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User ImageA half smile encroached on her freckled features as the blonde admired her little home. She gladly handed her sweet the goodhearted cat which began to purr with the transfer. Dinah loved company.

"My father owns a very successful business, though I wish he did something else." She admitted to Juliet, beginning a short little history lesson of how she came to be here. "I teach music lessons and so he helps me out a little and I pay for the rest." At this part she beamed a little, proud to not be fully supported like many of the other rich people she had gone to school with.

She blushed a bit and walked to the corner opposite her piano where an ordinary globe sat. At least it had appeared to be plain before she opened it to reveal a little bar set complete with a shaker, glasses, and a few bottles of unopened alcohol. It was clear she had never used it but kept it spotless none the less.
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Ω Juliet Smith Ω

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"Yeah, I can make that!"


The cat’s instant purr caused Juliet to smile as she brought the cat directly up against her dark brown eyes. “She purrs! Just like ya, my dear Swan!” She cooed lightly, playfully, before she cradled the cat lovingly up against her own body. Juliet was pretty easy going. She didn’t care about cat hair getting on her, or how close the cat was against her. No, she loved and adored much I life and animals, as well as spiders, were just a bonus in living.

Light clicked followed her beloved as they moved throughout the apartment. Juliet keeps the lingering whistle that she so wanted to express inwards and silent as she continued to look around. Suddenly, she paused, lowering the cat for just a moment but not without giving it a light kiss along it’s head. “Swan?” She began, the playfulness abruptly removed from her lips. “You know you don’t have to hide anything from me, right?” She neared the other, lightly caressing her upper arms as she continued to speak. “But I do have to know something. Does he work for the mob?” She asked. The question could have easily been a joke to anyone else but her face, her features, refused to fall into joyous ones, making this part of the conversation quite serious.

She would lightly release the other, enabling her to move around, while Juliet continued to follow closely, hoping her next words were denying such a silly assumption. Juliet’s eyes lowered, moving to the side, and over the large and beautiful piano. Naturally, she wanted to comment on that as well but she still held her tongue for the other’s response. Juliet lightly leaned up against the wall, just to the side of the global mini bar, as she waited. She could hear it now, had she been mistaken about V and the whole mob thing, the teasing she was going to fetch (ah ha!) from Tempy.


Wearing:Mmm. Leather
Theme song: You fit me better than my favorite sweater
O.O.C:
Cities always stank.

It was inevitable when you had that many bodies clustered in so little space. Too much sweating, shitting, ******** and dying all coalesced in a tiny expanse. Sen'Urith's nose crinkled as he wandered the streets with no particular destination in mind. He had been born in a Har, but raised in the frigid wild surrounding his place of birth. He'd never grown used to the stink of so many people and it was most unpleasant when it assailed his nostrils. Not to mention the elf hardly cared for the people whom he now darted through like a pale ghost. They were aimless cockroaches, wandering a maze of their own design grubbing for scraps to make it through the day. There wasn't an ounce of desire, of ambition amongst the lot of them. Did they not know they could simply seize life by the throat and squeeze until it relented? The Druchii priest clicked his tongue at their passive nature and casually shouldered an obstructing man into a stall of fruit. He hardly even paused as the unbalanced man swore obscenities at his backside. There were a pair of gleaming, heavy-bladed swords hanging from his hips that begged to be slated on the fool's backside but he would be a paltry challenge. Not even a morsel to whet the palate, a meager ration that would only serve to exasperate their thirst.

So despite a strong inkling to decapitate the imbecile in a single smooth stroke, Sen'Urith trotted right on. It was a good thing that stealth was not his inclination, because the priest stuck out like a polar bear in a desert. His physique earned him more than a few second glances. While most elves were emaciated stick creatures, Sen was above average height and weight. Bands of muscle wrapped around his bones like cords of steel with as much power buried within them. He towered over most at six feet and six inches, almost as high as his father had been before his untimely death. What was his second most striking feature would be his pristine white robes. They were made of thick wool and as clean as they day they'd been woven. How someone could manage to keep grime off of white cloth in a city was difficult to imagine to be sure. The elf also wore a similarly white cloak with its hood drawn up to hide most of his head and body beneath his broad shoulders. Of course, the gilded pommels of his twin sabers stuck out from beneath the garb and the glowing brass of his molten eyes faintly illuminated his face beneath the hood. There was one more thing that drew stares to the elf.

He wasn't wearing any shoes.

