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The people of Durem parted, like a sea gives way to the bow of a boat, as a new face entered the city. Dozens of phrases of “excuse me” and “pardon me” were issued from the newcomer as he squeezed his way through a rather busy part of town, and most of the people blatantly complied without sparing him a second glance. There were some however who cast him with either startled or inquisitive looks, but by the time they would size him up, he would already be filing past another group of pedestrians. It was an ironic thing to be calling him a “new face”, when every facial feature he assumedly possessed had been hidden under a rubbery breathing apparatus. As strange and curious as it was, the man wore a gas mask. It looked somewhat old of make and yet there appeared to be several modifications added on to it, giving it a slightly more modern look.

The strange man clutched a briefcase in his hand as he made it out of the congestion of people and, with a thankful sigh, found his way down a less-crowded street. The briefcase was part of his typical daily attire of a business man. The stranger stood at a normal height, dressed exclusively in a fine coal-black business suit complete with a plain white undershirt and a cherry-red tie. His shoes were polished and shined like onyxagainst the lackluster cobblestone street and the chain of a pocket watch hung from the left pocket of his slacks. A dark bowler hat sat at the top of his head, completing the look of a business man despite the strange apparatus that covered his face.

When the coast was clear and he felt that he wouldn’t be approaching any more clusters of people anytime soon, the gas masked man dug into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and removed a small piece of paper. He stared at it for a time, or at least he appeared to be staring at it, as any onlookers couldn’t tell where his gaze strayed to. The glass goggles of the mask had been tinted enough so the man could see out, but no one could see in, it was both an advantage and a disadvantage. Appearing satisfied with whatever was written on the small note; the stranger slipped it back into his pocket and continued on his way.


{ Looks like this thread needs life. Allow me to help. }



            He's just minding his own business.

            Content to sit with nothing but a brew and a cigarette to keep him company, the man is like any other you'd expect to find in a tavern like this, battle-worn, muscular and handsome, thirsty for the drink he lifts to his lips, polite to passers by but clearly, you know, not to be flexed with.

            He's outfitted with all the trappings of a hero; a flowing cape, a fitted chest-plate, a bandage around his bicep, finger-less gloves, heavy steel-toed boots...he even wears a fancy sword at his hip. It's hilt is engraved with runes and the blade is sheathed in leather with intricate stitching; a family heirloom he carries with pride.

            He doesn't acknowledge anyone directly, but he does beg to be noticed in that flashy appearance yet mysteriously quiet stranger sort of way as he lounges at the bar with smoke swirling from his lips -- but it's useless. John Smith is just part of the scenery.

            A dazed looking stranger a few stools down from our hero starts mumbling drunkenly, drumming on the bar counter, and it's no surprise that in this moment no one notices the way John Smith stiffens up, his eyes bulging in silent shock.

            The long black spine that has been thrusted into his back pumps him full of something vile, something that keeps him from screaming or making a scene that might trump the noisy drunk who has provided this opportunity. He does manage a gurgled moan of release as the spine is retracted from the base of his neck, but luckily --

            No one hears him.

            He slumps forward and drools onto the bar, his cigarette still resting precariously between his fingers as it's ash falls gently to the floor....and then the helpless hero is hoisted up, sword and all, into the darkness of the tavern's rafters.




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                                Location: Rafters





                                It's hard to hide the coppery scent of his blood passing her lips.

                                She cradles him with the crooked spires protruding from her back, fangs embedded deep in his throat and drinking his blood feverishly. Not a drop is wasted to the floor, and she is careful not to make too much noise in the web of rafters above.

                                There is only the soft chime of his armor coming off and his sword holster jingling as she removes it and places it on a nearby wooden beam. She hangs his jacket on a protruding nail as if he is her guest, her spines undressing him while she turns him in her clawed grasp like an ear of corn, guzzling on the parts of him that are still ripe with blood.

                                In a matter of minutes he's nothing but a pale, naked husk of a man...but nothing goes to waste. Her mouth opens impossibly wide, her lower lip stretching, thinning before it finally splits at the center seam running down her chin and reveals the extent of her horrible maw.

                                Her fangs are like thick clustered needles, their roots running all the way to the base of her opened chin.

                                Her face appears to be nothing more than a split open mask to fool her pray.

                                She begins to devour his drained corpse, her mouth-parts moving like they belong on a giant mantis, consuming the crown of his head with a terrible crunch that cannot be muffled.

                                She is, it seems, beyond her fear of being discovered.




