Alastor's Example Page

[Alastor Griffith]

- - -Table of Contents - - -

post 1 - - -

[ Personal information. Mostly for one X one searches. ]


post 2 - - -

[ One x One rp guidelines. ]


post 3 and beyond - - -

[ My roleplaying examples, pulled from real roleplays I've been in. A mix of opening posts, and middle of the roleplay posts. ]

[Alastor Griffith]

- - - Personal Information - - -

Roleplaying Experience

[ Close to ten years. ]


Roleplay Level

[ Advanced Literate ]


Where I Roleplay

[ Forums only. ]


Activity Level

[ I'm on every day and post every day unless real life gets in the way. If I'm going to miss a day, you will know. ]

[Alastor Griffith]

- - -One X One Guidlines - - -

[ Please read before randomly messaging me requests. If you're checking quality for a group rp, feel free to skip this. ]


My Personal Romance Theory

[ I do not believe in rps based solely around a pairing. Romance is not the only plot in the world, even though its a wonderful addition to plot. So, do NOT message me requests for "person X person" rps. A roleplay needs a real plot, but more then that... ]


There's More Then Two in the World

[ Its unrealistic to only ever focus on two characters. Be willing to shuffle between a few main characters. Of course you may have a favorite, that always happens. But do not expect to make one female character, and expect me to play the rest of the world around her. It is far more interesting when we have more then two main characters! ]


My Boundaries and Possibilities

[ I am fine with heterosexual and homosexual pairings to develop in a roleplay. My characters' sexual preferences differ, dependent on their personality. I tend to curse a lot with my adult characters, but I can easily tune it down if it offends you. Romance is fun, but once the pants are off, we're skipping to the end of the fun. Sorry baby, but I'm not your porn source. ]


That All Said and Done

[ I'm open for just about any genre, especially unique plots and 'out there' ideas. Feel free to pm me. I won't bite. If I don't have time to start another roleplay, I'll let you know.]

[Alastor Griffith]

♠ - ♣ - ♥ - ♦ - ♠ - ♣ - ♥ - ♦ - ♠ - ♣ - ♥ - ♦ - ♠ - ♣ - ♥ - ♦

If someone told you Mark was excited about heading to the mortal world with Mama Morningstar and whole family, they were making an understatement. From the moment he was invited, the old flare of greed had consumed his soul again. While the reaches of hell weren't so bad when you were a sin, they were absolutely boring for someone who wants nothing more then materialistic gain. In hell, the only thing to gain is power. Once you've kissed up to Lucifer and snagged yourself a job as a sin, there's not much else to do. But the mortal world? The mortal world is filled with endless, tantalizing possibilities.

When they first arrived in the mortal world, instead of crashing into bed out of exhaustion like the other sins, Mark had a different agenda. Through a hazy mind and exhausted body, he spent half the night day looking up the account information on the blessed credit card that Mama gave him. So when Mark finally collapsed from exhaustion, he was curled up on a couch, with barely a blanket pulled over him, his new materialistic belongings in a heap next to the couch.

Not even the blaring, cruel afternoon sun managed to wake Mark that morning. He slept through it, only giving a small moan, and pulling the blanket over his head. Of course, this was followed by yelling, threats, and extremely loud music. But every time he woke up, he fell asleep a moment later when the ruckus was put to a stop. Jet lag combined with the lack of sleep had caught up to his body.

After an extra twenty minutes of sleep (after the first attempt of waking him) Mark was finally woken by the smell of coffee, and recently delivered food. With a moan he sat up, red hair defying gravity in the most hilarious case of bedhead. His golden hazel eyes squinted in the sunlight, and immediately he was blinded. "Damn sun," he growled, blindly grabbing his favorite pair of shades and shoving them on his nose, "I didn't miss you." Walking over he slammed the curtains closed with dignity, not even aware there was a remote that could accomplish the very same thing for him.

Rubbing his pained temples, Mark wobbled back over to the couch, collapsing down into a sitting position. His clothes from last night were in a pile on the floor, along his notes of his financial calculations. Sitting on top of the notepad should have been... his brand new... missing credit card. Tension and shock rose through Mark, waking him quicker then any coffee could. He stood up, quickly flinging his pants and shirt half way across the room to make sure the card wasn't hiding beneath. He then flung the papers, peeked under the couch, and between the cushions. 'Oh mother of hell where is it?!' he cursed internally, until finally a realization hit him. He wasn't alone in this house. There plenty of trouble makers who could be behind this.

