<blockquote><div align="justify"><u>Out of Character</u> Rated: R, for gore, drug use, and very probable language. Who: Tazzy Carrion and joiners. Where: A bar in the Black Market. When: 10th Tria, 81378 Other: ONLY experienced roleplayers here, folks. I don't want to come back to see my post has been replied to by some two-liners. That's perfectly fine for other threads, but not for this one. I'm developing my character, therefore it's going to remain relatively serious, despite Tazzy's attitude + naming scheme. Please, let's try to match up to either others' posts. Thanks. Edit: I'm gone Saturday until Monday, then Wednesday until next Saturday, but if we do it quick enough I'm sure we'll be able to squeeze a few posts in until I'm officially back. : ) <u>Back in Character</u> Any inclination towards knowledge of time and space was destroyed with the simple inhalation of two small white pills. Inhaled, because they were taken into his system with such a quick hand that even if one were to survey him, they would barely notice, would hardly realise that he had even moved if he or she were to blink. Painkillers, the dealer had called them, a sort of paralysing device. Like Tylenol, only stronger, much stronger, and the male believed him. Of course he had to. The humans who had invented the mediocre medicine never dreamed that it might be used for this purpose. He had tried it before, and though Tazzy was anything but alienated to pain, the Tylenol—eight of them, he had taken, the daily maximum, as the bottle prescribed—barely made him sleepy. He didn’t trust it, not at all. And while there was always Najques, varying forms of earthen morphine, hallucinogens to mask the pain, warp it into something flowery, it was very difficult to concentrate when on them. He had taken these… painkillers before, and though he didn’t know the name, they seemed to work well enough. The effect was near instantaneous. The wonders of advanced drugs. He smiled vaguely, high as the sky but barely noticing it, except for the fact that he could not feel any part of his body. It was a familiar, comforting feeling, once he was on. Before the fix it was true that his heart raced, even now, even after his prime—a decided 3 500 years, as spoken by the Graders—had long since passed. He was always, always nervous the moment before taking the drug. Prior to, the fact that he knew he would be pretty much vulnerable to any potential passer-by intent on a kill or kidnap startled him. It had happened once, only once, but it was enough to make sure he remembered it every time he prepared himself for a hit. This was why the 4 300-year-old male was sitting in the back of a dark tavern, behind a tall table, feet barely touching the floor. He was nearly invisible against the black lighting. His fears were always forgotten later, though, worries always melting away for something much more pleasurable: painless, cheerful awareness. It engulfed his system, and he was ready, and waiting. It was nice. But as Tazzy eased into the saccharine state of mind, he realised that he had work to do, and in all reality, it couldn’t be put off anymore. He needed money, for food, for equipment, for drugs. The colour of his pants—orange, under a very faded hue of red—could almost be described as sagacious. Or maybe that’s just me, he thought with a cleverly Cheshire grin. He dipped a hand into the single pocket of his pants and pulled out a Swiss army knife—folded, though when he pressed his thumb against the latch, it sprung open to reveal a good eight inches in length, perhaps a bit more. Custom-made to his hand, it sat ingeniously calm against his adept palm, fingers wrapping around it delicately, sinking into the smooth welts. A quick, suspicious glanced roamed around the bar: crowded, overcome by a thick coating of foreboding and distrust, oddly quiet for such a congested space, but not unworkable in. His legs lifted onto the table, bending. There was an overwhelming feeling of being watched in this place, but he couldn’t let it get to him. He imagined it was just the atmosphere. Grinding his teeth, pushing his shirt up near his chest, Tazzy pinched an area of skin on his lower abdomen. The sharp of the knife was placed in between his two fingers, and pressed down… “Well, aren’t you a pretty little appendix." The male, possibly two hours later, was still sitting at his spot in the saloon, smiling salaciously, though the eye candy had changed, in all probability for the good. His previous state of satirical drunkenness had since died off, though he was still swimming in the vague aftermath of the two “painkillers". If it was possible, the auberge was even more crowded than before, and the bartender was obviously trying to keep his cool in the new sea of louder, but probably less intuitively dangerous criminals that swarmed his bar. Carrion himself had developed quite a change in appearance. He seemed much more tired than before, though that was barely visible in the waning light and pendragon-obstructed vision. No, the most noticeable difference was the fact that his body—stomach, upper legs, hands, mouthpiece—was covered in blood, his own. That was his own appendix swimming in the jar of vinegar solution, waiting, hopefully, for a buyer. Morbid? Of course! But, he realised, as his fingers traced a very light pattern across the roughly sewn-together scar, only just now beginning to sting, it was necessary. And what was another scar? It wasn’t like appendixes did anything of manifest value. He was, however, starting to get a little faint from the blood loss. Tazzy’s hand, which had been clasped protectively atop the jar, lifted momentarily to tap on a nearby-barman’s shoulder. It smeared the white clothing with red, though he didn’t seem to care, at that moment. “Hey, hon, you got O-negative?"
