No one denied that Rogue Isles was a dangerous place to live. Everyone knew that. From the lowest homeless beggars on the streets to lofty Lord Recluse in
Grandville. Even the fleas on vermin in the sewers were dangerous here. However, there were pockets where one could go to escape the rat-race. While they
weren't exactly neutral or sacred ground, these pockets were typically respected - be they a local bar, a particular store, or a landmark that was for some
cosmic reason deemed 'hands off' by the powers that be. One particular pocket of sanity was Larry's Steak n' Grill.
Larry's Steak n' Grill was located down on the edge of the district called Oil Spill in Port Oakes. It wasn't anything special, really. It just had
really good steaks that didn't cost the earth. And if you could get Suzzie to get your drink, well, she put a dash of extra malt or something that gave it
that extra zing. For unknown reasons, although both sides of the Mook/Malone debacle ate there, neither side strong armed Larry to take a side. Larry's was
Larry's. All were welcome - Provided they met the dress code.
On this particular day, Larry's was about half full, so it was a typical mid week crowd particularly for this time of day. There were a few tables spare
and a few patrons at the bar. If anything was unusual it was the fact that there wasn't more here. Larry was after all in a fit of madness offering
discounts to regular customers.
The door to the restaurant/bar opened and in walked a figure. This figure may herald the start of the next rush hour for Larry, or he could be just lost. The
figure was male, slim athletic build about 6 foot in height. He had a dark crimson almost black flowing jacket on that brushed against his knees and the floor
as he walked in. The wide brim hat of the same color shielded his face from the light. Under the jacket there appeared to be a complete buttoned up vest with a
pressed whited shirt underneath it. Dark colored pants and heavy leather motorcycle boots completed the outfit.
The figure carefully cast his eyes about the room. The fasteners on his boots jingled in time with each step as with a measured pace, he threaded his way over
to the bar. Today it was Eric's turn behind the bar, so he greeted the figure with a warm smile. This was Larry's after all. As long as you met the
dress code, and were civil, your money was good.
"What'll it be, sir?" asked Eric, his English accent flowing freely.
"Whiskey" said the figure. Reaching into his pocket, the figure placed a large note on bar and held it there with two leather covered fingers while
Eric got him his drink.
"Here's ya drink, sir." said Eric with a smile, placing the shot glass down before the figure and reaching for the money.
When the figure didn't let go of the money, nor reached for the drink, Eric gave him a confused look. "Sir..."
"I'm looking for someone. Was told you could help." stated the man in a slow steady voice, who had yet to raise his eyes up from the bar,
Eric's demeanor changed instantly. With a soft edge to his voice, he stated, "I suggest you drink up. We're not that type of bar. Sir."
"Where can I find, Westin Phipps?" asked the man. He split his fingers apart and the money on the bar appeared to double.
"We're not that sort of bar sir." stated Eric with a hard tone of voice. The man raised his eyes up and glared at him. One was electric and the
other natural, but both were burning with contempt, frustration and hatred.
There was a long moment of dead silence as all conversation fell away as the battle of wills took place between Eric and the man.
-THUMP-
The stark hush that had fallen on the eatery was broken by the thump of a fist slamming down on the bar. An ugly looking biker from down the bar had a real
annoyed look on his face. He was sitting with the rest of his gang having just completed a hard ride and was in the middle of what had been an enjoyable meal,
until this *punk* had walked in and spoilt everything.
Slamming his fist down on the bar once more to make sure he had everyone's attention, the biker snarled, "You think you can walk in here like you own
the joint boyo? That you can ask questions?"
Clenching his fist, the biker produced a flick knife and surged off of his stool. "I oughta slice you up real go for even thinking about that!"
While the biker had been snarling, the man had casually reached into his pocket, and then withdrawing it, made a disinterested flick of his fingers towards the
biker as he surged off his stool.
The patter of three small seeds landing on the wooden floor was lost in the background noise.
