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Role Play Sample

Found 37 results

  1. Grand Opening

    Owner: @Boone (Paddy) Fitzpatrick This is your hometown bar. The one you are comfortable coming to after work or after a day out on the lake fishing. Six pool tables line the exterior walls. Games are free so long as you're drinking. The walls are decorated with an assortment of hunting heads and old photographs of movie stars. Brick and beams gives it an old pub feel right in the middle of New York. Stools line all the pillars as well as the thirty foot long bar with twenty beers on tap at all times, at least six of which are Irish. This bar is being opened to help ALL players have an easy place to have single and group threads - don't need to wait for "permission" or an invite from the owner to use it. This is an OPEN thread for anyone and everyone to join! Post order not required since multiple conversations, groupings can happen in the same thread here! NPCs - Please do not abuse these NPCs as they will be further developed as staples by Boone to run the bar Behind the Bar: Hagan "Hawk" Monroe - Retired Boxer - Powers TBD Don't fuck with the bartender. Attempting to mess with his shit will get you bounced by him personally - possibly through a window rather than the door. Behind the Bar / Waitress: "Blue" - Powers TBD Like something out of a retro diner she is a sleek painting in the moose head on the wall bar. Like Hawk - messing with her will likely lead to pain... lots of it.
  2. Silence, My Brother

    Mon Aug 24, 2020 6:13 PM Blue. A single finger was held up. Johnny Walker Blue Label, already fine whiskey, was still scarce. The distillery had not had time to produce yet another batch since re-opening its doors. In other words, it would be a miracle if this bar happened to have it. Then again, Boone was nothing if not resourceful. The mage glanced around. Any familiar faces? Any faces best forgotten? That would remain to be seen. After all, it was only a little past 6 on a Monday. *Can you believe the balls on this guy? *I know you’re pretty much made of steel, but who the hell tackles a tiger? What? The man looked almost offended. It spilled my beer. Was I supposed to just let that go? Light glinted off the second speaker’s forearm, exposed under the shredded layers of green cloth that had once been a zookeeper’s uniform. Alec shrugged off their presence and turned towards the other side of the bar. Oh come on! What? Was it something I sai… Boring. ARMA was quiet these days. Could there be anything more obnoxious than quiet? He had nothing to do except handle paperwork. Why couldn’t they have some kind of scandal? Where had the false mages gone? And where the hell was that drink?
  3. Dika pushed past the heavy wooden swinging door and stepped into the well-lit bar; putting out a hand to decline the offer from coat-checker, he was fine keeping his with him. He looked around and thankfully saw an empty stool near the far end of the bar. He headed toward it as he unbuttoned his blazer. He got to the stool, sat on it with a sigh, and laid his blazer in his lap. He looked at everything on the shelf behind the bar as he undid his sleeves and rolled them up past his elbows and began to think about what he wanted to drink. He wondered for a while as the bartender motioned an upheld finger at him, indicating him to wait. Dika was in no hurry so he waved back at the bartender nonchalantly and continued to eye the bottles. He saw a familiar bottle on the shelf; recognizing it's yellow cap and too-big label. He smiled at the thought of a Venezuelan Cuba Libre; he hadn't had one in actual years. The bartender approached him and returned the grin. [npc]Something catch your eye I'm guessing?[/npc] Dika nodded and pointed to the bottle. [dika]"I'm sorry, I don't know the word. The little bottle, the bíter, yes right there. Do you know what I mean when I ask for a Cuba Libre Preperado?"[/dika] The bartender nodded, grabbed the bottle with one hand and a glass with the other and set them both on the bar in front of Dika. [npc]I know what a Cuba Libre is, we call it what it is, rum and coke. You want a fancier one, with bitters and gin.[/npc] The bartender emphasized the word as he tapped on the bottle in front of Dika, then turned to grab the gin. He pointed to the rum closest to them and asked [npc]Light or dark rum?[/npc] Dika shrugged, never really caring for the difference between a Preperado and a Preperado de Oro, so instead he offered [dika]"Whichever you recommend." The bartender nodded, grabbed the dark rum, and came back over to Dika. He began to ask about Dika as he started to mix the drink. [npc]What brings you in tonight bud?[/npc] Dika gave a smile at the question, eyeing the bartender hard. He was cute but young, grinning happily but clearly tired; and worst of all, he was charming but it was his job to be so. Dika decided to keep his charm to himself and slyly said [dika]"Why does any man come into a bar? To have a drink, unwind, and get loose with others doing the same."[/dika] Dika reached for his finished drink just as the bartender added the straw. He picked it up, took a taste at the rim, and grinned. Dika held the glass up to the bartender in thanks, said [dika]"¡Salud!"[/dika] and turned his back to the bar, scanning the crowd for eye candy to ogle over the edge of his great drink.
  4. Fugitives and Firefights

