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THE STORY

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    • NEW YORK
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    • FANYA NIASA - VEIL ALLIANCE
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APPROVED HISTORY


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Role Play Sample

Found 7 results

  1. About time I put this up!

    Heyo! Back after a roughly 2-year hiatus! I now have two characters: Abernathy Wynn - a detective who specializes with violent crimes and is now getting involved with special cases. She currently works in the Central Park precinct, and has a younger sister who is also a lycanthrope. She is your goody-two shoes. Doesn’t discriminate, and believes in doing better for the present world. Angelina Vitale - a former professional kickboxer and personal trainer, she now frequents Bakkhos nightclub as a “hidden” bouncer - meaning she blends in effortlessly with the crowd, ready to subdue any problems at a moment’s notice. She is a little less goody two shows than my detective, not so much a bleeding heart. She is, after all, a part of the biggest crime syndicate in the world. These two are open to various Plots - establishing any sort of history is welcomed. It would be great for Abby to meet diverse groups, being that she is only human. As for Angelina, of course writing with other Bakkhos members are much needed!
  2. Heading Upstate

    February 8th, 2020 12:30pm Thyrsus Irritated. This was the best mood that anyone could hope from Tom today. Tonight, the beast came out and the next and the next. During this time, most knew to stay out of his way. He had seen to some last-minute preparations for the weekend and was going over a final checklist with Roderick before he departed Upstate. “Shipment arrives this afternoon. I’ll return Tuesday.” Tom spat the words out angrily…like it was offensive for him to have to say these things. He wasn’t trying to be rude, and Roderick knew it. Tom was so grateful to have someone like Roderick to run things while he was gone. He was unable to demonstrate his gratitude properly now, but Roderick understood. Without another word, Tom stepped into his car and started driving north. He was driving toward a cabin in the woods he had that was about 4 hours or so due-north of New York City. A few of the Bakkhos knew that Tom had a place, but none knew where it was precisely. They were content with letting Tom do his monthly thing and come back to business. Any time that he was required to stay in the city rarely went well. Stepping into the cell was a very hard thing for him to do…and it was getting more and more difficult to do so each time. He avoided it whenever possible. Tom pulled up to the cabin. It was a non-descript plain cabin in the woods. It was slightly more modern with drywall and some other typical house-appropriate furnishings. Other than that, it was a bare-minimum shelter. There was no running water. The electricity was provided by a generator that was only ran to keep the refrigerator running. There were two cots set up in opposite corners of the single room. One looked barely used…this was his, as he only slept here a few nights a month. The other cot was much more worn. This cot belonged to his father, Frank Gallo. The Nevus event awakened the dormant lycanthrope virus in both Frank and Tom…to much different results. While the virus manifested in Tom in extreme potency in all respects…the physical strengths, weaknesses, rage…in Frank it manifested a bit differently. He was a wolf as well, however his mind was ill-equipped to cope with the change. It sent him to the edge of insanity and left him there. Frank is lucid and relatively normal…so long as he doesn’t interact with anyone other than Tom. Anytime he encounters another human, his fight-or-flight response is triggered and he panics and runs away…or panics and attacks with a feral-ferocity. Tom created this residence for Frank to be able to stay remote and hidden, but close enough to keep an eye on. Frank tried to visit him one other time a month besides the change, however his duties often precluded him from doing so. This cabin was Frank’s prison and refuge. He could never return to the city. His anthropophobia prevented even the most casual of human interaction with those that weren’t Tom. “Good to see you, son.” Frank had walked in the back door, with an arm load of wood. He looked grizzled and barely sane. He set the wood down and walked over to hug Tom. Tom could feel the anguish in this hug. His poor father was lonely…but he was alive. And the next three nights he would be the most alive he’d be for the next month. Hunting together as wolves, ironically enough, was just enough to keep him on this side of sane. For now, at least.
  3. Building a Mystery