Pissed off beyond reason, Mark marched straight to the kitchen. While his anger was more comical then fear worthy (like Wrath), he still made sure his displeasure was known. "Where the hell is my credit card!" he snapped the moment he stepped into the kitchen. Every bare stomach muscle was tense, hands clenched into fists.

Upon seeing the mountain of food, his jaw dropped, and his heart skipped a beat. Right there, on the counter, in plain view was his credit card and vicious bill accompanying it. Speechless, as if the most horrific thing had occurred, Mark picked up the card and yard long bill. His shade hidden eyes dance up and down the list of charges, with his name signed perfectly at the bottom. It was then he knew his fellow 'siblings' weren't behind this. Only dear Artemis could copy his handwriting so flawlessly.

Turning to face the dark haired beauty, he completely changed his attitude from anger to kiss-a** mode. "Artimis, baby," he cooed in the smoothest, LA accent he could muster, "I wasn't up that late. Come onnnnn. I mean not even dear Sloth is..." He turned to motion to the room, expecting to find Alisa missing and still in bed. Instead, there the blue eyed girl was as awake as she ever would be.

Immediately Mark snapped his mouth closed, swallowing down his own words. "s**t.... never mind." Steaming and out of good arguments, Mark slapped the bill and card back onto the counter. With a dramatic, obnoxious moan, he lowered his head in defeat, standing in the middle of the kitchen in only his boxers.

♠ - ♣ - ♥ - ♦ - ♠ - ♣ - ♥ - ♦ - ♠ - ♣ - ♥ - ♦ - ♠ - ♣ - ♥ - ♦

♠ Currently: Horrified over the New Bill ♠
♦ At: Sin's Penthouse, kitchen ♦
♣ Wearing: gray boxers ♣

[Alastor Griffith]

-「J e r e m i a h」 - 「C a i n e」 -

The attack on this mysterious woman ended so swiftly, Jeremiah didn’t know what went wrong. A hand snapped around his muzzle. Next thing he knew, he was flying through the air and slamming into a convertible. Metal screeched, as the force caused a huge dent into the frame of the car. He howled in pain, sound echoing across the parking lot. Pain erupted across his back from the blow, stunning him to the spot.

Warmth and flame engulfed him before he could come to his senses. Fur singed, blacked and burning with a putrid smell. The pain became so much that Jeremiah was forced to shift back to his human form. Since it was the most natural for his body, when he was overwhelmed, he was always shoved back into it. Trembling, he lied on the ground beside the destroyed car.

“So have you had enough?”

Jeremiah lifted his brown eyes to the woman. He attempted to lift his body, but white-hot pain sizzled up his spine. After all, he had landed back first into the car. He could practically feel the bruises swelling up from the blow. White and blue wings trembled, stretching, and then folding protectively over his body once more. His dark dread locks and feathers were still singed from the attack, smoke rising off his body.

“What… what are you?”he whispered. This woman exhibited far more power then he could handle. Were the sins really this powerful? Or… could it be? Realization reached Jeremiah. Visibly his eyes widened, a frightened breath was sucked in. “The Fallen One,” he murmured, awestruck by the very thought. His foolishness crashed down on him suddenly. No single Virtue could face this woman. She was far beyond their strength.

That was when cars started exploding again. His eyes tore away from Artimis, watching the parking lot. “Come out come out where ever you are. You can’t hide from the Devil forever my Pet.”

His worst fear was realized. He had not attacked a beautiful lust, or any other sin for that matter. This woman was the most infamous Fallen Angel, cast out of heaven for her atrocities. As he watched her, black like tendrils sprouted from her back, vile looking things that made his stomach churn.

It was then that Temperance appeared. A mixture of brotherly worry and personal relief sprouted in him. When she swung her blade at the tendrils, dread took hold. “No! Stop, she’ll destroy you!” he shouted in warning. He tried to shove himself up, hands pressing against the asphalt.

"Jeremiah! Get up! Get up!"