The biker took one more step as he continued to bear down on the man, who so far had not moved.
There was a sudden crack and tearing sound which caused everyone but the man to jump and flinch. Several thorned vines whipped up from the floor-boards and
engulfed the biker. His shout of rage had changed to a cry of pain as the thorns dug into his leathers and flesh. Within seconds all that could be seen of the
biker was his face that was contorted into on of shear agony, and his fists which were well above his head.
Glaring at the biker, the man growled out, "Jason Byers. Where. Is. He?"
"Ow... I don't know man." moaned the biker. The man's eyes flashed once more and the vines twitched the biker screamed as the thorns pulled
on the fresh wounds and wrapped themselves around him tighter.
"I tire this..."
"Wait!" called the biker, gasping for breath. "Grandville." The biker then sagged.
"Thank you," said the man with false sweetness. "See how easy that was?" Turning away from the biker, the man started to make out for the
door of Larry's. Behind him, the biker started to scream anew. The vines around him were twitching as he struggled with them. There was a panicked
expression on the biker's face, as the vines ripped into his cloths and body. His eyes started to bulge as his groaning and yells of effort became higher
pitched. The man stopped on his way out the door and a sneer flew across his face as his hand closed into a clenched fist. The biker's protestations were
suddenly cut off as a crimson thorny vine ripped way out of his mouth. There was an instant of silence then the air was filled with the sound of several
cracks.
The man resumed his track to the door as vines were splashed with a meaty pulp.
"Hey!" called out Eric, his mind still partially locked on the gruesome scene he had just seen. "What's your name?"
"The name's RedThorns," said the man, tossing something over his shoulder as he exited the bar. It looked several more pellets.
From outside the drone of the city almost drowned out sound of tearing and screaming.
(Ok, Thanks to OpMegs for the brief pointers and such. RedThorns is a stylized Plant/Mind Dom. No, I currently do not have plans to play him but
this snippet would just not leave me alone. I do have a costume for him if
anyone is interested. He could be used as a NPC for DHH if needed.)
Grandville. Even the fleas on vermin in the sewers were dangerous here. However, there were pockets where one could go to escape the rat-race. While they
weren't exactly neutral or sacred ground, these pockets were typically respected - be they a local bar, a particular store, or a landmark that was for some
cosmic reason deemed 'hands off' by the powers that be. One particular pocket of sanity was Larry's Steak n' Grill.
Larry's Steak n' Grill was located down on the edge of the district called Oil Spill in Port Oakes. It wasn't anything special, really. It just had
really good steaks that didn't cost the earth. And if you could get Suzzie to get your drink, well, she put a dash of extra malt or something that gave it
that extra zing. For unknown reasons, although both sides of the Mook/Malone debacle ate there, neither side strong armed Larry to take a side. Larry's was
Larry's. All were welcome - Provided they met the dress code.
On this particular day, Larry's was about half full, so it was a typical mid week crowd particularly for this time of day. There were a few tables spare
and a few patrons at the bar. If anything was unusual it was the fact that there wasn't more here. Larry was after all in a fit of madness offering
discounts to regular customers.
The door to the restaurant/bar opened and in walked a figure. This figure may herald the start of the next rush hour for Larry, or he could be just lost. The
figure was male, slim athletic build about 6 foot in height. He had a dark crimson almost black flowing jacket on that brushed against his knees and the floor
as he walked in. The wide brim hat of the same color shielded his face from the light. Under the jacket there appeared to be a complete buttoned up vest with a
pressed whited shirt underneath it. Dark colored pants and heavy leather motorcycle boots completed the outfit.
The figure carefully cast his eyes about the room. The fasteners on his boots jingled in time with each step as with a measured pace, he threaded his way over
to the bar. Today it was Eric's turn behind the bar, so he greeted the figure with a warm smile. This was Larry's after all. As long as you met the
dress code, and were civil, your money was good.
