Animation Source Forums

PLOT:

This role-play has a "developmental plot." Meaning, it's plot progresses and unfolds as the members of the "game" post, offering new

RULES:

- Advanced role players only. PM me a sample of your post(s), and I will decide if you can participate or not. (This means I'm asking for "novel" posts, not one-liners.)
- Follow the site rules.
- Use only your original characters -- not your friend's.
- Please, don't use only animals. I'd like to have humans as much as possible here. ;]
- Don't forget your character descriptions! You don't have to post their biography, but tell us how the character is so we "know" the character. c:
- Feel free to comment, but do not ask to join via comment. PM me for that.

Approved Members:
- Kirada
- Adiko the Useless
- LoveStruckJuliet (Miracl)




Opening Post: Kirada

Jorje MacNiall sat hunched in his seat at Boomer's bar, the tail of his brown Corduroy shirt, used as a working overshirt, hanging down behind him, slightly off the chair. In one hand, cradled between his index and middle finger, sat a cigarette. It was about half-burned down now, the ashes leaning dangerously as if they were about to fall onto the glassy finish of the bartop. In his other hand, a short glass of brandy, also nearly untouched.

His dark blue jeans were worn down, almost white on the thighs and around the knees. His feet, as usual, were clad in steel-toe construction boots. Judging by the dirt accumulated on the sleeves of his jacket and pantlegs, as well as the mud on his boots, one could assume he'd just gotten off of work. Even his navy blue shirt was slightly dirtied. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled crudely up, nearly to his elbows. This exposed his lightly tanned, muscularly toned arms.

His slate eyes focused on the sweat gathering on the glass as he fingered it, spacing out. Jorje was definitely not a small guy, and a fierce-looking man at that. He always looked angry, and normally wore a pair of black sunglasses that hid his gorgeous eyes. He pivoted slightly in his chair to scour the faces in the bar. Young women, drunk and probably underaged, hitting on men that were probably mated. Some couples and not-so-couples dancing in the darkened area, the "dance floor," in an array of loud, gaudy music and flashing rainbow-colored lights. Jorje sighed, turning back to the bar and drinking his entire brandy in one swig. He let out a sigh of relief, enjoying the soft sting of the fluid.

The bartender, her towel stuck inside of a Miller glass, watched the display with widened eyes. She wore black slacks and a professional white blouse -- her apron was probably under the bar.

"Uhm," she stammered, setting down the previous glass. "Would you like some more, sir?" She was nervous.

"Yeah, only this time make it something a little more sweet," Jorje practically snapped as he replaced his sunglasses. He hated it when people stared at his eyes, he hated them. They were so 'mesmerizing' and so 'beautiful,' they caused him to wish they were just plain old blue or brown, not slate.

He blinked when the bartender placed a red glass in front of him. Putting both hands down on the bar, his arms limp, he stared at it for a moment before looking back up to the tender. His expression didn't change -- blank, always blank. "Thanks, uhm..." He paused, realizing he didn't even know this woman's name. He leaned forward a little, looking for her name tag. As he did so, the ashes from his cigarette fell onto the bar. He leaned back, brushing them away. "Melanie," he repeated the text on the tag.

She beamed. "You're welcome... Uh... So... are you from around here?"

"No." He took a drink.

"Then how'd you get here?"

"I walked," he said, flashing her a smile.

He'd made a mistake. Her face began to flash red. Just what he needed... He turned, looking at the people dancing again. "It's pretty cold out there, almost like when it snows." He wasn't going to give her the chance for conversation. "If you don't mind, talk to your cook and ask him to bring me the usual. He knows who I am, he knows where I sit." With that said, he weaved through the crowd to find his spot -- an always-empty booth in the back of the bar. Hell, it was so busy tonight it was the only booth open. He shrugged it off, sliding in to continue sitting like he was at the bar. This time, he pulled a red leather-covered book from his pocket, opened it, and began to read, ignoring the world around him.

Schnauzer made a face as he headed into the stuffed bar.
Wearing a leather vest and a trenchcoat, and being a werewolf, he was sensative to the cold outside. It bit into his bones with a harsh fire and set his teeth on edge, sending shivers down his body as he rubbed his finger-less gloved hands together.
If the cold wasn't bad enough, the reason he was out /in/ the cold didn't make it any better. Three months ago, he'd finally gotten bought out of the black market. He escaped from his master, and shortly afterward a werewolf hunter had found him. He'd been running ever since, never staying in one place for longer then a couple days. He couldn't afford to wait around for the hunter, and from the three times they'd fought he knew he couldn't stand up to the human.
It realy wasn't fair, how strong hunters were.
Shaking his head, Schnauzer rubbed his hand over his face, grimacing at the frozen tip of his nose. Still, the warmth of this place, filled with busy humans, served to warm him and he made a pleased noise.
Lowering his tousle-haired head, he started towards the back of the bar, prefering not to leave himself in anyone's memory. Gods forbid one of them was or knew a hunter.
Groaning at his lack of a life, he let his amber eyes flick over to a man that was sitting in the second to last booth. He locked his eyes on that of the man, and after he stared at the human for a few minutes, it stood and slid out of the booth.
There was a blank look on the human's face, and it left it's glass on the table, but Schnauzer knew it would be fine in a little while. He just wanted to sit down and be left alone.
He slid into the booth so that his back would be to the door, and he looked across from himself to where a man had his face burried in a leather-bound book.
'Respectable human,' he thought, until he caught a whiff of the male's scent. 'Or not human.'
He tilted his head a little, but before he could try to narrow down what the man was, the door of the bar opened again and, even over the scents of all the the humans, Schnauzer could tell the scent of the hunter that was after his head. His eyes widened fearfully.
'Oh, ******...' he thought.