    -You are a fool Pandora- -I needed a way out Nix... I can't let you dictate my life anymore.- -Regardless of what you want, or need. We required the Order to survive. Now you'll have ARMA and the Light after you. Kudos on effort though.- -Wesley, or Kelly will help me...- -No one will help you Pandora. It's just you, and me. How coincidental that we keep getting put into this situation.- Pandora scoffed as she slid down the sidewalk slowly, dressed in a black long coat. The hood pulled up over her head, hidden wards across it's surface to hide her mana, a jacket beneath that, and light gray skinny jeans that hugged her legs. The sun had finally dipped below the cities towers, making the large statue of an angel overhead a shadow in the sky. Any real threat remained inside her head. -Oh hush now Pandora. We both know who the real enemy is here.- -You?- -It's your destructive personality. So, in a way you.- -I'm sorry, my destructive personality? I thought it was your inability to do the right thing. But fuck me for being wrong.- -Oh my dear, if I could fuck you for being wrong, we'd have a whole litter of Panda babies.- -Don't call me that.- -What, Panda? I thought all of your friends could call you that.- -You are not my friend Nix. You are a parasite, and one that I plan on getting rid of.- -You need me Pandora. Or do you not remember who protects this vessel we share?- -I don't need you anymore, I can take care of myself.- -Adorable, keep telling yourself that.- Instinct took her down a dimly lit alley. Halfway through, a noise shattered the normal ambiance of the city at night. A trash can toppled over with a raucous privy to a machine gun going off in dead silence. Pandora allowed herself a brief glance from the statue overhead and caught the movement of several figures as they pushed through the alley towards her at a brisk pace. -Luck is not on our side today my dear, I'll be resting my eyes for this fight.- Pandora audibly grumbled an insult to Nix's manliness before she kicked over a nearby trash can and ran for the exit, reaching out with her mana to feel for any sort of statue that could assist her. The angel could do some damage, but that was one against several men. She didn't know if they were altered or not. But she could hear at least one of them gaining on her. Her hand slid carefully inside her long coat so her fingers could wrap around the hilt of her newly enchanted short sword, it sucked mana out of her, but that only meant she'd have to fight harder. "Gotcha bitch." She ducked to the side, narrowly avoiding the swing of what she could only assume was a blunt object. Her own weapon unsheathed a second later. A light illuminated the alley as the blade burst into flame. She dipped under the mans arm as he passed her and in one swift motion she severed that same limb from his body. A scream of pain tore through the alley as the man's once standing posture doubled over and he fell to his knees. Pandora in a moment of mercy spun in a quick circle and hacked the mans head from his shoulders, the smell of his long hair burned inside her nose, but a quick kick to his now decapitated torso sent it backwards into a puddle. Her eyes shot up to see the group had picked up speed at the slaughter of their companion. She turned as a ball of flame blew passed her hood and collided with a garbage can causing a slight explosion that sent her off balance for a moment. "Fucking get her! No one betrays the Order and lives." A sharp turn left around the corner met Pandora with a sight she didn't want to see. The alleyway before her shifted as the ground quickly rose to block her escape. "Shit." she spun around, the flame on her sword dimming to conserve mana. The men had all gathered at the corner to the dead end. One of them waving his hands in strange motions as the sound of shifting stones continued to fill the air of the alley. Anger on the largest mans face as he carried the head of the decapitated man. Their leader she was guessing from his position behind the pack, and the rest's inability to move without an order. "You killed my man." The larger man growled and tossed the head at her feet, it's muscles limpness caused it's jaw to fall open and those deadened eyes to stare at her endlessly, "We were gonna make it quick, but the way I see it, we're gonna make you suffer." A tattoo on the mans neck caught her eye. A Gaelic symbol to her surprise, for a hunter. She was guessing it was a an Order thug bred specifically to hunt people down. -Oh my dear, we've really pissed off the wrong people this time. Ajax? Pandora, here I thought I taught you to be more careful.- -I can defend myself now, go away.- -Pandora, you'll need me for this one.- "You think you can handle her Luka?" The leader questioned and shoved one of the men forward, a rather cocky looking man with a large pull on the flow of mana in the area. He slipped glistening brass knuckles onto his fingers and pounded each into his palms as if testing their strength. A magus. -Most likely going to fight unpredictably. He has the looks of a man with no training.- -I see that.- As the thought of what he could do crossed her mind the man blinked forward in a puff of shadows. One moment ten or fifteen feet away, the next he was right in her face. A large shadow covered fist slammed into Pandora's cheek. The hit unnoticeable behind the black cloud that lead it. She doubled back only to have him behind her another punch to the opposite cheek. A crack in her cheekbone notified her of the break, that and the pain. She stumbled the opposite direction. Her body ducked without her control as a final punch flew over her head. A brief moment passed as the flame on her sword blazed back to life and her arm struck out. The man moved to dodge but was too late, as the sword sliced through his neck, leaving him like an old fashioned Pez dispenser. Not even a chance to scream as his head nearly fell from his shoulders, the stench of burnt flesh entered her nose but she paid it no mind. That's how one made mistakes. -Nix... I don't need you- -Apparently... You do.- "Goddamnit, next person to kill her gets the entire bounty." Without thought or a moments hesitation the men launched forward. A slew of elemental abilities flung in her direction, Nix moved her body fluidly away from each projectile. One of the charging men flung his arms to the sides and they shifted into long metallic points. His own body turning into a weapon. "Don't think so." Nix wound the sword back with both hands and flung it forward. The flaming weapon spun hazardously through the air before it embedded itself into the mans chest. his face immediately changed from an angered war cry, to one of pure shock and pain, his momentum alone caused him to slam backwards, which allowed Pandora's boot to drive straight down and into his throat, ending his meager existence. A second and third man flanked both of her sides as she jerked the weapon from his chest cavity, not faltered at all by what they had witnessed. Until the sound of wings beating the air caught everyone, except Nix, off guard. The giant stone foot of an angel slammed into the man on the left whom launched backwards and collided with the brick wall in a bloodied mess. A large pike like weapon stabbed outward, caught the man on the right, and pinned him to the wall with a wail of agony. The angel lurched forward and slammed a stone fist into the mans face, his screams silenced and his body limp. The twelve foot tall angel pulled the weapon from the mans stomach with a quick jerk, it turned towards the rest of the group with a scowl on it's stone face and flicked the dead mans blood from its knuckles. Three men remained. Two rather scrawny and terrified looking men, and the leader who looked more angry than before. "You're gonna pay for that little girl... Those were my men." His voice seemed to grow deeper, and more gravely. Arms sprouted from his back like plants in fast forward. "They were rookies, I was training them for the big times.... You were supposed to be an easy hit." His skin grayed and cracked taking on a stone like appearance. His arms were about as large as her. "Anyone ever tell you, you look like a Pokemon?" "You're dead!" The shout shook the alleyway. The creature was almost as tall as the Angel next to Pandora but twice as menacing looking. The other two men moved their hands in synchronization and out of a portal came two very large, and very deadly looking axes. The Pokemon grabbed onto them and hefted them over both shoulders before charging, while again the other two men started chanting and moving their hands. Before her eyes a light blue barrier encircled the beasts form. -Great they're shielding him.- -Acknowledged Pandora, we gotta kill them first.- -If that thing hits my statue it'll do some major damage to both of us.- -Hmm, would be a great time to have some Order help wouldn't you say?- -Would be a great time for you to shut up and pay attention!- The Angel statue parried the first two strikes from the blades with ease, the third blocked successfully while the forth struck it's side and bore a whole deep into it. Pandora let out a cry of pain as her own side bruised immediately from the hit. Nix's plan was already formulated though, they dodged around the fight and with sword held over head launched into the air the flaming weapon swinging in an arc. Nothing ever goes as planned though. Upon noticing the airborne Pandora, one of the magi turned and after a short incantation a shock wave tore through the alley and struck her in the chest. Her world flipped upside down as she slammed into the makeshift blockade, the sword and her own body dropped to the ground with a thud and clank. -Good plan Nix.- -I did not see that coming. Perhaps you have a plan?- -Start praying?- -No- -Tuck our head between our legs and--- -No- -Face it Nix. We're done for.- -Oh and it's all your fault Panda-bear. Good job- -I get it... I may have fucked up.-
  5. Fuck Mondays......

    March 2, 2020 - 6:15am What?...when?....I want……what do you mean he already said he wouldn’t talk to me? Judy did you…. What about the chief did he……ya… ya…. ok…..I get it. Phone snapped shut viciously before being jammed back into her front pocket. Doji bakayaro koshinuke sukebe saitei……… Back of her head hit the wall several times as the string of insulting expletives continued to mutter from her lips. It was the third cop from her district to jump ship to the Vanguard since the bloody moon events in November. Men she had always known to be good cops were suddenly bigoted "kill them all" fanboys. Pussy… Last insult breathed from her lips as she pushed from the wall. Having the dispatch girl tell her was the final insult of just how pathetic Joe had proved to be. There was a reason they didn’t want to talk to her when they made such stupid decisions. She wasn’t called the barracuda behind her back for no reason. Her words could slice a man and leave him cowering in the aftermath. And all this before her damn morning coffee. The door she had just been grabbing when the phone had rung and interrupted was grabbed once more, pulled open a bit roughly as she strode up to the counter to wait her turn still half muttering under her breath when Rachel asked a second time if she wanted the usual. Huh… ?.. oh sorry Rachel… ya… the usual… and one of those cinnamon walnut..things you keep trying to pawn off on me. The girl behind the counter lit up. She was a bit of a baker and so was always creating something new for the café. Unfortunately the detective wasn’t a breakfast person so she was usually disappointed every time she offered. Today just felt like a sit down and eat sort of day. It was going to be long and annoying; two things best dealt with on a full gut. The small coffee cake was pulled from the top of the glass case as she turned to park at the table in the front corner, taking the seat with her back to the wall. It was a cop thing. Picking at the little coffee cake concoction while she waited for her triple espresso, she had to admit, the thing wasn’t half bad. So…. big decision for the morning was did she go into the precinct and deal with this shit? Or just hit the pavement. She was strongly leaning towards the latter as the other method hadn't bought her any good will with the chief the last two times cops turned traitor on them. Fuck Mondays.
  6. Seven Points

