Topic: Darkest Horror

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This topic contains 38 replies, has 14 voices, and was last updated by inutil0bscuridad inutil0bscuridad 2 years, 6 months ago.

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  • #214867
    relishness oblivion
    relishness oblivion
    Participant

    Darkness loomed inside the small, deteriorated ‘apartment’, crawling up the walls and under the bed. It lurked quietly. Waiting. The perspective was currently locked onto the frail wooden door, a bead of water dripped down from the roof, from a crack above. With the rotting wood grain of the door, the muffled chatter beneath the floorboards and tickles of the moons tears trickling down the pane of his murky window. A tear occurs at one side of the wall, a strip of wallpaper curls downward slowly, revealing the naked brick-wall behind it. At an increased pace, more and more of the wallpaper begins to tear down violently. Wild Rakes resembling that of a bear strike across the right side of the wall, and the tearing becomes so loud to the point where it be-

    The tearing stops. Each stale piece of torn wallpaper droops silently to the creaking floorboards of the desolate room. Everything is silent, and the only thing that could be heard was the violent rainfall that ensued outside.

    ‘Knock Knock’. An audible thud could be heard coming from behind the door, but only two knocks permitted through the door. A trickle of dust fell down from the crack, and the dripping seemed to increase in it’s intensity. ‘CRACK’ The thud against the door was even louder than before, and the door visibly jolted from the force that it had endured. After a few seconds passed, the same intensity of thudding would ensue almost non stop. The door began to creak and cracks began to form on the door. Each crack of wood sounded similar to that of a bone breaking in half, or a skull being crushed. With one final thud, a shower of splinters, wood pieces and dust sprinkled down upon the man, and a small circular hole was what was left upon the front of the door. The rest of it seemed somewhat intact. Through the hole… there was a whisper of coldness. A slither of dread and despair that shivered down his spine. It was an unnatural darkness that even the man could state that something was off about it.

    Quite violently, and seemingly giving no warning of it’s occurrence, the perspective suddenly shifted and distorted itself. Strips of shadow and twists of reality bent across the man’s peripheral vision before it had stopped and an image was formed. The perspective was now showing the underside of his bed, which portrayed a… unsettling darkness that he could not penetrate. He had kept his briefcase and cane down there, but he couldn’t see anything… nothing at all.

    There was an unmistakable chill that crawled through his legs, and up to his neck. The hairs on his arms, chin and basically around his body stood up, and goosebumps began to form. He widened his eyes, the sensation of ‘feeling’ had began to slip away from him. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t look away. Hyperventilating and cold sweats were what struck him first, his fists clenching hard as he tried to break free but he could not break the invisible chain that was holding him down.

    ‘Click’ A hammer was pulled back, the hammer of a revolver cocked backwards. He heard the chamber turn and click into place… and a Smith & Wesson M1917 Revolver had extended from the shadows. Nothing seemed to hold the gun, or was it the shadowy arm, constructed by a malignant entity in order to access this physical object of dangerous intent. Nevertheless, the nozzle of the barrel pressed against the man’s glabella, the metallic ring pressing hard against his temple. He blubbered nonsense, his eyes became bloodshot as he frantically tried to es-

    The trigger was pulled, and a boom like thunder echoed through the man’s ears.

    Tommy awoke.

    He had been resting in a small, but creaky chair beside his bed, a small oak desk occupied various ammunition and gun parts, along with his bedside table that had upon it a small oil lamp. His bed was comfortable enough, but it wasn’t there to impress. No lavish silk sheets or puffy cushions. He would do no bedding, hopefully. No point getting side tracked. Tommy looked from left to right inside his room, small beads of sweat dripped down his face. He breathed quickly, clearly startled from the night terror he had just encountered. As he looked about, he noticed that something fairly weighted was resting in his lap. His revolver, Smith & Wesson M1917 Revolver, sat between his legs. He hadn’t touched it however, there was no indication of any markings upon the grip, nor was the chamber filled with any munitions. For a moment, he merely stared before he scoffed under his breath and held his head in his hands. The rough, blackened leather gloves rubbed harshly against his face, and he pressed his mustache firmly apart as a result. Dragging his gloved hands down his face, he sat there for a moment and looked up at the roof with his eyes closed.