His bare feet carried him down the streets, woe betide the fool who accidentally stepped on his foot. A swift death would certainly follow in that case, no matter how pitiful the transgressor. Regardless, Sen continued on. He walked with a stride that implied great purpose in spite of his general lack thereof. In fact, the only purpose he currently had was finding a place to find a seat and take stock of where he'd go next on his quest. Ah, a tavern. He'd almost missed it with how he'd become so focused on pushing people out of his way. The Black Hound? Yes, that will do. The will have chairs. It will do. There was a sudden change of direction, another bystander shoved, and then the elf was pushing open a large wooden door and staring at a flight of stairs. As the door was pulled tightly closed behind him, Sen'Urith spied a creature who caught his attention. Someone not too dissimilar to himself in clothing. A woman in white. A fellow priest. Probably of another cause, of another less bloodthirsty god, but a priest nonetheless. The elf clicked his tongue and decided to make a new friend. His soles served him a few steps further, until he could pull out a chair and take a seat across from Adelle without a word.

The elf pulled his hood back first, revealing his elongated and pointed ears, pierced many times over with hooks and blades that looked dangerous to touch. Moreover, his pale hair was braided through with more of these sharp instruments. Everything on him, from his skin to his scalp seemed as white as death itself with the exception of those burning brass eyes which now turned to regard Adelle. He looked at her for a long moment, lifting his hands up to rest lazily on the tabletop before finally he spoke. "I know a fellow follower when I see one." He said flatly, narrowing his eyes slightly. If Adelle was canny enough, she'd notice that every tooth within this creature's mouth had been filed to a triangular point. Not only that, but the nails on his hands were razors fashioned from brass. This was a dangerous man who sat across from her. "Who do you serve?" He asked.
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"When all your wishes are granted,
many of your dreams will be destroyed."


”Stop. Touching. Me.”
The growl sunk through a gritted stitched mouth, as the tiny framed puppet grew cherry with anger. Exactly who was this guy? Or who did he believe he was? The little figurine pushed her way off of her back, and moved away this depraved soul. The line was drawn outside, when the artificial human was thrown out of her comfort zone. So why was he going so far to cross it?
The bar had never seemed so comforting, and as soon as the lobby lights came into her blurry view, she tore away from the strange man. Green eyes, still watering from the horrible flashback, caught to the steely eyes of the cook, Gus. However, the glance was quickly broken when the marionette broke away from that as well. Still shaken up, and now extremely uncomfortable, the wobbly stitched toy, took strong hold of the bar counter, in order to pull herself behind it.
The smug eyes of the Greek stood still, keeping view of all of her assists . This only caused Doll to fume more. The pretty little Easterner wasn’t angry at anything more than the fact her new contact refused to take a hint. She dragged out the glass, saucer, Drambuie, and Grand Marnier, running through the options silently. Leaving was out of the option, considering her shift had yet to finish, plus the other customers were sweet enough.
Who was she kidding? Doll could handle anything.
A Jack O’ Lantern smile spread across the pretty little face, suddenly aware. With the finally realization that the panic attack had passed, Doll continued the drink, following the steps from memory, up until it was time to light. Carefully, the young Barbie took the drink, and turned away from the Greek trust fund kid. With her back turned, and her front completely hidden by the other side of the bar, her pale hands struggled around to find a veiled bottle. A few drops found its way into the liquid, before she joyfully turned around and lit the drink. She watched carefully for just a second, as it slowly burnt itself out. Covering it with a coaster, she stabbed a straw through, and slid it over to Icarus. ”Make sure you do not move the coaster, till after.” As if the kid needed instructions. ”Oh, and drink it slow. I want to see the poison react.” Her dark, plucked eyebrow dropped, a smirk lacing her deadly lips. Was she kidding? Maybe. Probably. But putting anything past the red-headed b***h could be deadly. ”Anything else?”

Location: Behind the bar, serving Icarus Status: Still Shaken/ Finally calm Feeling: Back to her normal self OCC
daintyone's avatar

Timid Hunter

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User Image"Hm?" She responded looking up from the glasses and bottles as if she had been in deep thought.

The woman's closeness was comforting and the words that followed were just as relaxing. "I know." She told her, happy to hear Juliet's pretty voice announce it. Blue eyes moved over her quickly as she asked about her father's career. Much to Juliet's probably relief, Vivian shook her head.

"No. He's the CEO of one of the top weapon makers in the world. There isn't anyone he answers to, though I'm sure the mob as well as various armies and militias are using his terrible products." She said this with a heavy sigh. The musician was not fond of the job the patriarch of her family held. Might as well be mob.