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The unforgiving eye of bloodlust, despair, and death named Grotham flew about Durem circling high above the streets from which one would only spot a small black speck. Grotham a demon by nature but also very intellectual, folding his wings in against himself he dropped like a rock. Flipping over to his feet he unfurled his wings quickly and hit the ground with tremendous force. The Dragon stood and looked about, he had gone elsewhere for a bit, the smoke and flames from the crater he made swirled out of existence as he flapped to out the fire. "I have returned." Citizens watched him and some ran screaming, for he was known for his destruction. The Dragon hollered a tone most enraging, he was sending a warning. A warning that all those who wished him and his city harm would die. Setting aside his dominance for a second he raised his hand and slowly from the ground came a staff with a giant emerald on the top of it. He sighed heavily and walked blithely across the pavement of the street to the place he reposted, the Venantium Tavern, his home. Walking to the door he opened it the hinges squeaking as he did so, the fire in his eyes remained as he crossed the threshold of the doorway into the bar. He made his way to the bar counter and sat down, the Dragon heaved another heavy sigh and shook his head to clear it, he was hyper today and could not find a way to release his energy. He looked around taking in everything once more.
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Everything was perfect. Admittedly, the masked man didn’t have a schedule or any kind of appointments that needed his direct attention, but after years of adequate time-management and budgeting hours upon hours into constructive investments, the man felt he was making great time for the day. It was hardly past lunch and already he had nearly reached his destination in the somewhat confined streets of Durem. The man gripped his suitcase almost protectively in his grasp as he paused at the corner of some street to catch his breath. He walked quite fast for a man who appeared a little too nimble particularly around the limbs. A little too fast he would have agreed, reaching up and adjusting a small knob near the left cheek of his gas mask. A small hiss escaped the knob and he let out an exasperated sigh, catching a few pedestrians giving him odd looks as they passed him by. No one bothered asking him anything though; no one seemed to care enough. In most cases the man was delighted by this, but sometimes he couldn’t help but feel a little lonely. In the end, it didn’t matter. He was a busy man with no time to feel silly things like seclusion.

It was then that the stranger’s gaze lingered over the rooftops of Durem and into the skies. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular, just a lone and rather large bird that flitted above over the city to some unknown destination. What caught him by surprise however, was when the bird suddenly dropped straight out of the blue as if its life expectantly expired while on the wing. Then he realized it wasn’t a bird, but a great winged man-shaped creature, plummeting to the ground and scattering civilians and loose street litter alike. The masked man’s first reaction was to throw his arms up over his face as the sudden gust of wind that inevitably came after buffeted his form and threatened to blow off his hat if he hadn’t held it in place in time. When the wind subsided and died, the man looked up and found himself staring at the draconic man standing in a crater at the other side of the street.

“Oh dear,” he murmured to himself, just as the dragon-man let loose a mighty roar that probably rang out all across town. The stranger stood ever still, wondering if he should defend himself somehow need be. Even as the thought crossed his mind the draconic man was on the move again, this time it was a casual stride toward the very tavern the business-suited man was going to enter. After such a display, the man considered turning on his heel and leaving out the way he came but he didn’t scare off that easy. With another small sigh, the gas masked man brushed any loose dirt off his suit and when he appeared satisfactory, started across the street and gently pushed the door open to the Venatium Tavern.
Daniel Hawthorne


lizardman ((mummyman3))



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                                Location: Rafters


                                This creature called Flea licks her lips as the door creaks open, her tongue dragging all the way around her split open chin and elongated fangs. Glassy white eyes hone in with curiosity on the entering dragon, and then on the masked man that follows. She crunches casually on the severed arm of our hero....consuming his fingers one at a time with the grotesquely rhythmic bites of her sectioned mouth.

                                She leaves an arm and a leg in the rafters with the hero's clothing and personal effects before she makes her way down into the tavern, favoring the darkest and most remote corner, crawling with the spider-like extensions reaching out from her spine. There seem to be 10 of them, all balancing to carry her down gracefully to the floor where her bare toes, tipped in black as if they're filthy, finally touch ground.

                                The spires that carried her down now sink into her back, reduced to spikes that line her bare spine. Flea is naked, her reproductive parts are missing altogether, grown over with glistening obsidian scales that span her breasts and crotch...black scales on black flesh that fades into white at her elbows and upper thighs as if someone dipped her in white paint but never quite finished the job.

                                Her pale fingers are clawed -- again, tipped in black -- and around her wrists and ankles are black bands inked into her flesh as if she were once a prisoner. The regality of the crown-like horns on her head, however, make such a suggestion hard to believe.

                                She doesn't carry herself like she could have ever been prisoner to anyone or anything.

                                Flea chooses a bar stool along the back wall of the tavern where the light is most scarce. The slice down her chin has closed and sealed itself, hiding the horror of her second mouth and granting her the ability to speak the way her pray speaks; with fragile lips that wrap carefully around each word.

                                "It's good to see some new faces around here."

                                The irony of the softly cooed statement is undoubtedly directed at the masked man...who is as faceless as they come.



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Gotham listens as the sounds of crunching and creaking wood ensue the vibrant air around him. Moving an eye over the side to watch the very spots he hears them, his wings were large and spiked, his scales a jade color, his eyes as red as blood itself. He was not in any way a being of part human but instead is a full fledged bipedal Dragon, he was old, wise, and very territorial.