Just as he lifted his upper half, and was about to force his body up, flames sprouted around him. Fire… it had to be caused by the tux wearing man. Their warmth licked at his body, and he quickly pulled his wings away from the fiery walls. He coughed as smoke entered his lungs, staring at the dancing orange and red around him. This was hell on earth.

But he couldn't leave Temperance to fight for herself. He had to force his body. Pushing back the physical pain, he forcibly lifted himself up.Then, just when he got to his feet, more fire engulfed him, caused by Pride’s misdirected fireball. The heat and force of the blow sent him right back to his knees. Wings folded around him, and he pulled his arms as close to his body as possible. Closing his eyes, he prayed fiercely. “Dear God warn Zadkiel of their might. Please protect the other Virtues,” he whispered softly.

With trembling hands he fished out his cell phone. He texted out ‘The Fallen One has found us.' before swiftly sending it to their leader. He could only hope Zadkiel could find them, and find them in time. His body was harmed far too much to help the fight. Then, a single idea sprouted in his head. It was his only possible way to help, trying to scare the sins off. "God, summon Zadkiel to our aid!" he shouted in a loud, determined prayer. The statement was followed by a fit of coughing, as he sucked in another lungful of smoke. Would the devil even fear Zadkiel?

「Obeying the will of god is difficult in the face of such temptations」

-「Location: parking lot 」 - 「Doing: fighting the sins」 - 「Form: human」 -

[Alastor Griffith]

[ Lysander ] from [ Gryffindor ]

[ Lorcan ] from [ Ravenclaw ]

[ Quibbler Journalist ] - [ Realistic Courage ] - [ Memorizing Expert ]

It was another year at Hogwarts, and finally the first visit to Hogsmeade was upon them. Too bad, instead of rushing down to the village with his friends, Lysander was caught up with his brother, helping him search for his missing... missing... 'What are we looking for?' Lysander thought to himself, as he wandered the halls of Hogwarts with Lorcan. His hands were shoved in his pockets, wearing a red sweater and black pants. He had changed out of his wizarding robes, all ready to head to Hogsmeade when his brother came running in, babbling about something important missing. 'So the pattern begins,' Lysander thought with a sigh, eyes wandering with longing towards the nearest window, and the sunshine outside of it.

"Lorcan is this really that important?" Lysander asked, withholding an annoyed sigh. He summoned up his patience, reminding himself that family came before friends. Hogsmeade would be there another day, and the world wouldn't come to an end if he missed it.

At the question, his brother turned to face him. Though most got them mixed up, there was a distinct detail that set the twins apart. Lysander had a rounder face, while Lorcan's held a sharper 'raven' look to it. Both, however had their mother's blond hair, and kept it the relative same length. Lorcan paused to study his brother's wistful expression, and his occasional glances towards the window. 'Why is he doing that?' Lorcan thought, immediately heading towards the window.

Predicting his brother's thoughts, Lysander said, "Don't worry about it Lorcan. Let's just find your... knickknack." His eyes gravitated towards the ceiling, resisting the urge to plead to his brother about Hogsmeade.

Lorcan stood there a long while, staring at the scenery and the students headed towards the village. "Hogsmeade," he murmured, his tone much softer then his brother's. With a swift turn, he grabbed his brother's wrist, yanking him the direction of outside.

"Ah! Come on Lorcan I said don't worry about it," Lysander whined at his brother, feeling embarrassed.

[ Quidditch Commentator ] - [ Lovegood Personality ] - [ Divination Specialist ]

His brother shrugged, shoulders lifting beneath the black scarf. "Don't even remember what I was searching for anyways. No worries. I'll find it later," he said simply, dragging Lysander out into the sun and crisp air of autumn. As soon as they were on the path towards Hogsmeade, Lorcan let go, turning and walking backwards. Hands held behind his back, he stared at the colorful trees they were passing, not caring there was a major possibility of tripping.

Lorcan didn't know why his brother had to be so stubborn. Maybe it was a Gryffidor pride thing. But Lysander couldn't fool him, he'd rather be in Hogsmeade then running around looking for Lorcan's missing potions book. So, trying to secretly please his brother, Lorcan marched them towards the village. "So, where should we go when we get there?" Lorcan asked his brother, still walking backwards. He barely avoided running into a girl headed the opposite way, not even noticing her presence.