She hardly ever even saw her father despite exchanging phone calls on birthdays and now and then to make sure she didn't need any money. "He's never really been around much so it was always just me and my mother." She shrugged, hoping her answer would satisfy the blonde's curious mind.
Lady Gilaen's avatar

Wheezing Werewolf

Mensha Na Khaine


Adelle observed the one called 'Gus' as he set about his other responsibilities. The tavern was busy, after all, and no one person could hold any particular attention for an extended period. She smiled at the room key sitting just in front of her on the table.

Gods bless them, these kind hearts, she thought to herself as she sifted uncomfortably in her seat. She seemed to have grown stiff since her arrival, and there was little more she wanted than to find a private space to stretch. Why one required the privacy, who could possibly know? But then, women of her professional beliefs did most things in quiet sanctum. What she really wanted was to hang up her outer robes and feel the air on her shoulders, but she couldn't possibly do that here and now.

She was about to get up (again) when she was joined by someone else. A part of her almost said, 'Thank you, I've been helped,' but it was immediately apparent that her new companion was not a resident here...or anywhere conceivably civilized.

White... It was a color that, symbolically, had a dual meaning that seemed to contradict itself. On the one hand, white robes were the symbol of purity; a cloth that would stain at the slightest indulgence of sin. On the other hand, it often represented death. A far more appropriate color for mortality than pitch black in her opinion, but that was not to say she approved of the other priest who saw fit to keep her company.

But Adelle was a tempered soul, and she had learned to reserve her judgement upon first impressions. As to his question, well... the priestess believed in many Gods. She did not, however serve any one deity. Her purpose, or the one she'd been lead to abide by, was far more complicated.

"I serve balance, my friend," she spoke lightly, catching his eye with her own eerily pale iris'. This man was a dangerous, possibly unstable force of destruction, but Adelle was not afraid. And she was not weak...by any stretch of the word.
Lady Gilaen
"I serve balance, my friend,"


"Heh."

The dry chuckle escaped his lips as a small smirk formed. He smiled because she had met his gaze and not looked away. In the wild, that was a way for animals to assert dominance, eye contact. It wasn't so different for the Druchii. Averting her eyes would have been a sign of passiveness, of weakness. Adelle demonstrated no such signs and that earned her a modicum of respect off the bat. "I think it's fair to say this table is well-balanced then." The elf declared, lifting one hand and then gently pressing the nail of his index finger against the wood to demonstrate his point. "A warrior of life sits at one and, and a warrior of death at the other. The middle, is therefore, balanced. Good work."

The elf lifted his finger, leaving only a small chip in the wood to remember its place by and leaned back in his seat to relax. Warrior he may be, but walking for as long as he had took its toll. He lifted a waterskin to his lips and drank readily before returning it to its place. "And you should not be so bold as to presume you are my friend when you do not even know my name, Gharbin." The elf slipped into his native tongue when he addressed the priestess. What he meant would be lost on her, and his tone wouldn't give much of a clue. He continued to grin and lean back in his chair. His arms folded across his chest nonchalantly and he otherwise maintained a relaxed posture. It wasn't obviously an insult or a term of endearment. He said it as casually as he'd say a name.

"For all you know, I may have been hired to kill you. Us Druchii are famous for our assassins after all." Sen'Urith continued, although now he was teasing her for being friendly just a little bit. As well as subtly asserting his heritage. You'd be hard-pressed to find a Druchii who was not proud of his race, and Sen's pride was bolstered by youth. He had probably lived twice as long as Adelle and yet was still in his adolescence. Such was the nature of long-lived creatures like elves.
Lady Gilaen's avatar

Wheezing Werewolf

Mensha Na Khaine


A bit of foreign tongue.. How quaint. Language was no barrier for one so gifted in their craft as the otherworldly oracle, but she saw no reason to look beyond what was already evident. She saw evil for what it was, no matter the form in which it presented itself. But she was not put off by it, however strange that may have seemed. It disgusted her, the insufferable vice and sin that spread through this and other worlds like a plague upon one's soul. But to serve 'The Balance' she could not choose favor between "dark" and "light". (Such ill terms for what amounted to vice and virtue, but the fine line between black and white offered an easy juxtaposition for those abstracted 'grey' areas). Evil had its place in the world, just as she had hers. And her place was in the middle, keeping even the universal scales.

