For as long as anyone can remember, this shop has been standing on a little street named Jasper Row. It's the smallest storefront, barely lit at night, and more is known about its purpose than its proprietor, one Mssr. Triton DeMasque.
It is, you see, a doll shop. People come to it looking for automatons or porcelain dolls, or asking for a quick fix. No one in the last century has spoken with Mssr. DeMasque, however, and most people are content with the answer they get from the girl working the front desk: He's dead, she says shortly, has been for a hundred years.
You walk in. The bell over the door rings. What brings you here?
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Important Stuff:
1. Keep it clean, please. A little cursing is tolerable, but anything over "hell" and "damn" is out.
2. Don't go controlling someone else's character unless they give you permission.
3. This setting is capable of existing at any time in any world (it's a quirk in the system, so to speak), so feel free to have your wacky, non-modern characters drop in!
4. Have fun, guys and dolls!
—
Nicolette
Another grey, dreary dawn. Another long day on Jasper Row. Nicolette sighed and leaned on the counter of DeMasque Dolls & Service; she hoped that the quick fix she had thought up for the continuum stabilizer in the back would work. It was annoying, zipping through spacetime like it was nothing. She just wanted to stay on Jasper Row for one full day.
As if on cue, a sharp grating sound came from the broom closet where she kept it. By the door to her shop, her golden retriever whined and covered her ears—Nicolette cursed under her breath and stood her ground. She would put up with the timesickness roiling in her gut and fix the thing later, when she didn't have business to attend to.
At least her customers walked out into their own time periods. Most of the time.
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