"What'll it be, sir?" asked Eric, his English accent flowing freely.
"Whiskey" said the figure. Reaching into his pocket, the figure placed a large note on bar and held it there with two leather covered fingers while
Eric got him his drink.
"Here's ya drink, sir." said Eric with a smile, placing the shot glass down before the figure and reaching for the money.
When the figure didn't let go of the money, nor reached for the drink, Eric gave him a confused look. "Sir..."
"I'm looking for someone. Was told you could help." stated the man in a slow steady voice, who had yet to raise his eyes up from the bar,
Eric's demeanor changed instantly. With a soft edge to his voice, he stated, "I suggest you drink up. We're not that type of bar. Sir."
"Where can I find, Westin Phipps?" asked the man. He split his fingers apart and the money on the bar appeared to double.
"We're not that sort of bar sir." stated Eric with a hard tone of voice. The man raised his eyes up and glared at him. One was electric and the
other natural, but both were burning with contempt, frustration and hatred.
There was a long moment of dead silence as all conversation fell away as the battle of wills took place between Eric and the man.
-THUMP-
The stark hush that had fallen on the eatery was broken by the thump of a fist slamming down on the bar. An ugly looking biker from down the bar had a real
annoyed look on his face. He was sitting with the rest of his gang having just completed a hard ride and was in the middle of what had been an enjoyable meal,
until this *punk* had walked in and spoilt everything.
Slamming his fist down on the bar once more to make sure he had everyone's attention, the biker snarled, "You think you can walk in here like you own
the joint boyo? That you can ask questions?"
Clenching his fist, the biker produced a flick knife and surged off of his stool. "I oughta slice you up real go for even thinking about that!"
While the biker had been snarling, the man had casually reached into his pocket, and then withdrawing it, made a disinterested flick of his fingers towards the
biker as he surged off his stool.
The patter of three small seeds landing on the wooden floor was lost in the background noise.
The biker took one more step as he continued to bear down on the man, who so far had not moved.
There was a sudden crack and tearing sound which caused everyone but the man to jump and flinch. Several thorned vines whipped up from the floor-boards and
engulfed the biker. His shout of rage had changed to a cry of pain as the thorns dug into his leathers and flesh. Within seconds all that could be seen of the
biker was his face that was contorted into on of shear agony, and his fists which were well above his head.
Glaring at the biker, the man growled out, "Jason Byers. Where. Is. He?"
"Ow... I don't know man." moaned the biker. The man's eyes flashed once more and the vines twitched the biker screamed as the thorns pulled
on the fresh wounds and wrapped themselves around him tighter.
"I tire this..."
"Wait!" called the biker, gasping for breath. "Grandville." The biker then sagged.
"Thank you," said the man with false sweetness. "See how easy that was?" Turning away from the biker, the man started to make out for the
door of Larry's. Behind him, the biker started to scream anew. The vines around him were twitching as he struggled with them. There was a panicked
expression on the biker's face, as the vines ripped into his cloths and body. His eyes started to bulge as his groaning and yells of effort became higher
pitched. The man stopped on his way out the door and a sneer flew across his face as his hand closed into a clenched fist. The biker's protestations were
suddenly cut off as a crimson thorny vine ripped way out of his mouth. There was an instant of silence then the air was filled with the sound of several
cracks.
The man resumed his track to the door as vines were splashed with a meaty pulp.
"Hey!" called out Eric, his mind still partially locked on the gruesome scene he had just seen. "What's your name?"
"The name's RedThorns," said the man, tossing something over his shoulder as he exited the bar. It looked several more pellets.
From outside the drone of the city almost drowned out sound of tearing and screaming.
(Ok, Thanks to OpMegs for the brief pointers and such. RedThorns is a stylized Plant/Mind Dom. No, I currently do not have plans to play him but
this snippet would just not leave me alone. I do have a costume for him if
anyone is interested. He could be used as a NPC for DHH if needed.)