Lysander grabbed his brother's shoulders, whipping him around so he had to walk forward. "I don't care as long as you walk like a normal person," he said, tone verging on a scold. His eyebrows were knit together in that serious look that Lorcan disliked. So, to please the man, he obeyed the order.

"I say we got to the Three Broomsticks. You like it there," Lorcan said, continuing the conversation without his brother's input. "Nice atmosphere. A little too bland for my taste, but perfect for you." He led them towards the very building he was speaking of, pushing the wooden door open. Pointing at his brother, he demanded, "Find a place to sit. I'll get our drinks." With that he marched off, acting far too dramatic for such a normal event.

Rolling his eyes, Lysander looked about the room. Spotting a fellow Gryffidor, he headed in Rose's direction. "Mind if my brother and I join you? I might go mad if I don't have someone sane to talk to." he asked, pulling out a chair, but not sitting till given permission.

[Alastor Griffith]

- J A R E T H -

- C A I N E -

- P R O T E C T I V E - C O N F I D E N T -

So, it was time to start the fun. Slowly, Jareth parked his dark blue truck into a crowded lot about a block from the infamous Puppy Mills Headquarters. Taking a deep breath, he checked the time on his cell phone.

11:00

That meant his journalist partner, Adeline would be starting her mission. He knew that, whether or not he showed, that determined girl would continue with her plans. He took another deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. Reaching up, he pushed some of his dark dreadlocks behind his shoulder and out of the way. Whenever Adeline did dangerous stuff like this, it made Jareth a nervous wreck. When it came to his own safety, Jareth never batted an eye. He was confident and as reliable as stone. But this was different. If this went wrong, Adeline could get in some serious trouble.

So, no matter what, Jareth had to get his a** over to that building to support that girl. Reaching over to the passenger seat, he swiped up the necessities. The first thing was a small portable camera. The wonderful thing about this era of technology? The camera wasn’t your normal hand held size. In fact, it took up only the space of a pen. It was a simple point and shoot camera, perfect for these undercover missions. The second thing he grabbed literally looked like a pen. Only this little beauty could record voices, and would (hopefully) get past security. Both were expensive toys, but as a hard working journalist, Jareth had spent the time making the money for them.

Tucking these objects into the inside pockets of his jacket, he exited his truck. It was a bit warm to be wearing a jacket. But the nice leather gave him a rich look, which he needed to pull off to get into Pupp Mill’s Headquarters. As Jareth walked, he played with the collar of the formal button up shirt. The whole get up made him look like the son of some rich guy, or a well-paid athlete. At first, he had tried the whole highschooler thing. But according to Adeline his body was ‘too built’ to pull off that look. So instead they had to work separately within the building. Jareth wasn’t happy with it, but like always he went with Adeline’s decision.

Walking down the sidewalk, he lifted his head to peer at the building. The sheer height and enormity of it shocked him. This company was huge and richer then gold. “What are you thinking Adeline?” he murmured to himself, before shaking his head in frustration.

Confidently and head held high, Jareth walked into the lobby of the building. The sleek expensive style to it all made even Jareth want to whistle, very impressed. But he withheld the urge and tried to get rid of his doe-eyed-kid-in-a-candy-store look. Instead, he strolled languorously about the lobby, trying to appear mildly intrigued and curious. ‘Appear to be a normal costumer,’ he told himself internally, ‘What ever that it.’

As he looked around in there, he spotted Adeline. His eyes lingered on her a bit longer then necessary, and he flashed a small smile. But sadly, he couldn’t say anything to her. They had to appear to be total strangers during this. That meant his brotherly words of worry would have to go unheard. She was probably excited about that.