    RISE OF THE BLOOD MOON EVENT - 'The Calm Before the Storm' 4:00 PM. November 11th, 2019. Veteran’s Day. Full Moon. Muldoon’s Irish Pub & Restaurant, 3rd Avenue (between 43rd and 44th), Midtown, Manhattan. Slate had been frequenting Muldoon’s for years. Quaint low lit pubs with that authentic Irish ambience were hard to come by and so their clientele tended to stick. The lack of cops made it all the more attractive, the rogue detective preferring not to rub shoulders with his fellow boys in blue at the end of the day. He didn’t have much in common. Tucked in a corner booth, Slate took note of the pictures and memorabilia on the shelf above him. The place was littered with Irish mementos and old photographs of Irish icons and ancestors of the owners. He usually sat at the bar and had never seen these two characters before, one man evidently a veteran. Before taking a swig of his lager he raised his pint, tipping it to the unknown soldier out of respect. It was Veteran’s day after all, and as a good a reason as any other to partake in a drink or two. [npc]Did you order?[/npc] Inquired the young woman returning to the table, sliding into the corner beside the much larger man. [slate]Steak right?[/slate] He confirmed. [npc]Salmon![/npc] The girl groaned, gasping at the mishap. She couldn’t possibly eat red meat but as a mischievous grin spread across the man’s face it became obvious he was only feigning the mix-up. [slate]Just kidding. Wouldn’t want to risk you turning or anything.[/slate] [npc]Very funny.[/npc] She smiled, rolling large, dark lashed eyes seductively at the handsome musician. [npc]You shouldn’t joke about things like that.[/npc] She playfully scolded, but there was a superstitious truth to her words. It was the first full moon of the ‘Turn’ and people were still getting used to venturing out on these nights. The reality of lycanthropes and their change dictated by a lunar influence had struck horror in the populace. For years, people cowered behind locked doors, fearing a were-beast to come a’ knocking. Incidents were few and even rare were random attacks. In Slate’s experience most assaults committed by were-beasts were purposely directed toward individuals of a criminal nature. Still, the illusion of security was required. The pub’s front windows and door were guarded by heavy bars. Just in case. [npc]Aren’t you a little worried? You know, I never go out on these nights. I think this is the first time in five years.[/npc] Slate shook his head and shrugged. [slate]Don’t think about it much. You’re just as likely to run into something just as monstrous any night of the week.[/slate] [npc]Gee. Thanks for that. I may never go out again.[/npc] She laughed while pulling a thinly rolled joint out of a cigarette case. Igniting the tip, the girl took a pull and passed the favour to Slate, but he politely refused and sparked up one of his cigarillos instead. [slate]Another Harp.[/slate] He requested of a passing server, gesturing to his quarter full glass. [slate]So what d’ya do, Megan?[/slate] The musician finally asked. [npc]I’m in my third year, still not sure what I want to do.[/npc] She admitted, her knee accidentally grazing his beneath the table. [npc]You?[/npc] [slate]I’m doing it.[/slate] Slate lied, purposely hiding the fact that he was a cop. Musicians were far more attractive.
  7. February 20, 2020 1:30 PM Where Columbia had remained open even through the madness of the apocalypse, it had been ten years, and there was no longer even a fraction of a reason why the best and brightest of what remained of the nation could not attend a top school. Alec did, of course, miss his Alma Mater, but Chicago was a long way to go, just to see what probably was little more than a zombie breeding ground for any foolish enough to venture forth. Nonetheless, here the mage... no, today, the scholar, the doctor, found himself, standing in front of a podium. [walker] Testing, one two three. [/walker] Alec spoke into the microphone. Nothing happened, and he fiddled with the device for a moment before just chucking it under the podium into the storage space there. It was a simple cantrip to amplify one's voice. [walker]Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. If you would please take your seats, the lecture will begin shortly.[/walker] Students continued speaking amongst themselves, making it obvious who the dedicated learners among them were, and who had simply attended for some social experience. Alec cleared his throat, still amplifying the sounds from his vocal cords, and then, when the class would not come to order, layering his voice with a light mezmer. Some students were still unaffected, but when they saw the rest of the class sitting down, they obliged as well. Alec dropped the layered speech and unfolded a few notes on the podium. [walker]As I'm sure you all know, because you have come to hear me speak, I am Dr. Alec Walker, one of the world's few remaining experts on Scandinavian history and, in particular, the use of its Runic alphabet for the practice of magic.[/walker] Alec had long since given up on powerpoint, and instead opted for an overhead projector like the ones his own teachers had used in elementary school. [walker] Yes, this device here on stage with me looks like it belongs in the era of the dinosaurs, but as I trust you all know, having spent the last ten years in the same world as the rest of us, magic tends to render technology unusable, so I keep things simple.[/walker] The first transparency to be placed on the projector was simply the alphabet of Futhark, in its eldest form. [walker] You may recognize some of these letters, and you may wonder what some of them even are. The fact is that Futhark is the direct predecessor to the romanized alphabet. For a time, the rune "thorn," pronounced "th," was a part of the English language, until we replaced it with the letter Y in print. "Ye olde sweet shop" is actually "the olde sweet shop."[/walker] Alec chuckled, though no one else probably would. [walker]But enough boring you all with etymology. You want to know about this. [/walker] The second transparency was an image of the Galdabrok, more specifically, the very copy Alec had touched on that first Resonated day. [walker] Of course, you have all learned the history of our world, illuminated as it has been by those who were here before, and those who have since returned. In the days before the very first Resonance, Humanity knew how to harness and wield magic. In the days after that first schism, magic drained from the world, but the rituals that were used to try and harness it once more were preserved. Around the world, different languages and cultures developed their own rituals, hence the lack of any dedicated curriculum for spellcasting in the modern day.[/walker] Alec switched transparencies once again. [walker]Here, for example, you see three different languages, each detailing a way to cast the exact same spell. [/walker] A small dummy was wheeled out onto the lecture stage, and Alec assumed a stance clearly. He first chanted the words in the Futhark dialect, sending a sphere of wind across the stage with an audible whoosh and a visible impact, knocking over the dummy. It was propped back up, and Alec spoke the words next in Arabic, with the same, albeit weaker result. Finally, he spoke the words in Urdu, to an even weaker result. [walker] My magic stems from my connection to the runes, and as such, it is strongest in connection to other, similar languages. Now, each of these three incantations are typically paired with a set of rituals, usually involving spell circles, magical foci, and other accouterments. With practice, any magician can move beyond such ritualistic preparations and cast the spell, often without invocations. Like this. [/walker] Alec held out his palm once more, firing a ball of wind across the stage with the same intensity and ferocity as the first, to the same result. The talk went on to discuss the roots of magic as rooted in linguistics, and the fact that where Freud believed totemism was an attempt to understand the world, it was, according to Alec's own theory, an attempt to restore the world to its former state. Eventually, the bearded mage stopped talking, and opened up the floor to questions.
  8. BLOOD MOON - Empire State Building

    Nov 11, 2019 - 5pm (Blood Moon Event) Outside and up the Empire State Building (possible Sigil location! - open to all to make their own story!) Only a quarter of an hour ago the moonrise bathed the city crimson. Many took to the Empire to get a better look at the unexpected phenomenon from the observation deck and its antiquated public telescopes. But excited chatter has turned to screams as the observers got a first look of death stampeding into the city. Coming down the streets pound the oversized paws of what feel like hell-spawn. Lycanthropes come like a waterfall up and over the lower buildings. Dozens... more... beginning to claw their way in and up the outside of the Empire State Building. More running past it to find other bastions to decimate. Hell on earth has started.......
  9. Gyre and gimble

    November 2019 Nighttime Wintery conditions Central Park. The bastion of twisted plants whose aura was of confusion and acceptance. That pretty much summed up a whole lot of beings. Lian was not too much one but was still working on the other. Nine years of traveling and watching change that was both abrupt and yet almost fated. Her kind understood the fates, the wheel turns and does not merit a plan in its path. A way better way of saying 'yea we are fucked so lets just work with it guys' But...she could still recall older memories and that is why what she 'accepted' was done in a oddly wary manner. She had not seen the city since the before. Before when she had ended up sailing off a rooftop to strike a stairwell and turn aiming the one last pistol with the one last bullet upwards towards a very pissed off were creature with an attitude problem. That seemed to be eons ago and yet it was not even a decade ago. Time moved swiftly once the changes had come. It had left so much almost scarred beyond repair. But in Lian's world, scars held a measure of character. They were the marks of survival at great cost. Their presence was an assurance that life went on. She had chosen Central Park rather than a hotel or motel in the area, those places much like in other cities were not exactly going to guarantee a good nights rest. What had taken to staying within them usually was looking to strike up a tussle. Lian never minded a good tussle but there is merit in sleep as well. She had shifted and found succor in the broken and bracken roots of an old tree. Wolves are good like that really! When the moon rose and swung in the weird sky above, she had stretched out and changed once more into the fluid petite creature adorned in faded denim and a warm jacket. A duffel was slung across her shoulder and a mop of pale hair dusted the gamin features with whispy strands from a breeze that carried a myriad of scents to her nose. What once would have been indicative of known things had also changed. The fabric of reality had been changed and that too changed those things one depended on. Everything in a sense was new. Well, she had arrived, slept and perhaps - not denying the wolf had found a measure of meat now-eaten. Two things that are sorta important to sanity usually. Now she needed to see what this dark world offered. Her exit from Pennsylvania had been a great idea. The lesson you learn from working for two opposing factions was that in the end, they would always turn on you. Lian should have just killed them both however, the response would have been a target on her tail which she really did not need at this time. She turned to the different directions as if choosing by those odd scents her planned path. There was nothing wrong with staying among the wood, but she needed to do some thing. Lian was a strangling in a stranger city. All the familiar was no longer what it once was, and that meant finding these things out a step at a time. It also meant achieving work and maybe connections. Wryly she also knew it meant finding a place to be- an apartment or base of a sorts. She had one had a very neat flat but it had been destroyed by a very unusual attack. She should have known that staying where a known rebellion housed itself was gonna be trouble. It had been a good place for a few weeks at least? Ah, to the right, because the smells were a bit more familiar. And with that she pivoted on the heel of her boot and took up her pace towards a less thicket like area. There was bound to be a coffee shop somewhere right? Coffee survived everything.
  10. Ramen?