"Friend is a lighter term than it used to be," she remarked simply, unwilling to break her pale, silver stare. She knew the source of his amusement. He was a man intoxicated by his own power and prowess. And such men were often lulled to humor by the assumption of weakness in virtuous souls. The priestess was often presumed 'cute' by this condescending standard of authority. But she was far too patient to be taken in by his presumption.

She smiled gently.

"I will know when my time is at its end. Romantic as the gesture would seem, I doubt my killer would share such pleasantries. And you would not succeed....this time, at least." She was nothing if not purely honest, though she chuckled breathily as though it were a friendly joke. Adelle's insight into the future was a distant blur of fogged shadows (as they were for most people with general intuition and some common sense), which was not enough to determine certainties. Still, she would know when her death was near. At least, she believed it. And really, belief was was the foundation of most possibilities.

She shifted again in her seat. The peculiar hump over her shoulders was still quite evident despite her efforts to hide it beneath her robes. She rolled her shoulders a bit to ease some of the tension in her back, but she never quite seemed comfortable with the effort. Possibly because she could not, or would not stretch the muscles that she really wanted to.

"What about us would cause you to determine that I am a priest of life, or you of death? These are but two sides of the same coin, ---" She gestured to him with a delicate hand that appeared gentle and soft, save a series of small scars along her palm and fingers, wordlessly beckoning his name that she could cease this title of 'friend'.
Lady Gilaen


"Sen'Urith, son of Khael and heir to the house Kheylianth." The elf gave her his names and titles with a lazy roll of the wrist and a halfhearted bow of the head. Had he been in Druchii court, he would have announced himself with all the due flare and pomp. In some little pub far away from home, talking to a human, he couldn't be bothered to muster up the effort. Not to mention how much he scorned his father's name. There was no hiding the vitriol when the words 'Khael' and 'Kheylianth' left his lips. He'd had more affection for the way he condescended to the woman sitting across from him.

The elf shifted, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. His fingers laced together and he rested his chin on his knuckles. The smile was gone, the bitterness over his father having stolen that warmth away. He looked at her with those unrelenting eyes now, his gaze washing over her form like a blast of air from an open furnace. He temporarily broke their staring contest to appraise the lumps on her back. Weapons, perhaps? Maybe he was too quick to regard her as gharbin, a term that meant 'one who is not currently armed' and literally translated to 'cripple.' Truly, this priestess was a curious thing, for even now she did not back down from his stare. A voice beckoned him to test her mettle against his, she would make a worthy offering to Khaine.

"Your temperance is what gives you away." He calmly answered her question instead. "Someone who sought the death of all dark things in the world would not have entertained me as a guest. Blood would have been spilt already. You do not seek death." He said with some finality, having finished his reasoning behind deeming her a priestess of life. As for the second part of her question, about him being a warrior of death... "When I walked into this tavern, did you think me barbaric for my appearance?" He countered with a question of his own. "Surely you did. I have, after all, replaced my nails with blades." Sen lifted one hand from under his chin and splayed the fingers out towards her as if she hadn't already gotten a look at the razors he had in place of fingernails. "My teeth are filed to points to better rip and tear flesh. I thread hooks and barbs through my ears and hair to ensnare and entangle those with whom I fight. These are not the makings of a civilized man, are they?" Sen'Urith continued with the rhetorical questions, knowing full well her answer.

She looked down on him as much as he looked down on her. Their reasons were different, but the outcome the same. It was not hard to recognize that. He thought her to be weak of body, and she thought him to be weak of mind.
Lady Gilaen's avatar

Wheezing Werewolf

Mensha Na Khaine


"My teeth are filed to points to better rip and tear flesh. I thread hooks and barbs through my ears and hair to ensnare and entangle those with whom I fight. These are not the makings of a civilized man, are they?"


Adelle held up two fingers fingers almost as though she were making a gesture of blessing. She then turned her palm about and pointed to her own pale eyes.

"I'm an ocular albino, Sen'Urith, I am not blind."

She spoke so matter-of-factly. Maybe she didn't comprehend the malicious intent behind his words and expression. Maybe she didn't care. In the end they were simply opposite ends of an oddly even spectrum, and her show of pleasant patience was beginning to wear down. Her smile faded as well, but she didn't seem angry. Just bothered. Maybe it had more to do with physical discomfort than an actual confrontation with Sen.