- E N D U R I N G - N E W S - J O U R N A L I S T -

[Alastor Griffith]

「 W i n e is the
B l o o d of L i f e 」

✖ - ✖ - ✖ - ✖ The day was spent like any other day for Cruz; a beer was clutched in one hand and the laughter of a stranger filled his ear. The Spanish mutt was sitting on the steps of his apartment, enjoying the sunlight on his back. The wind, such a normal occurrence, was blocked by the forgiving three story building he lived in. They barely paid mind to its grumbling roar in the background, blending with the sounds of the city. "So I told the guy, "You want a blondie? The strip club is down the street buddy." I was totally messing with him, but he turned out to be one of those p***k. You know the, kind that comes in there with the sole purpose of making your day a living hell." Cruz's voice filled the air, as he told yet another story about his job. Motioning theatrically, he continued on, spurred on by the comforting buzz of alcohol in his system. "So he ends up complaining to my boss. Then I gotta listen to an earful from the idiota about how this is a sophisticated establishment and that we have to show respect to our beloved costumers." The story paused long enough for Cruz to take a sip of his beer, before he continued it with even a thicker Spanish accent. "Little did the guy know, I was too drunk to understand half the ********' words he said." The men he was sitting with fell into a fit of laughter, Cruz's voice joining with them. He held his chest with his free arm, half leaned forward.

✖ - ✖ - ✖ - ✖ Two of the guys were his neighbors, Rico and Pablo. Both were heavy set, tall men with thicker accents then Cruz, and more tattoos then he could count. The third was new guy who moved into the apartment complex only a few days ago. Not only was he a shady character, but he was twitchiest addict Cruz had ever seen. Not that he minded, oh no. Cruz loved his company, no matter how low they were in the levels of human society. No other apartment complex would let him sit out on the stares with a broken down radio spitting out rap, drinking a couple of beer at... at... well Cruz didn't know what time it was. Based on the sun, it was early afternoon, not that he cared. Head leaning against the yellow stucco wall, Cruz closed his eyes, absorbing in the blissful, carefree moment. "s**t Cruz you got a cushy gig. I don' care how much your boss yells at ya. I'd take bartender over liftin' all that s**t for the movin' company," Pablo said, patting him on the back with such force, that Cruz fell into a small coughing fit.


✖ - ✖ - ✖ - ✖ "Ah man did ya have to remind me? Fuccckkk man its probably time for my shift already." Pablo fished out his broken down cell phone, squinting at the time. "Its almost two man we gotta go before our idiota jefe has our head." At that mention, the mini party began to disperse, Pablo and Rico standing up.

✖ - ✖ - ✖ - ✖ Teasingly Cruz called after them, "Work? Ha! As if you two ever work. You probably sit around whining "Lo voy a hacer más tarde, jefa!" all the while drinking a beer." Cruz busted up laughing at his own joke, patting them on the back as they descended down the stairs to their apartment room.

✖ - ✖ - ✖ - ✖ "We wish man," Rico responded with a chuckle. "See yah Cruz. Don't forget to sober up before work. You knocked out quite a few."

✖ - ✖ - ✖ - ✖ Cruz's nose crinkled at the reminder. "I'll get right on that mom," he grumbled to himself, finishing off his last beer with a big swig. Placing a hand on the metal railing, he slowly stood, knowing vertigo could be a b***h while drinking. He raised up a hand, mumbling, "See yah twitch." He couldn't remember the guy's name to save his life. So he reverted to the nickname they all used for him anyways. Slowly he walked up the stairs to the third floor, rap music replaced by the undecipherable talking from someone's blasting tv. No matter when and where you were, at his apartment complex there was never silence. You also never felt alone, which was a damn comfort for Cruz.

✖ - ✖ - ✖ - ✖ Pushing open the ajar door to room 307, Cruz entered his humble home. Dirty laundry littered his brown carpet. A single love-seat, television, and old x-box made up his living room. The kitchen was only a few steps away, and was the same exact room at the 'living quarters'. The only thing that dictated the difference was the change from cheap carpet to cheap linoleum that was peeling in the corners. Walking past the trash bin, Cruz let go of his empty bottle, letting it collide with the other empty bottles within. The glass-like clink of protest was a normal sound to his ears. 'Sober up?' he mulled over in his mind, 'Why should I sober up? Its just work. I'll probably end up drinking there too.' He pulled open the fridge, staring at its poor contents of beer, condiments, and a single yogurt. None of these looked appetizing as his beer settled down on an empty stomach. 'Note to self, go to the store,' he thought, dark brown eyebrows lifting a little. His expression was one of the slight surprise and frustration. Disheartened he let the fridge close, staring mindlessly at its door for a moment.