Cellaj sat near by crouching over a mug of strong ale. She need this break...She deserved this break. Her ship was moored off-shore and she and 12 of her men had paddled in while the men onboard partied. A beautiful ring shown on her finger. A gift from Dreed to show their engagment. She was Cellaj of the North, a lady captain. The beautiful yellow fur on her back was matted with salt water. Her black bridel tattoo on her face was very proment. A brown hat sat on her head. Several large Fenix feathers hung out of it. Oviously she had a lot of contact with one. Her white wings were pierced all along the top. Trinkets hanging off of rings along them. Each one represented a different job in which she had succeded in completing, and she had never not completed one. A beautifully crafted sabre sat hanging from her belt, its hit covered in gold etchings. It's formar owner oviously very, very rich. If you asked her she would say its the best blade in the land. The hilt weighs the exact same as the tang. She smiled as she thought about it. Not to mention all the blood it had spilled. Her men had been restless so she gave them the choice of coming on shore or staying on the boat and partying, most stayed on the boat. she traced the rim of the mug and then licked her finger and took a big swig. The foam dripped down her chin and onto her loose white puffy sleaved shirt. Loosening some of the matted fur on her well endowed chest. The slit came only so you only got a teaser of her full size. Her red eyes looked disgusted at Tazzy. She looked like she was going to spit out her ale. She set the mug back down and turned to the bloodied pendragon. "Your stupid right? You think someone's actually going to buy a worthless appendix? It does nothing, you might as well eat it. Though trust me it doesn't taste to good." She then laughed and took another swig. She was most likely going to be drunk by the time this night was over. She knew it too. The boys would have to carry her back to the ship. They always did, then she would have fun with Dreed, while they snickered outside. No one dared disobay her knowing they would most likely get tossed overboard. Most couldn't swim, those who could didn't very well. Cellaj whipped her mouth on her unbuttoned, sleave. She was sitting on her black jacket. Her beautifully done tattoo could be seen clearly on her hindleg, it was an eye of horus looking like it was about to cry. He mother had created it after being told Cellaj was going to grow up to be a killer...She had been hoping for something more...nice...Like she was going to get that. Cellaj ever since she was little wanted nothing more than to kill and steal, that was what she was good at. Very good at. She could steal everything and anything. It was almost amazing, except for the fact that she had a natural nack for it, being slim and fast. She could beat all the boys when it came to speed. People would bet their lunch money on her at school to win races, which she did. Soon she began being paid to win and lose. She gained many new toys by doing this. Cellaj smirked and leaned up against the bar, and sighed. She wondered what Dreed was doing at that very minute. Where ever he was he was bound to be having fun. She smiled as his strong black face poped into her head. His soft leathery wings and his big heart made her smile. She loved him, so in love she could get drunk on it.