    14 Mott St 1:13 PM Johann wandered the streets of Chinatown. Comics shops, odd candy shops, ooh. A restaurant. Ramen. Ra-Men? Servants of an Egyptian god? They'd created a noodle dish that had become popularized in Japan, and then all over the world. Johann did feel a tad bit hungry. Well, he'd only eaten three double-bacon cheeseburgers and a loaf of sourdough bread this morning. Might as well try something out of his comfort zone. A gust of autumn air wafted into the restaurant, much to the chagrin of the hostess, standing right in front of the door. [npc]Hello! Welcome to Ajisen Ramen. How many in your party today? [/npc] Johann returned the enthusiastic smile. [johann] Just myself. [/johann] The words were deadpan. The hostess showed him to a small table, handed over the menu, and left. So what was Ramen? The menu didn't help much, but the pictures did make him hungrier. Fried chicken, japanese ribs, Barbecue Pork with noodles and egg? It all looked good. The waitress came over. Johann pointed at the "Set Meal" portion of the menu--each item on which was a full meal with rice and meat--and flatly proclaimed: [johann]I'll start with the dumplings, and then, I'll have one of each of these. [/johann] The waitress almost dropped the tea pot the establishment delivered instead of plain water because she was laughing so hard. [npc] A beansprout like you? [/npc] [johann] I'm completely serious. One of each. [/johann] She marked down the dragonian's request, then stepped back to the kitchen to put the massive order in. Johann leaned back in the chair and took a sip of the tea, waiting for the food to come out.
  11. Traveling Through Space

    August 14, 2019 6:08AM It was a dull insistent pain in the right eye, less like rock repeatedly striking head, more like some extremely heavy object passively resting on it, which eventually dragged Samithel’s attention to the solid wall of green, the world, which gradually fragmented into ill-defined globs of the same color. Senses arose with the steady surge of a flowing river. Resolution came next. Circles gained sharpness and focus, losing abstractness, and acquiring context in the form of leaves, painted shimmering with quickly evaporating condensation by a stretching morning sun. Shot through with the lightning colored presence of life, the leaves grew from branches, a river emptying into a hundred outlets, emptying into the sea; a fuzzy nimbus of aura, like a thick fog, clung to each tree limb. Then scope sifted through, revealing not one branch, but a wild canopy of them, a filter for the early morning light. Scope brought perception, other senses beyond sight, both arcane and mundane, joining the cacophony of regained consciousness. The feel of an ancient tree root, ridged and pitted with age immemorial, pressed uncomfortably against her upper back, at once like and unlike the rock-studded ground beneath it. The smell of wet forest, damp earth and damp leaves, mingled with the far more ephemeral scent of impending daybreak. The distant sound of running water the only native ambiance -- no birds or insects, no wind rustled branches. Breathing, Samithel’s breathing, also came and went in her ears; therein lay the problem, for she felt certain the sound brought no such familiarity as that of the water. And if that feeling could be extended to every facet of her situation, it would describe it quite aptly. No particular reference sprung to mind, no exact image of where else she should or could be made itself known. By all accounts, it would be perfectly normal for her to be, for some undefined reason, lying in the dirt in some random forest, or park, or similar environment conducive to the growth of trees. Yet something with even that thought felt off…this cycle of internal second, third, fourth, and nth guessing went on for some time, until, with far from the final mental climb out of that particular trench, Samithel pushed herself into a sitting position. The action made her realize it was a lot more than her eye which happened to be in agony at that moment. Her back, her arms, shoulders, head…everything hurt. Looking down brought to her attention the fabric of her jacket, a green several shades darker than that above. Although it hid the lashes on her arms, it did not mask those on her hands. Traces of grimy blood covered them, and, likewise, the start of a hot humid day was not the only thing contributing to the adhesiveness of her clothing. Her breath came loud and painfully. Only then did Samithel realize it, and she waited until breathing felt natural again before getting to her feet. Pain, bright and pulsing, bit into her back, a vicious barbed spike of it lodged at the spine, just between the shoulder blades. The immediate consequence of this was Samithel’s inability to stand on the first try. Nor the second. Pushing up with her hands only caused the star of agony to go nova. Her vision, already dancing, wavered slightly, until she relaxed her muscles again. So she clenched her teeth, tried not to breathe in too deeply, and tried again. The rest of the process blurred into a fiery haze of pain and half-conscious determination. Perhaps three truly was a symbolic number, or perhaps the number of times it took blurred into each other, her brain too overloaded to bother keeping count. Whatever the case, between that and constant support from the tree beside her, Samithel eventually got to her feet…and almost fell right back down. Instead, she leaned a shoulder against that same tree, trying to move as much weight off her feet as possible. That still hurt, just in a different way. Original plans were to start walking towards the water source; only her gaze searched, wandering and uncertain, losing itself between the spinning trees --- had she hit her head? Probably. Her body remained half-slumped against the tree, taking measured breaths in an attempt to keep all the different alarms from becoming overwhelming. Her only comfort lay in the fact that at least she felt something; at least she wasn’t still on the ground, unable to feel anything from the neck down. Once or twice she caught herself drifting, almost falling again, only to catch herself, forcing her attention back onto the smoldering coals of reality. There was little else she could do now, little but hope and wait for someone, or something, to appear. Hopefully water still meant something living had to be around. Not necessarily of a kind disposition to her predicament, but anything was better than feeling lost. Maybe she'd try walking. In a little while...just let the world settle... (OOC: Always open to suggestions and constructive criticism on my writing, thanks.)
  12. Hit the Ground Running

    August 1st, 2019 11:45pm Eyes slowly opened as the plane touched down on the tarmac, almost fourteen hours later. The man shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position to sit in for those last few minutes before he was once again released into the world. A decade ago, the flight from Vatican City to New York would have happened in just over nine. With the way magic had been screwing around with technology since the first Nevus event, not to mention the appearance of dragons and other flying creatures, human-powered flight had both devolved, and evolved, at the same time. Magic had forced them to scale back on what little advanced technology still worked, while the beasts that now shared the skies with the planes had caused planes to become heavy with armor and defensive weaponry. All of it contributed to slower than desired flight times, which served to only increase the risk of attack while one was aloft. Thankfully, the flight he was on hadn't encountered any problems. That wasn't something that could be said a lot, these days. Air travel was extremely risky because of all of that. Unfortunately, the situation in the Tri-Americas, and in particular New York City, was growing dire enough to have the man sent by air, instead of the much slower, and safer, seas. That is not to say that the waters did not have their own troubles, because they certainly did. As the airplane slowed to a stop, his mouth opened wide in a yawn. It was framed with months worth of beard growth that he longed to take a pair of shears to, and cut down to a much shorter length. Unfortunately, there simply had not been any time. The moment he set foot within Vatican City, his most recent assignment completed, he was put back out again, only on a plane to this broken and divided former superpower of a country. They hadn't even let him set foot in his room to change clothing or shower, and the senior-most Arch from the Shield walked with him, in lieu of sitting down for a proper debrief. The debrief had not been overly long, and much of the journey to the small airstrip was conducted in silence. There, the Arch had handed him a badge and signet ring, and watched the man board the plane. Slowly, he stood up from his seat. Collecting his heavy leather overcoat from the chair beside him, he meandered his way to the front of the otherwise empty vessel, and stepped out into the darkness of a warm New York night. With practiced ease, the coat in his hand was deftly slung around and slipped over his arms and shoulders and pulled shut, concealing the man's nearly emaciated form beneath it. His months-long mission through the wilds of Russia had been fruitful, though more often than not he was without supplies and forced to scrape by on whatever rare foodstuffs he could actually find. Having grown up in the slums of Athens, hunger was simply something else to fuel his natural instincts for survival. Here in New York, however, he hoped he might actually find an opportunity to eat. To rebuild at least somewhat of the mass he had lost in the wilds. He had been told to report immediately to The Citadel, where his assignment would be handed down from from someone in their hierarchy. The man had not particularly cared about who he was to report to. It was enough that they had given him the destination; people there would do the rest. Fingers idle toyed with the badge and ring in his pocket as a young woman in a navy suit waved him over from off to the side of the tarmac. Eyes narrowed as he approached her, wondering what exactly she wanted, while simultaneously making a mental note that he needed to a mage capable of transmutation. The Order frowned upon his alteration of the metal badge and seal because of the minor problem of occasionally setting off alarms in secure buildings, but thus far his superiors had yet to outright forbid him from doing it. As he stepped up to the young woman, an eyebrow quirked up as he spoke. "Naí?", he asked in Greek. *npc*She stared at him blankly and shifted from one foot to the other, clearly not understanding what he had just said. "Mr.....Mr Ismail? I....I'm supposed to take you to the Citadel. Immediately. They want you brought up to speed as quickly as possible." He chuckled softly, nodding as he said in a thick European accent, "Just directions, child. Feet get me there fast enough." She tried, though in vain, to convince him to come with her, but he staunchly insisted that he was walking, regardless of the danger. The woman in the suit eventually relented, giving him the best possible directions that she could, including places that he should avoid. "Efcharistó," (thank you), he said, as he turned away from her and started walking. After the confines of the plane for the last fifteen or so hours, it was a Godsend to the man that he was once again reliant on none but himself and his feet. They had seen him through the worst of the wild lands in Russia, and he felt confident that they would be more than capable of keeping him on the path here. Especially since, unlike Russia, he actually had more than just the vaguest of directions. Some four and a half hours later, his well-worn boots squeaked on the highly polished tile of the Citadel's lobby. He stopped in the middle, turning in a slow circle as he examined his new surroundings. It was clear that no expense had been spared in this building, and had it not been for the countless times he found himself in a similar position when returning to Vatican City from weeks or months out in the field, he would have felt extremely out of place. As it was, he felt like a foreigner outside these walls; inside them, however far removed they were from the Order's main headquarters, it felt as close as one could get to home, without actually being there. With a nod, he strode up to the front desk, where the person on the other side gave him a look of absolute disgust. *npc* The older magus behind the counter gave Ismael a once-over with his eyes, nose wrinkled up in disgust both the disheveled look, and pungent aroma coming off of him. "I don't know how you got in here, -sir-, but beggars and the homeless are not permitted inside the walls of the Citadel. You will either remove yourself, or you will be removed." Ismael frowned, listening carefully to the magus' words. Removed? Why would he be removed, he thought. Slowly and deliberately, he pulled the shield and signet ring from his pocket and dropped them unceremoniously onto the desk, as he said, "Ismael Akopolis. Am reporting to Citadel." *npc* Pushing his glasses back up his nose, the man on the other side of the desk frowned down at the items placed there, and picked up his clipboard, making a clucking sound with his tongue as eyes roved over the list. His mannerisms changed as he found Ismael's name on the list, though when he next spoke, there was disapproval in his voice. "You were expected over four hours ago, sir. Did the driver we send not pick you up at the airport? There should have been one." The man nodded, "Nai. She was there. Told her I would walk. She gave good directions." He shrugged and gave a wide smile, as if that were the end of that portion of the conversation. *npc* "Well, sir, since you're so late, I'm not sure if anyone is still around to brief, or de-brief you, whichever of those it is. If you'd gone with the driver, you would have been -on time-, and could have had your meeting." The magus was annoyed about Ismael's decision to eschew the driver and the ride, and it came through as he picked up the phone and spoke to someone on the other end. "Mr. Akopolis has finally arrived. Will someone be coming down to collect him, or should I tell him to come back tomorrow?"
  13. MDMA