✖ - ✖ - ✖ - ✖ There were a few postcards and a single photos stuck to the fridge by a magnet. The picture was that of him and his older sister, grinning like idiots as they posed for the camera. Sighing, he grumbled at the picture, "Don't give me that look Eva. I take care of myself, I swear." Turning, he swiped up his keys and wallet from the kitchen counter. The black wallet was shoved into the back pocket of his torn, worn jeans. A clinking noise sounded from the chain as he attached it to one of the belt loops. Next, by habit, he grabbed his black jacket, pulling it over the gray t-shirt he wore.

✖ - ✖ - ✖ - ✖ Buzzed, and in desperate need for some food to absorb the alcohol, he stepped outside of his room. Cruz didn't even bother to lock it, knowing everyone around here could pick a lock, and that he didn't have a damn thing worth stealing. Down the stairs he went, area giving the slightest sways that were easily ignored. Cruz was used to walking around like this... however sad that sounded. Alcohol dulled his thoughts, so it took all his focus to just complete his basic mental checklist. 'Grocery store, grocery store,' he repeated in his mind, knowing he was in desperate need for a trip there. The local mini-mart had a low selection, but the closest vons was a few blocks away. All the same, he forced himself to make the walk.

✖ - ✖ - ✖ - ✖ By the time he reached his goal, his mind was swarming from the case of beer. 'Come on Cruz, its just grocery shopping,' he scolded himself, 'You don't need to be sober for that.' Grabbing a cart, he leaned heavily against it, rolling himself down the isles. He stared at the rows and rows of food, deep frown claiming his face. 'How the hell do people do this?' he thought, starting to toss in random stuff that looked good. A bag of chips, some oreos, some cheap salsa; the more he put in, the more he began to question his eating habits. It was amazing he ever had food in his apartment.

「 B a r s are M y
G l o r i o u s D o m a i n 」

「 C u r r e n t l y : grocery shopping
A t : the local vons
W e a r i n g : casual attire
O O C : This came out much longer then expected. 」

[Alastor Griffith]

x x S H A N E x x A L E X A N D E R

⬇ U C L A ⬇ P R O F F E S O R ⬇ A C H I L L E S⬇

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ Mr. Xander paced back and forth in the classroom, lights dim, and desks only half filled. His dress shoes clunked against the floor, the only sound other then the occasional cough or clicking of a pen. Even with it being a summer class, Mr. Xander's students were the icon of perfect behavior. After all, Mr. Xander was not the type of teacher to allow whispers or goofing off in his class. Straightening his tie, Mr. Xander stopped at the projector, switching it to the next slide. The image on an old Greek building came into view, and he called in a loud, teacher-like tone, "Alright, so everyone should know the answer to this one." His eyes glazed over the students, looking for the most unsuspecting victim for his personal entertainment. He had to pass the hours at work somehow. "Mr. Jacobson!" he snapped, eyes locked on a young man who was practically sleeping at his desk. Although sitting upright, his head was leaned so heavily on his hand, and his eyes were closed.

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ At the intrusive, loud noise, the man jumped, elbow accidentally falling off the edge of the desk. His chin slammed into the wood, jolting him instantly awake. "Huh, what Mr. Xander?" the man responded drowsily.

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ "Please point out to the class what style this temple belongs under," Mr. Xander said, placing his hand at his hips, where the black belt held up the business pants. His white shirt was tucked in neatly, apparel incredibly average for a professor at UCLA. He resisted the urge to smile, knowing the kid was clueless what the lesson was even about. After letting Mr. Jacobson simmer under the spotlight for a few moment, he said, "Let me help you out a little Mr. Jacobson. Take a look at the pillars, what do you see? A scroll like design capital, yes? Well that would make it Ionic. Yes, Ionic was the answer you were after Mr. Jacobson. I expect a two page essay on Ionic style on my desk by tomorrow, you hear me?"

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ Some of the students in the class snickered to themselves, while others rolled their eyes, murmuring complaints about the teacher. Mr. Jacobson paled, and just nodded, quickly lowering his head to avoid further embarrassment. Done torturing students, Mr. Xander went back to the lecture. "This temple is part of the Acropolis in the city of Athens. It was built around 300 BC. The design of the temple was known as dipteral, a term that refers to the two sets of columns surrounding the interior section." He was about to continue pointing out details when his watch suddenly gave a few beeps, signaling the end of the class. Blinking, he squinted at the time, before calling, "Alright everyone, that's it for today. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ The lights were flicked back on, and the projector turned off. Students filed out of the room, while Mr. Xander gathered together his things. There was never much to do during the summer, and with his last class over, he was ready to get some fresh air. After answering any lingering student's questions, he stepped outside of the classroom, locking the door.