    “Pft.” Tommy exclaimed sharply through his throat, his eyes glancing down toward the end of the bed. There was a small capsule of alcohol that laid upon the sheets, enveloped within the thin fabric. Leaning forward, he snatched the capsule and unscrewed the bottle and took a sip. Almost immediately upon consumption, he spat it out and recoiled violently, retching and dry heaving the strength of the alcohol, “Filthy fucking swindler!” Tommy growled as he threw the container across the room. He had bought this alcohol off the street outside his resting place, from a small child with a basket full of murky bottles of alcohol. Spitting onto the floorboards, Tommy stood up from his chair, stashing away his revolver inside his overcoat, where there was a built in holster on the left side of his overcoat. He was a right Tommy, not a lefty Tommy. After making sure his revolver was properly safe and secured, he placed both hands upon the wooden grain of his desk and looked about for a moment, “Now where the bloody… Ah…” Tommy mumbled as his right hand slid down to the wooden knob of his desk and withdrew a small, dirty white pouch. Inside, a bountiful amount of .45 ACP Caliber rounds lay inside, which jingled happily when they were lifted. Tossing the bag up and down in the air, Tommy snorted and stuffed the bag inside his overcoat pocket. Turning around, he slicked his left hand around the head of the oak cane, bending his back downward and twisting the bottom of it, and after a few twists he nodded calmly to himself.

    Mumbling inaudible things to himself, Tommy looked about the interior of his room, his right hand patting about his overcoat, mainly the front of back pockets. There was a tough object inside his left pocket, two small cylindrical wooden grips and a thick piece of coat wire. A garotte, used for… specific moments. Also, A soft jingle emitted from his left pocket and he smiled, withdrawing a small key from beneath his makeshift garotte that he had used since he proper one had been snapped, the key itself was given to him by Ms.Michelle upon paying the fee to live here. Calmly, Tommy moved toward the door. The heels of his shoes clacking against the floorboards as he made his way there. Speaking of which, a small coat hanger lay just beside the door, with a black fedora resting on one of the hooks. With practiced hand, he flicked the fedora off the hook and spun it in between his fingers before he slotted it upon his head sideways, then moved his right index finger to the tip of his fedora and readjusted it so it was facing in front. Once he had reached the door, he looked down at the lock and fumbled for his key, slotting it in and opening the door. The door creaked slowly, exposing his presence and possibly heard to the other inhabitants of this set of rooms. Stepping out into the hallway, Tommy made his left foot awkwardly tap against the frame of the door, pushing it inward and shutting it with medium force. He turns around, rotating himself upon his heels and locking the door quickly. He stashes the keys quickly into his pocket, and begins to make his way out of the building.

    VanityPirate - "Banished to the elephant graveyard"

    Blood trail killer - "It's like a thumbs up but with Parkinson's tho."

    #214871
    Azmoham.
    Azmoham.
    Participant

    (Wait, so KidneyKin, you’re not gonna participate just read? That’s a novel idea…pun absolutely intended. Also glad to see this finally kicked off!)

    "He that wounded me
    Hath hurt me more than had he killed me dead..."
    -Titus Andronicus

    "I cannot prove a lover,
    To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
    I am determined to prove a villain
    And hate the idle pleasures of these days."
    -Richard III

    The spirit of adventure is forever, you dumbass!

    #214901
    Speaker of Truths
    Speaker of Truths
    Participant

    Slickness. Smoothness. Panache. The weapons in the arsenal of the socialite are many and subtle, but no less deadly for their subtlety, and Brandon MacHeath is a master of their use. He hums softly to himself as he runs his comb through his hair in front of the small mirror on his vanity. There is an art to it, being beautiful without being pretentious. Not an easy art, either. So many things to weigh, especially when considering one’s audience.