She didn't offer her name. She didn't see fit to bother, which was an unusual lack of social pleasantry on her part. She observed him again, but only briefly. Barbaric? Hardly. Wild, yes, but the holy woman had traversed the very pit of Hell and lived to recant the tale. She'd returned a failure, of course, but there was little left in this world that she found truly 'intimidating'. Not that she was invincible, far from it. Just that when she finally 'was' bested by whatever hideous beast in the world was meant to be her undertaker, she would find no fear in its existence, let alone its mere appearance.

"Would you prefer to be a civilized Druchii?"
Lady Gilaen
"Would you prefer to be a civilized Druchii?"


"Ah, but I am." Sen'Urith shot back as his hands once more folded together and he lazily rested his chin on his intertwined fingers. His eyes continued to watch her with his brow furrowed in concentration while his lips were pressed together in a thin line. "See? You think me barbarous for my appearance, and yet you understand so little about me and my people. Were I a mindless monster, I would have slit your throat for the insult of how you have condescended to me."

And with that, Sen'Urith lifted off of his knuckles and leaned back in his chair once more. His arms folded across his abdomen and sucked in a deep breath. He exhaled calmly through his nostrils. "You have not returned the favor of a name yet." He politely told her while turning his attention to those humps on her back once more. The elf's head tilted to the side with curiosity and his jewelry jingled melodically. "And curiosity begs me to ask what you're hiding beneath those robes."
Lady Gilaen's avatar

Wheezing Werewolf

Mensha Na Khaine


Trick question. There were no civilized Druchii. Of course, that was years or prejudice talking, and in order to do her job appropriately, the priestess had knock it back with proverbial stick. She knew better. Still, Sen's pompous attitude left a bitter taste in her mouth. She swallowed and slid her hand across the table to pluck her room key from its newly scratched surface.

"I never called you a monster," she replied, accurately I might add, "And I have merely chosen to address you in the same manner you speak to me." What a dull conversation. When did she become so painfully boring? Somewhere between the grief of her loss and the search of answers she had lost a part of herself.

She shouldn't judge this wretched souls so readily. She believed him evil, true, but evil had its place in the world. She had to believe that if she wanted to recognize any shift in the balance she was devoted to keep.

He asked about what she was hiding.. And she wasn't keen on offering on the honest response. She reached beneath her robes, but instead of producing the source of the lump in her back, she presented a bow, which she placed gingerly on the table. How the hell was she hiding that thing, anyway? The robe didn't seem 'that' big, but then who could say how much of herself was under it? What escaped her vision as she folded her hands over her (rather archaic) weapon was far more pertinent to the secret she held. A lone feather, so small and insignificant it might have been a cloud of dust upon the stale tavern air.

"I am Adelle.. Oracle of the Unnamed Order. And, by chance, a collector of stories. If you wish to demonstrate your civility, perhaps you will share with me a tale of your own?" Well played, priestess. No greater jump has been made in a segue thus far in Gaian history. But at least it was something. Anything to turn tables and change the subject.
Lady Gilaen
"And I have merely chosen to address you in the same manner you speak to me."


And who says you are fit to speak to me like an equal? Sen'Urith caught himself thinking and wishing he could rip her tongue out by its root for her impudence. He had to remind himself that this was not Naggaroth, that you couldn't just grab a human on the streets and flog them until they wept blood for the slightest transgression. Oh, the white priestess had best hope to never make her way to Har Ganeth. If she ran wrong of the executioners, her suffering would end quickly. If she ended up on the wrong side of the witches, her suffering would last an eternity.

Lady Gilaen
"I am Adelle.. Oracle of the Unnamed Order. And, by chance, a collector of stories. If you wish to demonstrate your civility, perhaps you will share with me a tale of your own?"


A pale brow rose on the elf's face as she managed to pique his interest. She was a collector of stories, eh? Perhaps they had something in common after all, aside from their dual-nature. One of the reasons that Sen had left his homeland was the knowledge that rattled around in his skull. Stories and tales of forbidden things, truths that would see his tongue torn from his skull. He kept secrets that could see him dead, and there was power in spreading the truth so it could never be forgotten. "A story? Yes, I know one I could tell." The elf closed his eyes. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before beginning. "After The Sundering, the civil war that split the elves between Druchii and Asur, the Druchii were forced to retreat from their ancestral homeland. They were refugees upon great fortresses of magic and earthen stone known as Black Arks. The journey was long and hard. Countless died, their cries and prayers unanswered. We were broken and weak. When the ships first made shore in the land of chill, Naggaroth, there was much doubt about the future." Sen opened his eyes and leaned in to continue, matching the young lady's gaze once more.