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ When his son was going to school, Mr. Xander would walk from his house to his work, to try and get some exercise in his schedule. But during the summer, the heat was too much, and Mr. Xander was eager to return to his waiting son. So today, instead of walking down the street, he headed out to the parking lot, stepping into his extremely average and gas efficient car. Mr. Xander could rarely remember the name or brand of his car, because he barely gave it attention. It worked fine for him, and got him from place to place.

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ He was about to start the car when his phone went off, the over-dramatic jaws theme. Each note practically displayed his dread, as he read the title on the front 'Lindsay calling'. "s**t," he whispered. While he rarely cursed, seeing his ex-wife's name was more then enough reason to. Cautiously he answered the phone, pressing it to his ear. "Yeah Lindsay, what do you need?"

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ "Where the ******** are you Shane?" the familiar voice snapped on the other end.

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ Before she could continue, Shane made sure to quickly ask, "What's wrong? Isn't Carol and Cris there?" His ex-step-sister was driving his son out to Palm Springs for him since he was stuck at the job. It was a drive Shane made once a week to deliver his son to Lindsay Jonathan, as part of the custody arrangement. At the end of the weekend Lindsay would drive the boy back home, and next Friday the vicious cycle would start over.

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ "Yeah, they are. Why didn't you tell me you were making my sister drive him here? That's your job Shane and you'll be paying hell if you think you can shove that responsibility on my sister," the woman ranted endlessly. In the background Shane could make out Carol's voice, trying to convince her older sister that she didn't mind.

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ Taking a deep breath, Shane put the phone on speaker, setting it in the passenger seat. Knowing the conversation would take a while, he started to drive while they spoke. "Lindsay," he hissed, "You know I have class on Fridays this summer. Your sister offered to help on her own accord. If you want me to drive Cris, then we need to change the day to Saturday."

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ "Oh hell no Shane! You're not stealing another day from me, just so I can adjust to your precious schedule. You're gunna drive him up on Friday, and you're gunna do it. Not my sister. Not your mom. You are. You hear me a*****e?"

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ Shane stopped at a red light, taking a moment to breathe and rub his temples. When the light turned green he slowly gripped the wheel, and began to drive at an overly conservative pace. While impatient drivers passed him, he responded through grit teeth, "Lindsay I got another class to teach. We'll talk about this later."

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ As he reached over to grab the phone, Lindsay screeched, "Don't you dare lie to me Shane! I hear that piece of s**t car of yours . . ." He quickly hit the end button, effectively ending the conversation. With a sigh, he parked outside of the cafe, quickly stepping out of the car. While the device sang out the tune of Jaws, he purposely left it in the passenger seat, making his way up to the White Sands Cafe.

⬅ ⬅ ⬅ ⬅ On a normal day, Shane would have noticed one of his students sitting there, waiting to order. But thanks to the conversation, stress made him oblivious, and every muscle tense. The red head professor stepped inside of the cafe, walking up the counter, rather then sitting down. "Green tea latte to go," he ordered, tone slightly flustered. As he waited for his unusual order, he paced back and forth, trying to relax.

⬆ E X T R O V E R T ⬆ R O M A N T I C ⬆ H A R D A S S⬆

⬅ A C T I O N ⬅
ordering tea
⬅ L O C A T I O N ⬅
White Sands Cafe
⬅ A P P E A R A N C E ⬅
work clothes
⬅ O O C⬅

[Alastor Griffith]

Haven First was perhaps the largest collection of humans, and the oldest. On the outskirts of the fallen city of New York, their civilization strived. No buildings could compare to the crumbling, desolate skeleton of a city that loomed before them. But they were safe, which was far more important then skyscrapers. Buildings were pressed together, small alleys leading like a labyrinth from the Outskirts district, all the way to the Epicenter district. The rich clung to the skirts of Court, where there were plenty of soldiers, and distance from the walls. The less wealthy have ominous stone and concrete constantly looming above, casting shadows upon the over populated buildings.