    He sets the comb down, clicking his tongue with satisfaction, and goes to select a colongne. Sure, some might consider fragrance to be a luxury, but anyone who would comment on such a thing would reveal themselves to be entirely without class. Frangrance is a part of presentation, and no one should want to present as someone who has been crouched over a ledger all day. His hand hovers over the glass bottles, fingers tracing labels and etched stoppers. Citrus is too fanciful for a place like the Hooked. Musk is for business arangements, an aromatic show of power. His hand stops, selecting a crystal spritzer three quarters full of ared-amber. Apple Brandy. Crisp, with the tartness of an autumn breeze. Strong enough to survive the storm, but subtle enough as to not overwhelm. Sexy and suggestive, like a well-aged liquor, with all the quiet danger that suggests in this day and age. An aroma as sharp as a razor’s edge. Perfect.

    A light spritz on the wrists, the wrists touched to the side of the neck. Setting the spritzer down, he turns to his wardrobe, selecting the pieces of his portrait for the day. First, a white cotton dress shirt, well-pressed and wrinkle-free. Loose of collar, so that it will not obstruct his singing, with material just transparent enough that the tattoos on his forearms are almost visible through the sleeves, while the sleeveless undershirt conceals the more damning ones on his back. Over them, a dark smoking jacket, with custom cufflinks. Ravens in flight, done is sterling with red glass eyes. A wool greatcoat, to ward off the storm, of course, and a matching hat, to be swiftly discarded once indoors. No cane today. It doesn’t seem like a can sort of morning. Again, pretention.

    Last, but not least, the finishing touch. Brandon rolls up his sleeves, and wraps thin bits of leather over the Celtic knot on his left arm. On to them he ties a sheathed knife, the ornate horn-and-hide hilt within easy reach should need be. He reaches over and draws the blade slightly, inspecting the steel edge with approval. A quick snap and it is back it its sheath, the multiple sleeve rolled back down, and Brandon is ready for his day off. He climbs down the ladder from his loft into his office, and then it is a short walk to the door. He pushes it open, affixes the Closed sign to the door, and locks up for the day. From there, it’s off to the Hooked. As he starts walking, he looks up appreciatively into the grey and drizzly morn, and begins singing outright, though softly enough to not disturb the late risers by the dock.

    “Oh the shark, has pretty teeth, dear, and he shows them pearly white…”

    And so he goes, prancing merrily along on his way to his favorite den of debauchery. Sure, it’s a bit early for serious drinking, but it’s not just about revelry. The worth of being seen cannot be measured. Everybody knows his name, and making sure that no one can forget it is his trade. Being present is essential. So down these mean, rainy streets goes a man who is not himself mean, but rather smiling cheerily with a song on his lips. As is natural for German Opera, however, his plans take a turn downhill when this suddenly become quite morbid. The lyrics of the opera coincide perfectly with his path taking him across Town Square.

    “On a sidewalk Sunday morning, there’s a body leaking life… Sweet Mary, what have we here?” Brandon stops his singing, and glances about the scene, his grin becoming much smaller.

    This statement = lie

    Spoiler

    Tam Lin
    Health: 26/26
    Stress: 0/100
    Gold: 0
    Daveed Emanuel Garrett
    Health: 27/27
    Stress: 0/100
    Gold: 0
    Rachael Sera
    HP: 21/21
    Stress: 0/100
    Gold: 0

    [collapse]

    #214906
    Rumsztyk
    Rumsztyk
    Participant

    Rain. Days like these, Borewicz appreciated self-employment.

    A peek at the dwindling alcohol stash later, he was sipping coffee and going over the recent case files, planning out the day. Allegedly cheating husband #1, allegedly cheating husband #2… One thing he learned over the years: don’t hire a PI if you can’t afford to hire a lawyer.

    *RING RING*

    “Borewicz, Private Investigator. How can I help?” he recited the formula with an indifferent face. “Viktor! How are you doi-” his face brightened, if only for a split second. “Give me a moment.”

    The files flew into a corner, he’ll worry about the mess later. With a notepad and a pencil, he asked his friend to continue. A few moments of meticulous scribbling later: “Thanks a lot, Vik. I owe you one.” The phone landed with a loud clatter, and silence ensued.

    He started grabbing his bearings, with swift but not overly hurried movement. Colt? Check. Knuckles? Check. Notepad and pencil? Check. Coat? Check. Fedora? Check. Umbrella? Check. Shot of liquid courage? *gulp* Check. Cigs? “Fuck.” Gotta make do. He couldn’t even afford a cab, meaning some good, old fashioned legwork.