    Sometime in August, 2019 Being back at ARMA felt…strange. It was like nothing changed. Like at all. Shit, at least her neighborhood in Brooklyn got yuppified and the old comic shop she frequented got bought out by Midtown Comics. She could swear that the only change ARMA headquarters had in the past year and a half was a new layer of paint along the hallway to her familiar office. It was like she never left! Sure, some people were gone and some desks looked different, but she didn’t need to be gone for nearly two years to see those kinds of changes. Welp. Them’s the bones right? You expect grand changes and banners and balloons, but tend to just get the same ol’ shit like your existence was just another machination of the universe and no one noticed you were gone. Opening her door slowly, she sneezed as soon as the dust hit her like a freight train. Yup. They left it for her and hadn’t used it since. She wondered if this was the same feeling Joce got everytime she came back through that door and just as quickly walked out. “Home sweet home.” She yawned, realizing how scarily accurate that statement was. Going back to her brownstone didn’t have the same feeling that coming back to ARMA had. This one was more nostalgic, peaceful, like she belonged there and was coming home from a long journey in the belly of a whale. Was this why she kept leaving? To keep getting that feeling like some kind of addict? Falling onto the couch, Kelly placed a single hand over her eyes to let her brain re-gather. It really had been a year and a half hadn’t it? Christ, how did she let the chase go on that long? Why did she keep chasing her? Why did she find herself acting and thinking like her more and more every single day? Grumbling, she fumbled for something under the couch to help with this headache that was starting to form. Did aspirin expire after a year and a half? Welp. Time to find out. Locating it, she opened it quick and popped two without even thinking. Overall, it was a pretty nice vacation come to think on it. She had a lead on what Joce was doing and went after her of course. This lead her from comfy New York to Canada, and then eventually Ireland and Scotland. There, she got caught up in some underground IRA conspiracy and came back with a deeper Irish brogue. Then met some girl name Siobhan, who made that whole Pandora thing seem like a nice walk in the park…which led her back to Albany and she got to spend some time with family for the first time since this whole Order business made her throw them into hiding. God, how long had it been? Two years? Three? Eh, regardless, it was her family that finally got her butt moving again and now she was back in New York and ready to get back to what she did best. Joce was long gone to wherever the fuck she disappears to, and she knew she had to accept that (despite how much she didn’t want to). She couldn’t keep chasing a ghost. Unless it was a banshee, but that was another story entirely. “Dresden? Anyone around?” Molly grumbled again, sitting up against the arm of the couch. “I need to alert the place that I’m back and that Alec needs a smack in the head.” She paused for a moment. “I know he deserved it for some reason.” Another pause. “Anyone?” Silence. Okay. Her life wasn’t a sitcom. Good to know. Stretching, she got up with a little more pep this time and bounced slightly on her feet with the more manic stretches of a little, baby pixie. “Alright. I guess I’m going to have to do this the manual way.”
  14. From Yesterday

    Dark eyes zoomed left and right in rapid fashion as Wesley Evans, ARMA's self proclaimed comic book enthusiast extraordinair scanned the books ahead of him in his pull list, excitement bubbling up within him as he checked off everything for that week. The glee was evident based on his face's grin, as it seemed to grow wider and wider upon each discovery. Sure enough, all of his books were there. In the post Nevus world, pull lists didn't quite work as they did back in the good old days. Literature was in fact becoming more necessary for entertainment purposes due to the unfortunate effect magic had on most forms of tech, and while some businesses still thrived in the new world, there were businesses that were not insured for an apocalyptic event, and those that weren't outright left behind were going to take time to return to their previous prominence. Comic books seemed to always teeter on the edge of irrelevancy however, and because of that, the business was taking especially long to make it's comeback. So instead, people took more to the collecting aspect of comic books. Starting over from old arcs and tracking them down all over the world. From ruined homes and comic shops, to museums. Famous writers even re-released scripts of previously drawn comics for artists out there willing to put pen to paper and revive the medium... and that's what Wesley was so into now. Retellings of stories he grew up on. Known endearingly by the nerd community as Post Nevus Print or Altered Print. Complete with purple "PN" emblem on the bottom left corner of the covers, right above the bar code. "YES! Final issue of Battle Chasers, PN edition! This guy's no Madureira but he's good in his own right. Now I own both runs! Alec's gonna flip when he... sees... this." Wesley's excitement flipped into confusion as he looked to the open door to the left of him only for a second, while talking to the store clerk, only to see a familiar face pass by. Eyes widened in disbelief before he slid the books into a rough stack and shoved them into his messenger bag. "See ya next Wednesday..." he muttered before tossing the bag over his shoulder and rushing out of the door. Wesley wasn't on duty today, so his dress was casual. But then, even on the job he dressed like he didn't care about his appearance. Most often his attire included basically a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Today was no different, though Kelly's return to ARMA reinvigorated Wesley's musical tastes a bit. Black Chucks and skinny jeans, and a black shirt he got from a concert she recommended with the words "I Want Your STD's" emblazoned across the chest certainly gave Wes a more punk rock feel than his dress usually implied about him but anyone that ever rode in a car with him would find dozens of Post-Metal Hardcore, Ska, or Nu Metal CD's to choose from (among other things)... right underneath the 50 or so Hip Hop albums he and Kyle (and recently Alec) accrued over the years. Come to think of it, Wesley didn't know how his car ended up being the Mystery Machine for the younger ARMA members (and Alec)... but it happened. Perhaps it was him emploring them to show him around New York when he first joined ARMA, shortly after moving to New York from North Carolina. Or... perhaps it was because they wanted him to feel included in their reindeer games. No one was gonna follow him to go comic hunting save for his best friend, but they were very inclusive when it came to their own escapades, and Wesley's eagerness to please often resulted in him showing up early for whatever it was they were going to do with a full tank of gas and a story for the road. And now he had at least 1 personal CD from everyone that's ever ridden in the car... which made it homey. His car WAS the hangout spot. Not a means to get there. Yes, that 94 Honda Civic had a lot of miles on it, and a lot of memories in it. Except there was one person in particular that Wesley regretted never pulling into that friendship circle. Someone who was more than welcome, but was working through personal things that kept her right out of arm's reach. Pandora Chapel, someone who reached out to him in the past, who he unintentionally cut ties with when he decided he'd be taking a stance with ARMA. What was an Order initiate doing in the ARMA neck of the woods? "Panda? Is that you?" called out the dread-headed young man as he increased his walking speed to catch up with the woman down the street from him a little ways.
  15. Shipping Up to Boston