    January 19th, 2020 6:30pm Thyrsus Dark lashes were narrow as small hands flipped elegantly through the financial report. Legs crossed demurely in her pale gray silk crepe business suit, vintage Vince Camuto Naveena heel bobbing quietly up and down in the back of the sleek S 350. Opalescent russet irises glanced up and out of the tinted window, resting her forehead on her fingers. This rebuild was costing a fortune. She really didn’t give a shit, truly. Her resources were substantial. The price of her people could not be measured in dollars and cents, but if someone was rebuilding her facility she sure as hell would have been at the forefront. This man was either a dick that didn’t give two shits, or lazy enough to make someone else take care of it for him. Ahanu seemed to speak well of the liaison at least, Roderick, which would probably be the first fragile ego she would shatter within moments of stepping out of the vehicle. Maybe her assistant had a hard-on for the guy, maybe he was just doing his job well enough that his boss felt he didn't need to be involved. With the exception of her own people, and that big ass moose brother of hers from L.A., not one person on this planet made her cock a brow in appreciation. Not even Ausar. Old fart. An absent Bakkhos boss trusting everything to an 'underling'? There was a reason she didn’t deal with Bakkhos. They spent to much time stroking their egos in the mirror. This trip was going to be as pleasant as drinking broken glass in shitty bourbon. They annoyed her, more than the general population annoyed her. She was a faceless enterprise that slid easily through 'their' world, and she was content watching from a distance. There were no Sheut that she was aware of in their folds, so they were only something to be watched and not interfered with. Her own actions had given her a reason to interact. It would either be a smooth relationship, where she could in no uncertain terms tell them to fuck off in their encroaching "possession" of her airfield compound, or she could make it worse. She'd been watching the dogs try to piss on her fence. Ahanu had been given the OK to shoot them the next time she saw them sniffing around. The car slid to a stop, report set on the seat as the door opened. It was deep into dusk, the buildings' shadows helped, but the sky was still light enough to annoy her eyes. Sunglasses slid on, she smoothed her effortless updo and the tiny vampire volcano stepped out. “Wait in the car, take a nap,” a smile quirked one side of her lip, purposeful steps toward the suave liquor store. Sunglasses slid off and into her inner pocket. Hm. They really weren’t doing a bad job. Last time she saw it she was ripping it apart to the smell of burning buildings and crushed glass mixed with booze, gas and radiator fluid. Door opened, hands rested casually in her suitpant pockets as she perused the aisles briefly. Satisfied, she approached what she could assume was the front counter. “Your big boss please. If you bring me Roderick I’ll send you back for his boss. I’ll wait,” terse expression paused, then a taught smile flicked up the corners of her lips only to disappear as she went back to browsing. She really didn't want to go to their 'headquarters' to drag people from their comfort zones, but she would if she had to. That would definitely expedite a business relationship of some kind.
  4. Nevermore

