn't recommend this storybook.
Since its a smaller group, most posts will be collaborations.
Whatever thing the kid did to get sent here can't be too crazy. It can be complex, or unique, but nothing super serious.
Your character must be from the age of 12-18. Since this roleplay is darker I'd prefer not having a child any younger than that.
This RP is more character led. Depending on what the characters do they could reach the good ending. Or the bad one.
If you have any ideas for plot or something please dm me about them ^w^ (More info is in the OOc)
This storybook is a bit darker, so if you're not comfortable with that then I wouldn't recommend this storybook.
Since its a smaller group, most posts will be collaborations.
Whatever thing the kid did to get sent here can't be too crazy. It can be complex, or unique, but nothing super serious.
Your character must be from the age of 12-18. Since this roleplay is darker I'd prefer not having a child any younger than that.
This RP is more character led. Depending on what the characters do they could reach the good ending. Or the bad one.
If you have any ideas for plot or something please dm me about them ^w^ (More info is in the OOc)
Spoiler
- Code: Select all
Name:
Age: (12-18)
Gender:
Personality:
Appearance:
Home life:
Home country:
What sent them here:
Other:
Student one: Crown Trudid (@Glitch0Ghost2024)
Student two: Sammy Trudid (@Glitch0Ghost2024)
Student three: Hendrick Mascarti (@Glitch0Ghost2024)
Student four: (@avimoon)
Student five: (@pixels)
Student six: (@Plume)