    September 4, 2019 Sometime shortly after noon [walker]“Too much of anything is bad, but too much good whiskey is barely enough.”[/walker] A chilly morning had turned to a beautiful day. Perhaps, however, it was not that the day had warmed but that Alec had received word of a full barrel of Yamazaki 1984 sitting in an auction house up in Boston. A barrel of long since discontinued whiskey that was essentially priceless. He was certain he'd be bidding against people with near limitless reserves. Sotheby's had implemented several protections against interference to ensure the safety of the artifacts at auction. What did Alec have to offer? Well, he was earning a decent enough living wage, had saved up, and still had a fair chunk of his resources from before the resonance. But how often did a certified authentic 35 year old barrel of Japanese Whiskey pop up for sale? Alec had texted a fair number of friends and fellow ARMA agents who he knew had an appropriate appreciation for the beautiful golden spirit, and he was preparing to head out onto the open road. Well... into the gridlock of the city, and then out onto the open road. The auction was tomorrow, and he wanted to get into beantown tonight. Alarm chirped: "Here I am!" Alec had always appreciate that about the american-made car. Not that you could exactly miss the bright orange challenger in a parking lot, but it was a nice touch when you unlocked the vehicle. He collapsed into the comfortable bucket seat of the car he alone drove and rifled through the collection of CDs he kept in the glove box as the car idled. Damn. He'd given Wes his copy of Leftoverture. Eh. Save AC/DC for later in the roadtrip. For now, the radio. Of course, radio stations had come back to some extent, but the coverage wasn't phenomenal, and being magically inclined tended to fuck with your ability to receive things like satellite radio, even if that had made its resurgence. So, the voice of an obnoxiously chipper radio jockey streamed through the speakers of Alec's car as he shifted the car into drive.
  16. Ephemeral

    Frantic whispers dulled down to an even less audible whimper as the sound of shuffled feet and wood grew closer. The whispers came from three of the lowest ranked magi Wesley could find; the only ARMA members he could get away with convincing to do his bidding. Two weeks after the explosion that took his brother's life and the incident that left him with a punctured abdomen and several broken ribs, Wesley still felt as though he wasn't 100% despite the efforts of the medical team at HQ's disposal. Mended bones and flesh didn't take as long as it could have without mystical means, but he still felt pain as he walked. Against the wishes of the healers and higher ranked officials he checked himself out of the med-ward early and, with the aid of a wooden cane and a hampered gait, set off to investigate the bombing site on his own. Of course the others investigated the rubble long before his recovery and were understanding enough that they allowed Wes to review their findings afterwards, but it wasn't enough to dissuade him. He needed to find out for himself. So he searched. The first day he did so on his own; just a shovel and his bare hands. The next day he "liberated" one of the necromancy specialists from their station to try to sense out where his brother's corpse may lie, but to no avail. So he brought more, even going as far as to bring some of his brother's belongings to grant a better understanding of his soul... to aid in feeling him out... and still nothing. Today was no different. No one could find a body, yet no one could find proof of his death in the form of residual mana imprinted on the surroundings from the passing of his soul; like a ghast or a ghost. Something that could be considered concrete proof of his death in the absence of an actual body. Leaning on his cane Wesley pivoted back to look over the concerned comrades he'd convinced to follow him again. Days ago they all felt obligated to help in order to ease Wesley's suffering, but now their concern was for his mental state. He had to come to terms with his brother's death eventually, and the sooner the better. But if he wanted his investigation to continue, he had to convince them that he was okay, lest they interfere. "Okay. That's enough. Thanks for all your help but... I can finally accept that he's gone." They looked back at each other for a moment, curious as to whether they should heed his words before eventually walking back to the van that they all rode in to the site. Wesley followed. The ride was a slow and quiet one as no one wanted to cause an emotional outbreak from Wesley. Hours later in the library Wesley turned in the texts he borrowed on dowsing, zombification, necromancy, and séance before heading back home. Before exiting the building a notification on his phone notified him of an email, which he hurried to read. It was again higher ranked officials turning down his request for access to more classified texts on forbidden spells, the fourth time in 4 days. The only way he would acquire access to info of the sort he was looking for was if he could personally persuade a higher ranked official to look the other way or better yet, provide him the resources he was looking for by using their own clearance. So the next day he made his way back to the fallen casino sight alone, and left Alec a voice message requesting his presence. Speaking to him at the scene of the crime would no doubt have more of an effect than in a crowded, camera-watched ARMA HQ. The message was short and sweet as not to seem too emotionally charged. It read: "Important info concerning investigation. Waiting at casino bombing site." He hoped that he would come alone, but couldn't ask him to without tipping him off. And he couldn't call him, lest his friend hear the concern in his voice. So he awaited his response to the text, his stomach turning with each passing second.
  17. Not A Creature Was Stirring

    December 24th, 2018 Christmas Eve; 7:45 p.m. New York Hospital It was almost time for visiting hours to be over. Most would be leaving; visiting family coming to see loved ones that were stuck spending the holidays in the hospital. Some would come back tomorrow while others wouldn't be able to, and then there were those poor souls who didn't have anyone to visit them. That was the saddest thing. Keeley had insisted that she'd be staying the night. That she'd wake up here on Christmas morning with her son. The hospital staff hadn't fought her on it. They'd given up on trying to tell her that staying the night was not in her best interest. She didn't care if it was a strain on her mental well-being or not — she was going to stay. She'd taken days off work just to be here. Had refused invitations from Derrick to do something else. Of course, Derrick had only offered cause plans had changed. Micah was supposed to be awake tonight and tomorrow. Her 8-year-old son should've been excitedly bouncing in his bed; opening early Christmas gifts and waiting for her to read him stories. They always read a book, or two or three, on Christmas Eve. Not this year though. . . Plans changed when Micah's binding slipped two days too early. Alarming enough was that when it slipped unexpectedly that meant he wasn't gradually awoke which always made for a mess. The other alarming factor was that the OFL magus who regularly did the binding had been baffled about why it'd come undone suddenly. His best guess had been that 'something had interfered' though there wasn't any explanation yet as to what. They would, of course, investigate the matter. Keeley wasn't feeling reassured on the matter. What it meant in the end though was that Micah wasn't awake. They'd had to re-do his binding and induce another coma before she'd even been able to get to the hospital. And they'd moved his room further away from other patients. . . after he'd damaged some equipment, scared some patients, and injured at least two nurses. Luckily nobody had been killed. The idea that Micah had been awake for that mess depressed Keeley greatly. It meant that he'd been terrified and alone, and that he'd remember all of it. There weren't anymore tears. She'd cried a lot over this mess the last two days. And honestly? She'd cried so many tears over the last six years that she just didn't have any left at this moment. Bloodshot eyes stared at the silent, wan figure of her son in his bed; hooked up to tubes and IVs and wires completely shut away from the world. A sharp pain drew her gaze down to her hands as she noted the grooves in her hands from where she'd pressed neatly trimmed nails into her skin and broken it. After being sure that it wasn't significant, and that there wasn't any blood, she pushed up from her chair and made for the hall. Sneakers carried her along mindlessly. . . time passing, elevator taken, until she heard the sound of crying. Stopping, she realized that she was in the maternity ward. The place wasn't as active as it would've been prior to Resonance, but there were still births happening in the world. The cycle of life and death continued ever onward. She paused in front of the glass, dark ponytail swaying at the back of her neck, as she pulled her sweater tighter around herself and looked in at the mix of peaceful and squalling tiny faces in their little beds. When she first looked at Micah in his little bed? She had thought everything in her life would turn out differently. She could've never seen this all coming. [keeley]Husband dead, kid in a coma. . . and the both of us fucked up.[/keeley] A bitter laugh passed her lips as Keeley stood there now wondering what future these precious children had to look forward to in this fucked up world.
  18. Martini Bar Early Nightcap