    I hate rain.

    Spoiler

    George Steele
    HP 38/38
    Stress 20/100
    Gold 0

    Ibrahim bin Omer
    HP 19/19
    Stress 64/100
    Gold 0
    George's and Ibrahim's sheets

    Angelica
    HP 22/22
    Stress 20/100
    Gold 500

    Angelica's sheet

    Sister Maia
    HP 26/26
    Stress 25/100
    Gold 100

    Grom
    HP 23/23
    Stress 3/100
    Gold 0

    [collapse]
    #214911
    Kidneykin
    Kidneykin
    Participant

    (Labrador said no more people allowed to reply, so can’t participate, at least, that what i think it means)

    I’m out of my head
    Of my heart and my mind
    'Cause you can run but you can’t hide
    I’m gonna make you mine

    #215131
    black379
    black379
    Participant

    Light, however overcast, pervaded the small window, defining shapes from the waning perpetual shadow. Something akin to a whimper or a sigh accompanied a rustle of cloth to break the incessant rumble of the weather. Avery buried his face into the pillow that he hugged to his chest, only to shift again in the bed a moment later. Some sort of unholy insomnia, assisted by the gunshots of lightning and droning of rain, denied him a wink of sleep.

    Morning had undeniably arrived as a shrill bell startled the boy into an upright position. He silenced the alarm and glowered into space for a good minute before dragging himself out of the bed where he left the pillow and blanket. Scuffing inside the closet, he discarded his night shirt and trousers into the hamper and retrieved the uniform that hung neatly on a couple of hangers. His movements were clumsy and much too slow, but he eventually managed to make himself presentable. So long as this curse persisted, the student would at least not dwindle to unconsciousness during a lecture, though he would remain all but useless as he was awake.

    Avery escaped his dorm room, avoiding any potential interaction as he waddled down the hall to make his way outside. The air was cool, and he had left his scarf in the room. Moping, he intended to reach the college hurriedly to get out of the chill. The scene of coppers gathered together only processed as he entered the school building.
    What could that be about?

    Character sheets

    The silver lining seldom lies in sight too plain to see
    But trust our story's end can bring redemption for the pain endured

    #215573
    VanityPirate
    VanityPirate
    Participant

    Down Main Street a ways, through a sidestreet leading to the residential block and looming out of the rain and fog were the words, written in a red, cheery, cursive font, ‘Darkest Health Clinic’– worded as per the town’s name, but the building was anything but: quiant, potted plants were set by the entrance and the brick building was painted a creamy white.

    The clinic was small, and fitted only to serve a few people at a time, but it stood as a beacon for those who wished to avoid the bustling hospital or who had more… embarrassing maladies. Indeed, the doctor who ran the humble clinic held a vow of silence for each of his clients who came in– not that he had treated anything incriminating or ground-breaking yet. But he had high hopes.

    Situated above the clinic was the doctor’s residence, where the paint had faded somewhat but could stand another year or so before needed a fresh coat. Down the side of it, somewhat out of sight, trailed a wrought iron staircase to the upper floor where the front door was.

    The residence’s windows were lit up and angled open, dotted throughout the outward-facing wall like sets of wide, unblinking eyes; it would rightly seem that someone was still awake past the midnight hours.

    The rooms inside were kept with much less care than the outside. The kitchen was filthy, and piles of dishes had been stacked up haphazardly on the tile counter beside the sink, their washing postponed indefinitely. A smattering of instant coffee had smeared like paint into the grooves of the tiles.

    The living room, too, desperately needed some expressly figurative spit-shine. A couch cushion had been tossed haphazardly to the floor and left there, and a well-loved pair of men’s boots had been set quite rudely on the coffee table. The overcoat to a suit had been draped across the over-stuffed, floral couch in the living room. A radio set precariously close to the edge of the coffee table proclaimed loudly in a singsong woman’s voice about her sweetheart.

    There, on the floor, with his hands weaved contentedly behind his head, and his feet and legs bent over the couch, was Samuel Avers, humming with his eyes closed quietly along to the tune of the radio. It was late, but he was quite happy to prolong sleep; he let the rain’s crisp breeze fill his lungs, savored it, and let the breath go. He would have been content to lay there for the night, until sleep came, had he not heard a most disturbing scream.