    September 4, 2019 11pm Bakkhos Club, to some shithole stripper dive Lights. They trailed against the blackness beyond even after spotted, the iridescent feathers caught in an intricate dance of irrevocable grace. Lithe muscles simply moved beyond a normal physique, beauty of a master ballerina twirled with the weightlessness of elegance in aerial flight. Bi-colored locks extended their curls with speed, relaxing at the gentle rallentando of motion to a cascade of spirals. The pause, hang time of complete silent nothingness before a crowded audience began a slow clap to build a heavy thunderous applause was the measure of a performance. Some silent moments were almost ten seconds, collective breath of a thousand souls caught in complete harmony in anticipation she would do something else… synchronized exhale as the lights changed and slippery silks were wound around a toned and tan thigh to release her to the stage floor. Gasp was palpable as she let go twenty feet up and the iridescent purples and green caught the light of the night raven’s wings as they snapped out. Delicate touch down was silent, as was her exit from the stage as the lights completely disappeared to the darkness of a black glow. No encore. None. Not even as the formidable sound of applause outside from the audience bled into the stage wings with pressing echo. It was always give them more, now it was let them buy another ticket. Lucky, Matteo... whoever the hell she reported to these days with chess pieces moving after the club disaster wouldn’t be pleased she left her tuxedo and evening gown fans wanting, but tonight.. truly.. she didn’t give a fuck. She didn't know Matteo well, and wasn't in the mood at the moment to care. Costume mistress was pulling pieces of her scant attire to place back on the racks as she walked, bottle of water in her hand per usual, towel wiping the sheen from her limbs, hair wound into her fist and wrapped into a pile on the top of her head with one of the sashes that was part of the costume covering her breasts. Behind the stage, nobody cared two shits. Everyone had seen almost every inch of her, besides, her hind-side was usually the point of most people’s attention. They weren't just a prop, muscles in her back moving in sync as the shimmering things lowered to dust across the floor like a black cape to keep from hitting shit. Elevator was waiting to take her up to the dressing halls near the top grid of the building. Tiger eyes were quiet, door to her dressing room closed just as silent. Black open back tee shirt was peeled on over an already naked torso, tied at the back of her waist per usual. The bottom of her scant costume was pulled off with a lift of her foot and a snap, laid over the back of her vanity chair as a knock preceded her dresser’s entrance. *npc* Car? “No,” the gorgeously timbred voice whispered. Just before. She’d learned just before stepping on stage. Black lace thong slipped up over hips, followed by low slung jeans. Window was pushed open, the barefoot superstar climbing onto the ledge from four stories up, it was raining- hard. In the dark the droves made the lights of the city fade in and out in waves. Stepping onto the grate of the fire escape, she was soaked within seconds, climbing onto the slick railing with impeccable balance to stand and survey the city in the midst of a thunderstorm… leaning forward to fall into the black. Speed increasing, cloak of shadow snapped open in a razor slice to arc water in every direction and create lift to cut between several buildings. Barefoot, the Meta sluiced through air within the storm, sliding after nearly a half hour on top of an impenetrable high rise. Pushing through glass double doors of a dark studio never locked, the intent artist pulled on boots with a slam of each heel and snap of wet denim over them. Breakaway holsters were snapped on her thighs as she dripped on the marble floor in heavy rivulets. Sheen of tiger’s eye flicked to the light leather jacket on a bar stool. She pulled it on, reaching behind her to buckle it at the base of her spine. Everything worked that way. Hammerfists checked in her pockets. Cell phone went off on the counter. The club. Fuck the club. Again into the rain, the hospital wasn’t far. It was a small one, in shit-storm central of the city. Too much lately, too much. The alley was almost flooded, the run-off rushing down the ramp to the bowels of the building circling a stinking drain. One knock on the door with no window under a flickering light got someone's attention, it opened a crack. He was a waif of a young man, but one she’d rather wished she didn’t know. He welcomed her in from the rain, a nonchalant shiver of feathers shaking the water off in a spray of droplets. She hated the walk. One door, two door, three… the stainless steel had a smell. Not cold or antiseptic, but barren. Devoid. A place where only things that didn’t exist lived before becoming nothing. The small door was opened, long tray pulled out with a smooth tug, moving to demurely fold back the white cloth that had been seeped slightly with red. She didn’t even need to see. She knew. The kid… no longer a kid, nineteen these days had seen so much darkness they were seasoned vets of a shit world. Lips pressed to a thin line, bubbling anger held in with a soft sigh. Bruises had turned to cuts had turned to this. A headliner in a hole-in-the-wall strip club, now on a slab. Someone was dealing these girls like money. Shifting them around to keep under the radar. Using them up until curb appeal was gone, then shipping them off someplace else to count money, then test product, then… this. A production line from stripper pole to death. Not Bakkhos business officially. It was her business. “You know what to do.” The young man nodded at her. He was her “in” to most deaths before they were sent to proper morgues, most likely be fired if anyone ever knew he was her contact. But, he also did the right thing. Handled the “lost” off to morgues with instructions from their “families” for burial. Otherwise, a pauper’s grave in a pine box with a number for a memorial, for nobody. She'd lost this round with the dark underbelly. They all hurt, but this one... hurt more. The Meta knew their names, and their stories, and she knew this one’s last address. She nodded at him once, a wet lock that had escaped the large wrapped bun tucked behind her ear as she left for the same door she’d come through. This was going to be a long, bloody night.
  5. Lost But Found