    June 12, 2018 - 7pm There had been an intense relief when he had exited the operating room to find order restored to his sanctuary of blood and pain. Gretchen was once more barking orders to nurses and orderlies and the rest of the shift was as uneventful as fourteen hours in the emergency room could possibly be. Hot water pounded on sore shoulders as his hands rested on the tiled wall. He had spent the better part of seven hours in one surgery or another, bent over operating tables and performing magic where others dared not try. Wet lashes were nearly closed as silver watched the crimson swirl down the drain.. the hazards of working the ER of a city like New York…even his hair had been coated. Long fingers itched over the healing scar at his ribs… the thin line was not even raised anymore. Last week's ER hazard as one gang tried to finish what they had started with another gang in his operating room. Eyes closed as the forehead rested on white tile between his spread palms… sensitive ears listening to the patter of drops as they shattered against his skin… keenly aware that he did not hear the normal flurry of female voices outside the locker room trying to find an excuse to get in… blocked by his ever watchful mother-hen. A last scrub over his hair and features and he snapped the water off. The towel pulled from the wooden bench outside to slice over his skin in rapid succession as he looked at his clothes neatly displayed on hangers where Gretchen had set them hours ago. He was convinced at times that the woman was a saint. The soft dark slacks were pulled on.. belt hanging open as he went to the sink and checked the reflection. It was as he knew it would be, the silvery gray were a bit too molten, like liquid metal pools under icy moonlight. His temper had gotten the better of him several times tonight. He could go months without an eruption but then the lingering PTSD reared its ugly head. Hand snapped through the waves of wet aged mahogany, frowning a bit at the length, wet locks clinging all the way to the base of his neck in the back. He needed a haircut…. and a shave…..both would have to wait… what he needed more than anything right now… was a drink. Fingers paused at the foreign tips, so many years and they still got in the way feeling like false rubber attachments on his ears. He could get them cosmetically altered, he knew some humans that had gone that route to hide that the Nevus had attacked them. After all they were the only outward sign that he wasn’t simple human anymore. Who knows why he didn’t, self abuse perhaps… a constant reminder of all that he had lost, all he could not save. Growling softly under his breath, the heather gray turtleneck was pulled over and tucked neatly inside his pants before the belt was finally done up. Long fingers run several more times through the wet waves before he slid on his shoes and finally slipped out of the ER locker room. The halls were quiet except for Gretchen who already had her coat on to leave, the others likely giving him a wide berth out of his outburst. His leather riding gloves were held out for him as the sigh oozed his chest apologetically… head a bit low as he walked over to the small, round woman and slipped the gloves from her fingers as he laid a kiss on her cheek… A damn godsend…… [npc]..Goodnight Dr Asher….[/npc] [declan]Goodnight Gretchen...….[/declan] They never said more than that on nights like this, she seemed to know that there was something deep behind his outbursts. By tomorrow he would find that his schedule would be short, someone else covering the later part of the shift… she was that damn good. The ’42 Harley felt good under him, restored engine thundering loudly as he kicked it out into the night air, whipping between cars like a teenager on a Hayabusa. He had a tendency to push the vintage bike beyond what it was made for, especially on nights like this, when the simmer of rage was so close to the surface and all he wanted to do was have the wind whip it away. By the time he reached the Lounge, the anger in his heart was cooler. The bike was set up near the bouncer who nodded at the doctor… he was a regular here. Bike safely chained to the lamppost, he headed inside, shaking hands with the big guy as he passed, a large bill slipped into the palm as he did every night he came to be sure his bike was still there when he came out. In this part of town it wasn’t that much of a threat, the Lounge known for being of a higher class than other bars in the area. But he had a particular liking of that bike and it never hurt to stay in the good graces of the employees here. Besides... money was something he had plenty of... and frankly he didn’t really spend it on anything else. It was early yet.. the place fairly deserted. This was typical fair for the doctor… they were used to him finishing his shift here. [declan]Evening Ethan..….[/declan] [npc].. usual Doc?..[/npc] He smiled and nodded as he slid onto a leather bound stool at the bar as the tender set to flipping a crystal highball glass over onto the counter to prep his vodka tonic. Ethan only ever used Stolichnaya Elit vodka, expensive but the good doctor’s preference and he always made it a bit more vodka than tonic. The glass slid his way and he offered a smile before taking the first sip… [npc].. rough day?..[/npc] The man was too keen a bartender, he tended to notice when the doctor was a bit more drained than usual. He sipped his vodka before answering to ensure nothing came out snarly at the man.. the smile that was offered was genuinely tired. [declan]Lost a few today and had some pretty nasty construction accidents come in….bit more than we normally see...[/declan] The man nodded heading back to organizing his liquors but not before he slid a small bowl of cashews towards the doc who rarely ordered any food when he came in for his after work nightcap. Long fingers pushed through the damp bangs, the waves flipping down to lay against his temples as he sipped again. There was another bar waiting for him at home, between the two he sought respite from the hell that was now his life.
  19. Art Under the Stars

    A new kid on the block, introducing my character Charlie Steele. Please feel free to jump in for a little lighthearted (or not?) interaction, all comers welcome. Street Festival West 21st St, Chelsea 9:30pm ‘Art Under the Stars’ they called it, which was laughable because who ever heard of being able to see the stars in New York City? There was far too much pollution in the air for any such ambiance. Of course the Nevus was visible…but then it was always visible from anywhere in the world. ‘Art Under the Nevus’ held a much more ominous ring to it, not really what the event was going for. West 21st Street between 8th and 9th Avenue had been shut down entirely, and open only to foot traffic. It was now the scene of bustling activity as vendors hurriedly set up their tables and food trucks clustered around the intersections to jostle for prime positioning. Between the street lamps and the awnings of local businesses hung gossamer strands of lighting, a few nightclubs and bars added their own touch of neon and the spill of ponderous bass into the riotous mix of noise and scent. A few musicians did combat with the clubs’ techno, interweaving their own brand of melody between each opened-door crescendo. Early perusers already had begun to flock to the event, and curiously eyed half-unpacked tables or cued up around the more popular trucks waiting for them to open for business. At least the evening hours had finally given a reprieve from the more stifling heat of the day. A breeze picked up, offering much needed ventilation, and the worst of the humidity was lifting. Charlie was thankful for small blessings as she dodged between raucously laughing groups of tourists and a few other artists balancing similar stacks of their work. Her spot was already claimed with a small table and several easels set up, but it wasn’t easy to choose which pieces should be displayed. In the end, she’d settled on a selection of smaller watercolors and a few oil paintings, along with half a dozen examples of stoneware-clay sculpting that she’d been immersed in recently. Mostly simpler and lower-ticket items, but that’s what she anticipated selling at an event like this. It was much lower-brow than a gallery open-house, but she really needed the exposure. The armful of framed canvases thumped against her hip with every step and hampered her natural grace, making every movement feel clumsy as she tried to wind her way through the throngs without dropping anything. It was a relief when she could finally lay them gently on the tabletop of her stand, would have been just her luck to damage something en route. Fortunately it seemed to have all survived the short trip. Canvases were sorted and attractively arranged on display while sculptures and the few thrown-vessels spread over flat surfaces along with a collection of business cards intended to direct the interested towards her studio. Charlie unfolded a chair and settled in for the evening, laying a sketch pad across her lap. No one liked a pushy saleswoman, or someone watching them like a hawk while they browsed. Sketching gave her something innocuous to do while she surreptitiously people-watched.
  20. Alec collapsed into a bar seat around 8 PM and signaled the barkeep. He'd spent the day chasing idiots around the city because they'd stolen some piece of crap or another that ARMA wanted... or more accurately didn't want anyone else to have. Usually, the bearded mage kept track of all the things people did that put him on their trail, but he was exhausted, preoccupied, and it was that most accursed day of the week-Monday. [Walker] Blue Label, neat. [/Walker] Brown eyes sped around the bar, a bit late for threat detection, but worthwhile nonetheless. Hipsters in the corner drinking what looked like those old Pabst cans. How did hipsters even exist anymore? They were a pox on the land for years, and some annoyed vampire hadn't killed them all yet? There were women clustered together, drinking down fruity frozen drinks and cackling like a bunch of clucking chickens. Alec grumbled under his breath. [Npc]Your blue label. [/npc] A thankful grunt from the mage. Money slid across the bar absent mindedly. [Walker] Let's start a tab here. 'Sider that collateral. [/Walker] Why bother being sober when you can get drunk off good, clean-burning alcohol? Especially when you don't have to open one of your own bottles to do it. Watchful eyes continued to sweep the room as a deep breath sampled the flavor of the scotch before it even touched his lips. It smelled rancid, like moonshine. [Walker]What in hell's blazes are you trying to pull here? This ain't whiskey! You might be able to trick thsee here whimpering shits with their "craft" beers and drinks so fruity they can't taste the alcohol, but I have NEVER met a man so twisted he tried to doctor blue label. [/Walker] By this point, veins were popping out of Alec's forehead and neck. [Walker]It just. AIN'T. RIGHT! [/walker] Alec had just grabbed the bartender over the counter and pulled him straight over the bar.
  21. And the world erupted...