    The doctor shot up, narrowly avoiding bonking his elbow on the ashwood coffee table on his ascent. Looking left, then right, he hastily got to his feet, throwing those raggedy boots on, then the overcoat, then the hat. He whisked his bag, a nondescript, dark leather doctor’s bag, up and was out the door in another moment.

    If someone was injured, they would need a doctor. And Samuel knew what difference a few moments could make.

    My characters-
    "I'd sneak into your burrito." --Bloodtrailkiller
    "you'll never quote me" --Relentless Oblivion

    Spoiler

    "All flesh fails, in the fullness of time."

    Tilly: Grave Robber
    HP: Healthy
    Stress: 30/100 [Neutral]
    Gold: 4585

    Florence Novel: Plague Doctor
    HP: Healthy
    Stress: 15/100 [Relaxed]
    Gold: 75

    [collapse]

    #218109
    PorkyLabrador
    PorkyLabrador
    Participant

    The arrangement was almost theatrical. The red velvet of the stage’s curtains had been replaced by pillars of blood bedecking the masonry of the chiming Clock Tower and the floor’s surrounding cobbles. The pearly limelight’s understudy was the neon glow radiating from the nearby shopfronts and the actors in blue were creating the performance of a lifetime… quite literally.

    Judging by the number of sheets covering the crimson masses strewn hither and thither, the body had in fact wound up in not one but several places. The Constables had formed a ring around the scene, deterring the tiny handful of onlookers away as readily as they could with the help of several canine companions. Bloodhounds and Alsatians piped and barked away anyone that dared tread too close, their dander was up, beasts that they were; the crimson spatterings permeated an iron scent on the moist air, a perceptive person would see that despite the chorus of howling jowls, the hounds were salivating.

    Detective ‘Romeo’ was a familiar enough face, a pretty face at that. Nobody could boast to have ever seen him in anything short of the finest cut suits and the most fashionable haircuts. The constables in blue looked resentfully at him, perhaps it was jealousy that he looked so dapper so early? Perhaps it was something else entirely.

    “Ay, folks…” He turned to address any who might be listening. His dove-grey suit was inlaid with threads of silver, a waistcoat sporting a beautifully decorated pocket watch was visible even beneath the beige of his trench coat, the daddy looked positively spiffy. “S’time to get a wiggle on, nothin’ t’see here, yada, yada. Take yer keisters for a jaunt that-a-way.” With both arms he gestured to anywhere but the location he was currently was. “Some ritzy palooka’s had himself a real bad day is all.” With another set of short waves he dispelled the vultures circling the scene in whatever capacity of morbid curiosity that they were offering.

    There was only one group of onlookers that remained… a series of gentlemen dressed all in black, appropriate for mourning. Blacker still was the car they were accompanied by, a stretched and polished thing that refracted luminescence from the shafts of light that sporadically pierced the dull heavens above. The youngest of these black-clad gentlemen seemed in charge, he exuded an aura of control and practicality. Everything up to his and including his hair was cropped and neat, dark eyes set into a pale face watched the scene with something like regret. To his flank a tall man in the latter stages of middle-agedness held an umbrella over the younger man’s head, his hair was white and slicked back – eyes that looked like they belonged more in some predatory animal’s head than his own were set into his skull. In perfect synchronization the black-clad men withdrew singular white roses from their pockets and cast them onto the cobbles ceremoniously.

    #218203
    black379
    black379
    Participant

    Even despite his lethargy, the boy was not pressed for time – he was always early to class. With his expendable minutes, and with all intent to postpone his initiation into critical thinking, Avery shuffled to the nearest window. He slumped against the wall and scanned between the shifting blue figures to see what was going on. It was some distance away, but he made out red stains on white sheets dabbling near the clock tower.

    A shiver broke him from his stare – Avery made up his mind that it was simply the chill. Clutching the pouch of books and papers to his chest, the blonde dragged himself down the hallway. There was much to think on, but the boy was good at compartmentalizing his thoughts, at least usually, without stress and having gotten proper sleep.
    Dr. Edwards will know what’s going on. Poor sod, whoever-…
    His feet suddenly carried him a little faster, anxious to see his teacher in the flesh before jumping to any wild scenarios.