Reaching back behind the bar he grabs a bottle of rum and places it on the counter before getting up himself and moving back behind the bar. His place of work was that of the waiter, but he was known to serve drinks and food. Looking at the newcomers to his roost he raises a clawed hand and manifesting a pen reaches under with the other to grab a pad. "Welcome to the Byzantium, I am Grotham I will be your waiter today, and forever." The Dragon clicked the pen and placed the tip to the pad, addressing not the demoness in the back. Even though he heard her, he was only able to take one order at a time if he was to be efficient.
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Upon entering the tavern, the gas masked man paused at the threshold even as the door closed quietly behind him. He appeared to be sizing up the place, though the direction of his gaze could not be determined through those soulless eyes of the façade. He looked down at his briefcase as if checking it was still safely in his clutch before crossing the door frame. Polished dress shoes clicked softly against the hard wooden floor as the man entered the premises of the bar area, but with another pause they faded away and all was quiet again minus the steady, muffled breaths that issued from the filters of his mask.

It had come to the stranger’s further surprise that the rather violent-looking draconic man had also been an employee of Venatium. His surprise was, thankfully, hidden behind that grim little mask of his. The man reached up and adjusted the knot of his tie, appearing nervous for a moment before he allowed himself to regain his composure. The dragon wanted to take his order after all.

When he realized this, he gasped silently and started toward the bar before catching a soft strand of words from somewhere else in the room that felt as if they had been directed toward him. The glass lenses of his mask gleamed for a second, reflecting the light to form white crescents that curved in the rounded shape of the lenses, all while he turned his head toward the cool voice. He spotted a woman a little ways off, seated in a dark corner that cast a good part of her from in shadow. He dipped his head in greeting toward the lady before stopping in front of the bar. Once he received his drink, he would mingle a little later. For the time being, he wanted to order something from the man that almost scared him half to death a little while ago.

“Oh, ah, hello,” the man greeted, despite his words being a little stifled past the mask, his voice sounded scholarly-like and even a bit of a British accent could be heard through the filter. “Mister Grotham,” he continued with a nod, “I am Daniel, and perhaps… I could have some herbal tea? I’m not much of a drinker, you see…” He shrugged in spite of himself and tilted his head and he smiled beneath his mask, allowing it to fade when he realized no one would have seen it.



Viice

lizardman ((mummyman3))

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Gotham nodded at the masked man and retreated to the back to prepare his tea, it would take a few minutes for the water to boil on the stove, and as he set up the kettle he moved to the cabinets and grabbed a small tea cup and saucer. Placing the two items on the counter he grabbed his own blend of draconian herbal teas from his natural realm, taking a few leaves he began to crush them up using his fingers. Placing the tea leaves into the cup he grabbed a small branch of the leaves out of the jar he held, placing them on the saucer as decor. Now he stood there and waited for the water to boil, it would be only a few more minutes however he got bored easily and moved back into the bar area to continue taking orders.

Looking at the masked man he threw a clawed finger behind him, "It will be a few minutes it is coming freshly made." He said as he then made his way to the woman, "How may I help you today?" He asked in as polite a tone he could muster, he was usually quite pessimistic always looking on the downside, but he figured he would try something new, being polite.

Don't mind me, ne'er being around and s**t.
emotion_donotwant

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Rose Scented

Don't mind me, ne'er being around and shot.
emotion_donotwant

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ROOOOOOOOSSSEEE!!
lizardman ((mummyman3))

What up, Lizard-mah-main-man. 8D. How you doin'?

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Rose Scented
lizardman ((mummyman3))

What up, Lizard-mah-main-man. 8D. How you doin'?

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I'm alright been through a lot lately and waiting for the Byzantium to become lively again I want my demon Dragon to have fun... ):
lizardman ((mummyman3))

Imma have a post up soon.
Ish.

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                      The inn had been silent and empty for days upon days.

                      Scarlett wasn’t entirely sure where everyone had gone, nor was she entirely aware of how much time had passed. But with both the owners away on business – or perhaps a romantic rendezvous – she had taken over its care. Everything was as clean as could be, the rows of alcohol stocked and up-kept, glasses polished and the kitchen organized and inventory taken. Scarlett had a bit of an OCD side, and thus it wasn’t unwarranted to say that the inn had never looked better.

                      On this night, with the autumn wind ripping through Durem in icy blasts, Scarlett sat before a crackling fire. The lights in the inn and been dimmed intimately, tea light candles lit and placed in votive holders on all the tables and the warm aroma of hazelnut coffee mingled strangely well with that of Scarlett’s menthol cigarettes and the pleasant stench of roses.

                      Held within her slender hands was an old, leather bound novel. The first edition of some infamous author long since buried and decayed, and glimmering ruby flashes was a glass of deep red wine. Or rather, a potent wine mixture.

                      Half red cabernet, half o positive.

                      She hadn’t had a chance to go hunting in a long while, and surviving off of bagged blood was not something she was fond of, nor that her body responded pleasantly to. Her skin had taken on a pale, somewhat sallow complexion, her hair looked dull despite its immaculate curl, and her eyes were not quite as bright. Still, she was dressed to kill in a black and white striped pencil skirt, a red blouse with matching heels and a rope of pearls about her throat.

                      The column of ash at the tip of her cigarette was discarded into the crystal tray, and the parchment page in her book carefully turned.

                      Peccaminous Peregrine

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