    August 26, 2019 Little Monk's Evening Metal refracted light in her vision, that starburst spritz of rainbows when eyes had studied something for too long, perpetuating the headache that was building. Lashes narrowed, dark kohl liner a sharp splash of Pin-Up. The knot on the black Rosie-kerchief was bothering her as she stared at the twisted car part, reaching up to tug a bit on the top of her head to loosen the bandana slightly. He wanted original parts. This was the one fucking piece she couldn’t find. Why did it have to be one? All this shit at her disposal and she was going to have to machine and fabricate the blasted thing. She wasn’t sure who was going to be more pissed, her or Matteo. Her. Definitely her. It couldn’t be pristine, it couldn’t be original, it couldn’t be perfect. She was supposed to be able to do that... she'd promised she could do that... she had to be able to get it done. Had to. Eyes blinked and reopened with their deep blues on the glass that allowed each bay to see the next and the lobby on the far end of her kingdom of metal and speed. Bills fired up the bike in the third bay. She loved that sound… fucking sexy. Smirk was light for a moment, watching him adjust the classic as the rumble smoothed and settled. Bills did great work and it kept her mind off her own issue, even just for a second. Hands were on her hips, fingers tapping, bare petite arms taught. Attention moved back to her own puzzle, biceps flicking before she pulled the leather apron off over her head and tossed it on the workbench. The elfin spitfire was at an impasse… she wasn't going to lose this round. …knuckles rapped at the window, fingers moving quickly to communicate with him soundlessly. Bills shook his head and powered down the machine, heading to the lobby. Coffee. When she wanted coffee, everybody scrambled to the machine. It meant she was irritated, and it was going to be a long evening. Snatching the part off the engine, she grabbed the ring of brushes from the pegboard and took her place at the slop sink, starting the long process of trying to clean the blasted component again.
  6. How to Lose an Accountant in 10 Minutes

    5:10pm June 17th Boone Fitzpatrick, Accountant Offices, New York Paper flicked up again, damn limp daily edition. Beer tipped up, cold… perfect. He scanned the financials. Amateurs, it was like everyone with a brain had been toasted in the Nevus. Good for him, shitty for the resurgence of the world. The accountant peered around the paper at the clock, his new client was ten minutes late. Another five and he was splitting, giving his secretary a proverbial “fuck you” message. He had things to do, not important like saving the world, but goof off, do-nothing bullshit that amused him. Maybe he would track an old buddy down. Pharo had nothing for him at the moment, so he had to entertain himself. Polished shoes plopped on his desk full of papers. They were random, scattered, in no sort of rhyme or reason. In his filing system, they were in perfect order. Fingers swiped a bubble of dribbled beer from the tie that had been pulled loose and was now crooked on his collarbone. How much money had he made today? Ridiculous amounts. Found a massive breech in a local company that had hired him to keep track of employee accounts. It was a good day. Where the fuck was his damn appointment? Watch checked, he went back to a rather juicy story in the paper. When he was done… he was gone. He had random hobbies to play with. Leaning over to his phone, one button pushed called in some food. He wasn’t lazy, his secretary was just closer to the mini-fridge that held the other half of the sub he had from lunch. Roast beef, provolone… toasty, delivered to his fingers as he continued his bachelor style business practice. “Thanks Joyce…” another swig of beer, more paper, brushing off crumbs from his tie. When he was done with the sub AND the smutty gossip section of the paper, then he was gone. Besides, divorces and scandals meant someone needed help with money... and he was kinda good at that.
  7. Making an Entrance