Jorje glanced up from his book without moving his head, looking over the two newcomers. One with a pallor look to his face, eyes wide like a doe in the headlights of a blaring semi. The other, with... wine? His brow furrowed as he raised his head to look at the newest male.

He pushed his sunglasses back up as they slid slightly with the movement, lifting one eyebrow in a questioning stare. "Hello," he drawled in an Olde Scottish accent. His eyes moved to the skittish one, and he looked slightly confused again. But he was quick to exile any emotion from his face, going back to the pallor "meaner" looking male from before. He closed his book with a sigh, placing it in the satchel next to him on the booth.

He shook his now half-empty Brandy glass, staring into it like he was having a staring contest with it. He watched the ice move with a slight tingle noise, the sweat on the side of the glass dribble down the fall on the bar. He seemed fascinated by it. He didn't pay heed to most of the scents in the bar -- but he loved the scent of the women there. The soft, flowery scent of their perfume and just their skin or laundry detergents. Something so simple, yet so calming...

With a slight rush of cool air, he looked up. A pallor-skinned woman had entered the bar. She had long, jet-black hair with a slight wave to it, with bangs that hung over the left side of her eye. She was slender, standing at about 5'6" -- and looked to be about 120 pounds or less -- and wore well-fitting blue jeans, a black tee-shirt, and a black duster that brushed the floor innocently in her wake. She held the sides, just below her hip, to turn the coat and make sure no passerby in the busy bar would catch it and tear it, or stumble.

Jorje stood, his face brightening with a smile as the girl approached. He opened his arms, laughing. "Kirada!" He bellowed, pulling her into a hug.

"Jorje," the girl said, the same smile on her face now. Her voice was soft and angelic, with the same Scottish accent as Jorje's. She patted the back of his shoulder, looking over him to his booth. Her eyes narrowed at the glass of Brandy, and she pointed to it. "Drinking again, are we?"

He now had a sort of boyish, caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar look to him as he chuckled. "Uhm, well. You see... It's here," he gave up on the excuses. "Why let it go to waste?"

Kirada rolled her eyes. "Brother, you've always been the one to fall to temptation," she said jokingly with a wink.

Jorje glared at her maliciously. "Sit down, you little twirp, before I knock you down."

Kirada laughed, smiling at the two men as she passed with a small 'excuse me' and sat. She nodded to the satchel. "Have you been enjoying the book?"

"Only as much as I can," he said, lifting a hand. In a moment, the tender had sent a waitress over to the table with Jorje's food from before. There was enough for two -- which explains that the meeting was prearranged. "There's a hunter here," he told her in a strange, foreign tongue. "And the man behind you, he's not 'human.' I can smell their stenches from here."

Kirada turned, looking around. "Aye," she said, taking a drink from the glass of water that came with the food. "No matter, we'll leave them be and hope for the same."

Jorje only rolled his eyes in response before filling his mouth with food.

Schnauzer wasn't even paying attention to the others around him any more, sitting stiff-backed and wide-eyed in his booth.
'******,' he cursed mentally, 'Can I never get a freaking break?' His fingers tightened until they were white on the abandoned glass and he groaned, his pointed ears perked for the movements of the Hunter. He was just barely aware of vaguely attractive male abandoning his seat, and returning with a woman.
Their conversation barely drifted through his pointed years; his hearing was focused on the Hunter, tracking him. Being an undying optimistic, he made the excuse to himself that perhaps the Hunter only stopped in for a drink. After all, that was pretty much why Schnauzer himself had come in.
His hopes were dashed, though, as a faint, distinctive, click sounded at the Hunter's side. Crossbow.
"What is it with Immortal Hunters and their ***** bows" he grumbled under his breath, his claws ripping through the table and his hand crushing the glass.
"... Good bye, ***," he groaned. If the Hunter hadn't been after him already, he was going to be now.
Gritting his teeth and preparing for the fight, the trench-coated werewolf got to his feet. 'This couldn't be more perfect if a vampire was here to laugh at my dying face,' he thought dully, his brilliant amber eyes locking on the Hunter's.
Whereas the Hunter was smirking, Schnauzer bore a resigned look of hate. To die was an adventure he didn't want to take just yet.