    January 17, 2018 7pm A thunderous blast is mistaken for an earthquake in a 10 block radius of the old Casablanca Hotel in Times Square. Brick and mortar sent flying into the square, embedding in buildings across the street as flames erupt out of windows that shatter into a dusting of glittered glass to the street below. The hotel was in the process of being converted into small condos and was known for being "altered" friendly. 23 units were already occupied. Blood is staining the sidewalk. It is difficult to tell if its from those inside the building or those unfortunate enough to be on the street at the time. People, injured and uninjured are staggering out of the way, bricks continuing to drop from the edifice as the lick of flames begins to blow out floor after floor of windows from the old hotel, clearly fed by an accelerant. There is the whisper of "Vanguard" on the street while the whine of sirens begins to make its way to the roaring fire. NOTE: Can be chaotic posting order
  22. In A Dirty Glass

    Friday, October 3rd 10pm He dropped to his knees and then fell forward, bracing himself on his hands. His stomach constricted and Bishop could feel his breakfast bubbling up inside of him. He absolutely hated travelling like this, but with the threat of the dragon Azazel and his minions' propensity for bringing down planes, it was decidedly safer to travel like this, teleporting across the country. Stomach heaved again and its contents sprung up, depositing themselves on the floor in front of him. He could feel the eyes of the magus upon him, the smirk on the man's face as Bishop's stomach heaved, again emptying itself. Shaking his head, he reached up with an arm, wiping the back of it across his mouth. Unsteadily, he pushed himself up to his feet. "You're sure there's no way we can make the transition from LA to here any smoother?" he asked, as he spat on the floor. Hands adjusted the well-worn green hoodie he was wearing as he turned towards the man. "I could, but you probably wouldn't survive the trip. This kind of thing isn't exactly meant for travelling across an entire continent," the magus replied. "From one room to another, maybe a few blocks away. What you're having me do about kills me, let alone you." Bishop grunted, and handed the man a small stack of cash. "Yeah, I'd rather just keep breathing. Be nice at least if I didn't loose my fucking breakfast every time I did this, though." The other snickered, shoved the money into a pocket and started to walk away. "Give me a ring when you're ready to go back. Try not to be a 'drunk at 3am' kind of thing again." Bishop reached up and ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair and started walking in the opposite direction. He was going to need a drink to clear the taste of puke from his mouth. As fortune, or foresight, would have it, there was a bar a few blocks over. It was a complete dive, but he didn't care. They served whiskey, and whiskey could get the taste of almost anything out of your mouth. The brief trek was made in under ten minutes, and as he stepped through the door, he inhaled deeply. The inside of the bar smelled like stale beer and there was a fine haze of cigarette smoke hanging down from the ceiling. He didn't really care much about either of those things, as long as the whiskey was decent. So he walked right up to the bar, which was already fairly pressed with flesh, and nudged a drunk off a stool. The man glared up from the ground as he regained what remained of his alcohol-dulled senses and seemed about to try something, until Bishop showed the briefest flash of a badge at from beneach the bottom of his hoodie. It didn't really matter that the badge wasn't actually his, since despite the Nevus happening, it was a pretty good deterrent against most people, human or otherwise. Nobody particularly wanted the might of the NYPD or any other police department cracking down on their lives. Bishop threw the man a quick wink, before settling down on the recently vacated stool, and leaned across the bar and flagged down one of the people on the other side. "Two fingers of Bushmills, splash of water."
  23. Boardwalk Sunset

    August 20th, 2017 9pm Leaning on the railing of the pier for a moment, Mari's strange eyes focused on the sunset out over the water. The sounds of Coney Island down the beach aways could be heard, it would seem no matter how the world went to shit, there would always be those who hunted for fun. In one hand, Mari held her green flats, allowing her bare feet to feel the boardwalk when she chose to walk, but more importantly, to feel the hot sand. It was still so strange to feel things with her human skin instead of her scales. Her golden toenails shimmered in the fading light of the sun as the lamps that lined the boardwalk began to flicker on. Her long fingernails matched perfectly with her toes, but little did anyone guess that it wasn't polish that gave them their strange color. Her shoulder length blonde hair was left down so she could feel the wind pulling it's intangible fingers through the silken strands. Mari wore her favorite red and white striped strapless bikini, over which she'd pulled a sheer gold cover that reached the tops of her thighs and set off the gold flecks in her blue and green eyes. Over one shoulder she carried a green shoulder bag with a decal of a mermaid across the front flap, she'd found it in a little shop and thought it looked like her mom a bit. Hanging off the bag was a blue water bottle, though she didn't really need it being this close to the ocean, she could just go jump in after all. In her other hand was some sugary confection the humans called an Elephant Ear, she had no idea why it was called that but the taste of it was like fireworks on her tongue. So far she liked everything she'd seen during her time spent on land, it was so vastly different from the depths of oceans. The two just simply could not be compared, though she doubted she'd ever want to have to choose between them. An idea seemed to strike her then and she swung down under the railing of boardwalk and lept the short distance down into the sand only to sit down and cross her legs in front of her. She balanced the elephant ear on one knee and pulled off her shoulder bag so she could rifle through it for a moment. From it's depths she produced one of her sketch pads and a box of drawing pencils which she set on the sand within reach. Flipping her sketch pad open to a new page, she picked up one of the charcoal pencils and began to draw, all the while humming softly to herself. She didn't know anyone in New York yet, and she still hadn't worked up the courage to hunt down her father. She'd just been exploring.
  24. Dressed You Up

    Location: Midtown Manhattan, New York “Times Square” Date: January 01, 2018 Time: 12:04AM -- So, she had done it. She’d made it. Erika had finally gone along with the cliché and allowed herself to be down in Times Square for the big ball drop. The singer should have been happy to blend in so easily with the crowd. The redhead wasn’t so well known that she would have been performing on stage, but she still enjoyed the bands playing. Instead of losing herself for a time, she’d grown more withdrawn. The last six hours, Erika had been on edge, twitchy almost. It was cold outside, bitterly so and yet she felt like she was sweating. Her body temperature was up, which to the musician meant one thing. Gritting her teeth, Erika slowly made her way through the crowds, past the couples kissing for New Year’s Day. A man on leave from the military had proposed to his girlfriend and instead of speaking or clapping, she just moved quickly past them. How many years now had she watched people proposing marriage or other things to each other all because the camera was suddenly pointed on them? How often did she see it on TV? Was there anything really spectacular about Times Square? Senses almost bombarded with sound and lights from all directions, the redhead managed to hold herself together until she reached the edge of an alley. Sniffing lightly and pulling her coat closer to her body, she pressed her back to the freezing stone, willing the chill to cool her body down. If she could without drawing too much attention, the singer would have stripped herself bare and gone running down the streets. Hot…so hot… Seconds ticked by, her heartbeat beginning to pound in her ears, each rhythmic thump sounding like a sledgehammer battering at the wall behind her. Flaring her nostrils to try and suck in more cold air wasn’t helping at all. The heat coursing through her veins now was almost unbearable. Her fingers twitched, her hands balling up into fists at her sides as she decided to just let her coat hang free. You wanted to come out here… She reminded herself angrily. Despite the risks. Her face was flushed, and the singer was struggling to keep her composure. Beginning as a trickle at her temple, sweat was beginning to run in rivulets down her back. The full moon was barely over a day away. Stupid, stupid! She should have stayed home! It was how cold out here? And yet she looked like she was suffering through the summer with too many clothes on. In a way, she was… Her own personal summer.
  25. Hands in the Air!

    Abby here, and a detective specializing in violent crimes. She works for the NYPD and is a regular humie, but she's tough despite her looks. It's already hard enough being a cop in these times, let alone normal, but I'm open to getting Abby involved in any NYPD related phenomena or other things. Meeting other normies would be great, but so would meeting other races. I don't know about there being other cops, but I do notice other groups with similar ideals to keep the streets (and the world) safe. I am open to many ideas!