    Sometimes, things went smoothly. Generally, when Push was by himself, things went smoothly. When he worked with other people these days, that was when things got extraordinarily fucked up. The big Marine vanished behind the steel beam that served as one of the half-finished nightclub's supports as a hail of gunfire penetrated the air where he had just been. The job had been intended to be simple. At the request of one of the syndicate's higher ranking members, one of the Dons had made a call and asked Push to accompany a group on a showing to a club that was under construction. The owner had been reaching out to someone else for protection it seemed, and had begun to make noise about canceling his payments to Bakkhos, which of course was not the sort of thing that could be tolerated. Ordinarily, as Push understood it, that sort of thing had a quick and simple resolution. Someone showed up and broke things and or bones until the recalcitrant businessman saw that he was not making payments on something optional. But apparently Johnny boy here had some connections, and breaking his things and or person might have been somewhat... impolitic, in the eyes of certain people the Dons wanted to keep happy. So they thought of another plan. Make a show of force. Send one of the rising young stars, a woman from the lower East side on the track to be Made later in the year. And in case that didn't do the trick, have the infamous Sword of Damocles the syndicate hung over its own, the six-four MARSOC Marine sniper. Push didn't like this sort of job. It meant going in, being watched, having the enemy know where he was. All things he disliked with some level of passion, but for the occasional favor, he agreed. Besides which, things had been somewhat quiet, at least up until the explosions in the city a few weeks prior. Those had people on edge. Which had, in retrospect, probably contributed to the current situation. When Push and the six other Bacchan 'soldiers' (the Syndicate used the word, Push was ever loathe to for the undisciplined criminals) had arrived, things had seemed fine for about ten seconds. At which point, the idiot the Dons had placed 'in charge' had gone and told the club owner who Push was. The initial reaction had been actually somewhat satisfying - the way the color went out of his face, his legs almost collapsing in... the instant he shouted for someone named Coleman had shattered that moment rather handily. By Push's count, there had been eight men who emerged at that call. Men with rifles, against the six Bacchans plus Push, armed with pistols and MP7 PDWs at the most. Three of the Bacchans went down in the first two seconds, as had four of the unexpected guests, two by .45 caliber rounds from Push's Sig P220. He'd fired a third shot as he slipped behind the girder, not for a kill this time, but the jacketed hollow point blowing a satisfyingly large hole in the upper leg of the so-called entrepreneur. When this smoke cleared, that man was not going to be running away... Push fully intended to call him to account for this. The gunfire was almost constant by this point, deafening in the enclosed space - Push saw by quick check that the three of 'his' people who were down were now certainly dead, finished off when they tried to move. One of the others was down behind the bar, clutching a shot to the lower leg - that man was going to need to get it together. Another was still shooting, and Push swung his pistol back out, squeezing off a pair of shots blind - not totally unaimed, however, as he fired toward where one of the still-standing newcomers had been. He darted out immediately, sweeping the room with his last four shots (one hit, shoulder, nonlethal, but not bad for a pistol at twenty yards while at a dead sprint) before he dropped behind another of the support beams, scooping up one of the fallen MP7s as he did. The 220 slide snapped back, empty, and he smoothly drew a magazine from his sling at the same time he ejected the spent one, sliding the fresh mag home and hitting the release to snap the slide back forward and chamber the first new round. That went to his left hand, while he lifted the MP7 in his right - the weapon was small enough to use as a pistol, particularly for someone of his size, though he would have to watch his discipline, no full auto bursts with just one wrist to hold down the recoil, not even his. He was going to have a long talk with Angelo about not asking him to follow the lead of inexperienced street thugs. He'd told the man before, he worked on his own terms, with his own plans, or not at all. He'd gotten sloppy on this job... the last few months had been uncomfortably directionless for him, since Suri left. The Marine was going through the motions, and now it was ending badly. Well. He wasn't going to let it end THAT badly. He just needed to hold out until the B team came through the back...