"Many blamed Malekith, the Witch King, for their defeat and the storm of magic that had decimated their home. They looked upon this frozen wasteland and rightfully despaired. Fingers were quick to point at Malekith, and the noble lords began whispers of overthrow. Ah, but Malekith was cleverer than they. You see, the Druchii have long worshipped the Cytharai, the gods of the underworld. Chief amongst them is Khaela Mensha Khaine. He is the bloody-handed god of murder and war." Sen paused once more to take another drink from his waterskin. This time he simply set it on the table instead of returning it to his waist. "Malekith had a meeting with the elders of the Khainite temple. He offered them temples made from gold, concubines unending and power beyond their wildest dreams. All they had to do was name him the Scourge. The Scourge is a... messianic figure in Khainite belief. A warrior who will rise up from the house of chains and bring the world into Khaine's embrace."

"By naming Malekith as the Scourge, he would cement himself as the rightful leader of the Druchii. His word would be infallible and his power unassailable. It would all be a lie of course. Half of the elders objected, unwilling to taint their faith with lies. The other half believed more strongly in lining their pockets. There was a schism, blades were drawn and those elders with Malekith's support cast out their rivals into the cold. The next day, they pointed to various vague astrological signs, prophecies that had been invented the night before, murmurs of drug-addled oracles and proclaimed that Malekith was The Scourge. There was only one hitch in their plan. The Scourge was destined to wield the Warpsword of Khaine, a gift from the god that was as old as chaos itself. The outcast elders sought to take this holy relic from its resting place and use it to prove Malekith's lies. They penetrated the supreme temple, guarded by both devout and Malekith's personal warriors."


Sen'Urith paused and cast his gaze down. He lifted one hand and used it to carefully rub his chin. The next part was never easy to tell. It was hard to admit your side lost. "Nobody knows what happened exactly that night in the temple. All that is certain is that none of the elders returned and the Warpsword remains in the grip of the false-believers. The True Believers had to retreat and hide, either in the wild where they could practice without persecution or in the secrecy of the fledgling cities. They watched as their faith, built upon the ideal of prowess in combat, of murder perfected into an honorable art devolve into torturers slaughter cattle en masse upon blasphemous altars. Oracles were replaced with drug-addled madmen, arts were eschewed in favor of executing Malekith's will."

The elf paused again to shake his head. He had seen first hand what had become of his faith. He had seen the slaves led up to the altar to be sacrificed by cackling murderers who worshiped no god, only the pain they could inflict on other people. It was disgusting, there was no honor in killing the weak, no pride to be had from slaughtering those who were less than oneself. He held up a single finger for Adelle though before finishing his tale. "But, while our numbers are few, we True Believers are strong of mind and body. We know the old way is the true path to Khaine's glory. His favor is earned on the battlefield, crossing blades with the worthy and the strong, not with the cruelty and sadism displayed by his so-called temple." Sen'Urith lifted his gaze and glared balefully down at her. The hatred was not for her, but there it burned in his brass eyes. It was a hatred for having his god's name sullied and in such cancerous ways. It might be hard to tell, especially considering they were strangers, that his anger was not at her. But hey, it's what's inside that counts, right?
Lady Gilaen's avatar

Wheezing Werewolf

Mensha Na Khaine


She listened patiently, and as the tale unfolded she let go her bitter notions to let him speak. Rather, to let him be heard. It was an interesting story, and a real one. One she could share and divine wisdom from. Stories of that nature were, in their own way, a kind of gift. And this one would not go without her appreciation.

"Do you seek Khaine's favor?" she asked. Her tone, despite the light and breathy voice, was quite serious. She was thinking; concocting a means to an end. Perhaps there was more to this strange elf than gore and sacrifice. She reached into her robe again and produced just one card. The image of Viviana, which she had placed at the top of her deck.
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Magnetic Prophet

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Charlotte stifled a yawn by pressing her lips together tightly, this made her dark brown eyes water. Exhaustion was written deeply across her face, her hair that was usually in a nice bun appeared unkempt and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her milky fingers wrapped around the front door and she used her weight to push herself through the arch way. It had been years since she had been in the city, having fled to the country-side made the simulation of the hustle and bustle over whelming.
But, alas, it was time for her to return. It was safe again.
Wearily walking around the city had brought her sore feet to this establishment. It was a good thing too, all the walking was wearing the pads on her feet thin. It felt as if her feet would snap off at the ankle. Charlotte shuffled farther into the establishment, found a comfortable place to plop down and plopped, a huge huff passing through her supple lips. She was too tired to notice any of the conversations around her.

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