Because of this, the city was difficult to navigate near the wall, even for Outskirt local like Varren. Certainly those five years dedicating his life to the order of hunters had not dulled that knowledge? Varren questioned it, as he slipped through another small side alley, practically stepping on a cat on the way. It meowed loudly at him, a bone chilling yowl of protest. After a glare from its gold eyes, it dashed away, a blur of brown fur. For a single heartbeat Varren stopped, before taking a deep breath. “Always hated cats,” he growled to himself, setting off at a slow walk. His boots fell flat against the dirt and crumbling asphalt. The low murmur of people could be heard all around, occasional shouts, glass breaking, someone fixing a roof.

A thick cloud covered the sky, chilly autumn air nipping at him. The light brown leather jacket did well to conceal the daggers at his hips, and keep the cold at bay. Still, Varren kept his hands shoved in his jean pockets, safely near his weapons. The Outskirts was not a kind place to well dressed individuals like himself, even if this was once called home.

“Of course they send me,” Varren complained softly to himself, “They can’t send bloody Raidale, or some other veteran. Has to be the ‘local’. Too bad Outskirts forgets your name faster then a lady at the bar.” Despite his complaints, it was nice to be back. He almost forgot the stench he woke up to every morning. Pleasant of them to remind him what hell hole he came from.

Quietly Varren sidestepped a couple of men coming the opposite way. Thankfully for him, the men were far more interested in the bottles of cheap, strong whisky in their hands. They gargled and grumbled as they went, soft echoes behind him. “Fu’in’ girl atta bar wouldn’ serve meh. Who she think she is? Fu’in’ lucky she still has the stupid joint.”

The words were enough to send a small wave of nostalgia through Varren. The bar he always visited was just around the corner. He could still remember hiding under the tables as a kid, sneaking coin out of drunk patron’s pockets. The owner kept him around and fed him as long as he turned in the steals at the end of every night. Of course, Varren always kept a pinch for himself.

It only took a moment to decide. The mission assigned to him had been unusually vague. Investigate the rumors about a young witch hiding out in the western outskirts. The mission could take weeks if he didn’t find a good information source. And more then likely, the whole thing was what it appeared to be, a rumor started by some anti-witch lunatic. So why not gather information in a familiar location? With renewed vigor he changed course. He only had to hop one gate, and slip past thugs once to reach the place. The place was in a post-apocalypse restaurant, sign falling apart, and tables barely held together with duct tape. The windows were all boarded up, the only sign of the place being the low rumble of voices and smell of booze.

Stepping through the open (errr… more like missing) front door, it took Varren a moment for his eyes to adjust. Like many people, they couldn’t afford to run electricity the entire time. Candles and lanterns lit the place, and the greasy faces of the regulars. Keeping his head low, he walked towards the bar, only half glancing at the lady behind it. Instead he headed to the seat on the very edge, where a white haired, tired old man sat, sipping his spiced rum just like he did fifteen years ago. “Well look at you Mr. Hoffman, still got the old place running like always. You even had enough to hire a pretty lady. I’m impressed.” Varren gave a small smirk, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest.

There was a moment of confused pause, before the man finally turned to face him. His skin had far more wrinkled then usual, and the brown eyes were more dim then Varren remembered, but it was the same old man. Eyebrows raising, Mr. Hoffman murmured, “Varren? You little urchin, didn’t think I’d see you in this part of town. Hell, I thought for sure the Outskirts chewed you up and spit you out in a pile of bones just like most the irresponsible teens.”

A slight raise of the shoulders was all that was offered in response. The smirk never left, but the smile had left Varren’s eyes. His expressions rarely reached that far, always a solemn, calculating air to the kid. It was the type of attitude a young one needed to survive the Outskirts, and the attitude had carried on into his adult life. “Mind if I have a drink with you? I believe you owe me a few with as long as I stayed here.” Without waiting for the response, Varren settled himself into the stool beside the old man.

Chuckling, the man shook his head in disbelief. He sipping his bottle, taking the moment to clear the shock away. “I dunno urchin, I’m pretty sure you owe me. I know you snuck some drinks in when I would get distracted.”

Varren gave a soft chuckle, but once again didn’t respond. Instead his eyes wandered through the bar, absorbing all the changes and new faces.