    Character sheets

    The silver lining seldom lies in sight too plain to see
    But trust our story's end can bring redemption for the pain endured

    #220166
    Speaker of Truths
    Speaker of Truths
    Participant

    “Well look who it is. Mornin’ copper,” Brandon says, putting on a Level 7 Disarming Smile(tm) as he approaches Romeo. He walks casually, almost carelessly up to the Constables, but a clever observer could easily note that his path takes him easily out of reach of the hounds’ leashes. He peeks about, and gives a low whistle at the splatter. “Shiiiiit. That’s one hell of a bad day. Some ritzy palooka got a name yet?”

    While his eyes sweep the scene, they inevitably arc away from the bloodshed to fall upon the black-clad figures, and his eyes take on a thoughtful mein as he scans their faces.

    Lets see… Do I know you? Or are there new players in town?

    Without waiting for an answer from Romeo, he skirts the edges of the dogs again to get closer to the figures. Finding a rose that had a bit more distance than the others, he glances at both the figures and the police before bending down to pick it off the rain-slick street.

    “You mind if I?” Brandon says to nobody in particular, already straightening with rose in hand.

    This statement = lie

    Spoiler

    Tam Lin
    Health: 26/26
    Stress: 0/100
    Gold: 0
    Daveed Emanuel Garrett
    Health: 27/27
    Stress: 0/100
    Gold: 0
    Rachael Sera
    HP: 21/21
    Stress: 0/100
    Gold: 0

    [collapse]

    #220792
    relishness oblivion
    relishness oblivion
    Participant

    Tommy nears the exit of the apartment complex, his pristine shoes clicking and clacking against the creaky wooden steps, the bottom of his coat gathering traces of dust that absorbed into the fine, black material. As he made his way down, he had fastened the buttons upon his coat with his free hand, his left hand currently occupied a firm grip around the plain, looped oak head of his cane. Eventually he made his way down to the ground floor, a flickering light bulb that hung with troubling stability above him offered little vision. Taking a sharp exhale through his nose, he tipped his fedora slightly downward toward the ground, then extended his right hand toward the handle of the frail door and pushed it down then pulled back.

    Once the door was open, he took a single step onto the stone pavement, cold water pooling around the soles of his shoes as a result of the unforgiving rain that descended down from the heavens. Tommy turned back toward the door, extending his right hand again and closing the door, then began to hobble his way down the pavement. He caught a glimpse of the grievous scene, and decided to take a couple steps toward it but kept his distance away from the crowd that had gathered there. He spectated with curiosity, his dead eyes glancing over the blood splatters. In his mind, Tommy attempted to decipher the direction of the blood splatters, how intense the spread was and how clean the attacks were, mainly to found out what had been used to kill the poor fella.

    A heavy drip of water landed on the tip of his fedora, which made him jump a little, then making him scowl afterwards. Exhaling dismissively, he thought he’d get a little closer, more so to inspect the scene further as his curiosity grew.

    VanityPirate - "Banished to the elephant graveyard"

    Blood trail killer - "It's like a thumbs up but with Parkinson's tho."

    #220885
    VanityPirate
    VanityPirate
    Participant

    Samuel’s boots, striking a strange juxtaposition worn alongside his dress pants, tread unerringly through the idle puddles of rainwater that had pooled on the streets; indeed, in his haste the man had neglected to bring an umbrella, but he did not seem to mind the rain that freckled his overcoat and slicked his already-tousled hair. In a slight, nervous motion his hands twisted the strap of his doctor’s bag, and his stomach knotted with anticipation, and a pinch of nerves.

    He strode forward, skirting about and stopping a yard or so behind the gaggle of onlookers and officials, and casting bemused glances at the flowers strewn across the cobbles. And at the sight of telltale crimson stains his heart drummed palpably faster against his chest. The white sheets, bunched up over offending gore like puddles on the cobblestone, made it nauseously clear that, whatever had happened here, it was far too late for any amount of patchwork to do good.

    The air in his lungs was icy. He quirked a frown, bringing a hand up to soothingly stroke his rain-soaked hair back. He gave a brief scan, and, locating a man who appeared reassuringly as jumpy as Samuel had felt, made to approach him.

    “Ah.. ‘scuse me, sir!” He prodded Tommy lightly on the shoulder, speaking with sanguine cheeriness and the telltale tongue of one native to England’s southeast. He flashed his teeth weakly in some sort of giddy half-smile. “You’ve any idea what happened here? I-it’s a blasted butchery over here.”

    My characters-
    "I'd sneak into your burrito." --Bloodtrailkiller
    "you'll never quote me" --Relentless Oblivion

    Spoiler

    "All flesh fails, in the fullness of time."

    Tilly: Grave Robber
    HP: Healthy
    Stress: 30/100 [Neutral]
    Gold: 4585

    Florence Novel: Plague Doctor
    HP: Healthy
    Stress: 15/100 [Relaxed]
    Gold: 75

    [collapse]

    #220891
    Rumsztyk
    Rumsztyk
    Participant

    What a mess…

    Despite Romeo’s nagging, Jack stayed in the vicinity, though just looking at the scene was not enough to him. He could literally smell a big case.

    He naturally gravitated towards the one remaining group of onlookers, peering through the rain at the wall of men and dogs. Perhaps there were some familiar faces that would spare a fact or two…?

    “Brandon.” he nodded in greeting, curiously looking at the rose he picked. His clothes did stand out from the black dressed crowd.

    Spoiler

    George Steele
    HP 38/38
    Stress 20/100
    Gold 0

    Ibrahim bin Omer
    HP 19/19
    Stress 64/100
    Gold 0
    George's and Ibrahim's sheets

    Angelica
    HP 22/22
    Stress 20/100
    Gold 500

    Angelica's sheet

    Sister Maia
    HP 26/26
    Stress 25/100
    Gold 100

    Grom
    HP 23/23
    Stress 3/100
    Gold 0

    [collapse]
    #221446
    Speaker of Truths
    Speaker of Truths
    Participant

    Brandon looks up at being addressed, sticking the flower in his jacket pocket as he does so. Upon laying eyes on Borewicz, his grin widens becoming both familiar and mirthful (No. 4, Friendly Mischief) as he straightens fully.

    “‘Ey, Jacky! What in the blazes are you doing up this early? Thought you hated rainy mornings,” he says, walking up to the man. He stops a bit away from Jack and puts out a gloved hand to shake. “Sweet Mary but you look like death warmed over. You need to get a real job, these late nights aren’t doing you any favors.”

    While the teasing might seem pointed coming from anyone else, the laughter dancing in Brandon’s eyes take the edge off of his jests. Even more convincing is the cigarette cleverly tucked between the fingers of the outstretched hand.

    This statement = lie

    Spoiler

    Tam Lin
    Health: 26/26
    Stress: 0/100
    Gold: 0
    Daveed Emanuel Garrett
    Health: 27/27
    Stress: 0/100
    Gold: 0
    Rachael Sera
    HP: 21/21
    Stress: 0/100
    Gold: 0

    [collapse]

    #221836
    Rumsztyk
    Rumsztyk
    Participant

    The smile on Jack’s face was nothing short of genuine. His daily fix of nicotine was satisfied. The handshake was vigorously accepted, and the cig soon landed between his lips.

    “Oh, you know. Blood in the water…” he waved in the general direction of the unfortunate victim “…attracts sharks.” A knowing wink was send towards Brandon.

    Swiftly, a match appeared in his free hand, igniting the cigarette. He inhaled the smoke deeply, with visible satisfaction.

    “What about you, Brandon? What brings you here?”

    Spoiler

    George Steele
    HP 38/38
    Stress 20/100
    Gold 0

    Ibrahim bin Omer
    HP 19/19
    Stress 64/100
    Gold 0
    George's and Ibrahim's sheets

    Angelica
    HP 22/22
    Stress 20/100
    Gold 500

    Angelica's sheet

    Sister Maia
    HP 26/26
    Stress 25/100
    Gold 100

    Grom
    HP 23/23
    Stress 3/100
    Gold 0

    [collapse]
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