<span style='width:100%;font-weight:bold; font-size:10px'>Out of Character</span> <table class=ooc><tr><td>Mind if I hop in with Shiraz? She'll be in bipedal form. And haha. Tazzy's name in Ramathian, translated to english means... Sexxi, I believe? Unique.</td></tr></table> There was another, too, who sat close to the male at the bar. She'd just come in, a whirlwind of anger, from some unknown fight or another. The only indication of this was a dark gash through the centre of her lower lip. A single ruby drop descended into the valley below her slightly swollen lips but above her chin. It dribbled down from the cut and then came to rest there, shiny and deepening in colour. Paying no heed to the noisy bustle around her, she ambled in and ordered a green apple martini on the rocks while still standing. Her stilletos clicked on the wooden planks of the floor. She wore a simple black skirt and black calfskin jacket, with a white muscle-tee beneath and back-seamed fishnet stockings. All in all, she looked like a hooker. But she didn't care and just wanted a drink and perhaps some conversation, as she sat down and folded her small, white-cream feathered wings behind her. Her heels clacked metalically on the metal pole of the bar stool as she kicked them once. The wine-red femme arched one brow as her martini reached her in a state of chaos. The salted rim, rather than being a pristine white circle, was a soggy, dripping ring of saline. With black-padded digets she skimmed the salt off the glass's rim in one smooth motion, then raised it to her lips and let the sour-bitter combination of tart green syrup and bycpu skitter down her throat. After her long, intimate connection with her martini glass, she set it down on the damp bar counter and looked about her. There was the usual crowd for this time of night: drunk, boisterous, but not coherent enough to plan any large heist or conflict. It was how Shiraz liked her pubs: filled with those whose minds were dwarfed by her own. A cackle rang from her mouth, and was swallowed by the mulled voices of those around her. It was just then that a female's cutting voice reached her ears. Picking up her martini glass between dark nails, she turned and let some more of the liquid enter her maw when she caught sight of Tazzy. The drink turned bitter in her mouth, but she still swallowed it languidly as she quickly and calculatedly assessed the situation. Male. Older. Pretty far gone, but not with alcohol. The glaze in his eyes told Shiraz that he was high. He seemed frazzled but happy in a twisted sort of way. And in his fist he clutched a jar which seemed to house an... an appendix? Okay, I must admit-- "Urgh." Not to mention the fact that he was clutching a stained knife and was absolutely covered in his own scarlet blood. I thought I looked like shit. "Isn't that illegal or something?" It had to be. To operate on yourself in a public bar was... really quite nasty. High as much off blood loss as on whatever else he'd been popping before, she noted mentally. "Hey. Hey, are you okay? I know you're trying to sell that thing, but you may want to retire for the evening. Quite possibly to a hospital. Or an asylum," she noted, her usually silky voice slightly concerned. She wasn't a squeamish creature per se, but this was... odd. Not to mention messy. She hastily grabbed a nearby napkin and tossed it quickly to Tazzy. She didn't expect him to catch it in his drugged-up state, but nodded when it landed in his lap. "Can you use that to clean yourself up for me? And then we're going to get you to a doctor." She cocked her head at him. "Where do you live?" What am I getting myself into?
<blockquote><div align="justify"><u>In Character</u> In all honesty, even in this… less than sober state of mind, Tazzy hadn’t expected anything but a weird look from the bartender and a mention that he should see a hospital. Perhaps he hoped that. Perhaps, despite the male’s current belonging and wishful thinking, he had hoped that the area, the Black Market, wasn’t as dastardly malevolent as people made it out to be. Of course, he was wrong, in both ways. The look from the man behind the counter—The Man, he thought with an inwardly bemused grin—did give him a less-than-friendly look, but it wasn’t particularly… odd, only mean. Untrusting. In these parts, he had to admit to himself, none of the occupants wanted him to be there. No one, he gathered, wanted to be there themselves. In these parts, it was difficult to exit without either making yourself some enemies, a bad deal, or worse. Truthfully, the sour look the man gave him was nothing short of ordinary. Tazzy was anything but alienated to callous glares when he dared to show his particularly flamboyant nature. Then again, “dared" was such a presumptuous word: unnecessary, even. He did not dare. He just did. Playing a mindless game of truth or dare was so tedious: he did both. Yes, but the guarded frown, the lack of response, the quickly adverted eyes… none of this rang true, not really. He was like, Tazzy mused, a cross-dresser. He giggled as he thought this: an odd metaphor, but, somehow, a fair one. A pretty face, supple lips, lots of makeup, but the build… the frame in its entirety didn’t let him believe that what he was seeing was real. The legs were nice, but the shoulders were too broad, the face… a bit too square to be lock, stock and barrel feminine. Though the ‘tender might not have wanted him to think that he sold such a grotesque, intimate thing behind his counters, there was something unnerving behind his eye that told Tazzy he might just do. Even so, the male caught his eye and offered him a hearty grin, accompanied by a careless shrug, a shrug that might have said “No biggy. I don’t really need it. It’s not like my life depends on it or anything—oh wait. Yes it does." Well, perhaps he might have been over exaggerating, but, in any case, it worked. With an obvious scowl, the barkeep pushed a cup—no more than eight ounces, its insides hidden by intricate designs and thick coloured glass—towards the male. He laughed and petted the extended hand. The man withdrew quickly, indignantly, angrily, but Tazzy beamed at him. “Cheers, mate." Perhaps he wouldn’t die after all. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking, because as it would seem, in mid-sip (sip, because he didn’t exactly know how to drink blood. Sip, because even in his aforementioned grandeur, drinking blood was kind of icky), he was interrupted by not one, but two girls. A wicked grin stretched across his crimson-lined countenance. He must be doing rather well tonight. But, well or no, he knew almost immediately who he liked more. Or rather, disliked less. The first, while slim and petite and looking how a proper girl should, was, at first glance, not very nice. And Tazzy needed people to be nice at first. He grimaced slightly at her words. He didn’t like to hate people, really, but he relied solely on first impressions, and her words, her only words, without any clause of explanation to their toughness, “Your stupid right? You think someone's actually going to buy a worthless appendix? It does nothing, you might as well eat it. Though trust me it doesn't taste to good." Of course he intended to sell it. He needed money. He wasn’t any good at keeping jobs. What better place to sell self-donated organs to was the Black Market? Perhaps she, a mere female, did not realise the potential of the place. He would have to educate her, apparently. “You’d be surprised, darling," he cooed calmly, again taking the smallest of drinks from the cup. Hey, if it made him feel better… He brushed a hand through his hair. “Y’know, scientists and the like. Maybe they could put it into a drug or something. I wouldn’t know. I’ve seen odder things being bid on ‘round these parts, believe you me." He flashed her a conniving wink, stopping his slight rant—a rant, he believed, to be quite polite given the circumstances—only to listen to the other female. This one, this one seemed different than the first. Of course, he couldn’t agree at all with her style of dress. Now Tazzy was a male, and Tazzy liked the message she was trying to convey… to a certain extent. He liked sex with girls, but he wasn’t at all really comfortable with… whores. Not really at all. If anything, the male’s only discrimination held some certain Jack the Ripper tendencies. Still. She seemed nice. Concerned. Pretty. Younger, though, and that was kind of a drag. Though he felt he didn’t really need it, the arden picked the napkin loosely, grinning vaguely at her. “Thanks, doll. I’ll ignore the asylum comment but ah, don’t really need a doctor. Really. I’ve been through worse." Really, he wasn’t exactly sure he had. Drug after drug after continuous drug made sure of that. “And," he raised a pointed eyebrow at her, obviously noting her attire, “You aren’t following me home. Sorry."
The fierce, burgundy-furred femme fatale listened silently now to his response to the attractive-yet-persnickity female on his other side. Her facial expression was one of disbelief now, disbelief that somebody could have slitted their own belly just a short time before and still speak with such boyish, even genteel charm. In spite of herself and the matter at hand she smiled, hoping his words had been driven down to the right place in the other female's mind. Perhaps she would restrain from being so rude to a crippled guy in the future. The fuck? Why are you rooting for him? she found herself thinking just seconds later. Shiraz just couldn't help but show a grin at his use of the first word she heard him speak to her.. It was a viciously pointed smile, saccharin sharpened with the bitterness of keen teeth, but it was, nonetheless, a true smile. And that was odd, for the spy barely ever let her true personality rear its (somewhat ugly, actually) head from the depths of personas, aliases, and nicknames. He actually had a pleasant enough voice; it was somewhat soothing, even when coming from someone both stained in and now drinking bodily fluids. Certainly 'doll' felt out of place when it came from the lips of an older guy, but this one said the word naturally, easily, as if it was one he was accustomed to speaking. Perhaps it was. Thanks, doll. IÂ’ll ignore the asylum comment but ah, donÂ’t really need a doctor. Really. IÂ’ve been through worse. Well, he wasn't as shitfaced as he seemed, she noticed. She took a drink before answering, feeling the familiar sour bite of her favourite beverage before steepling luxe-furred, burgundy digits and looking towards him. "Fine, then, ignore it if you must," she purred, her lips pressed to her fingers. "But do consider therapy. Or... something. It does work wonders, you know," she told him, dark and rich sarcasm laced through the words expertly. She opened her mouth to say more, but closed it with a snap and rippled wine-red fur in mock offense as he spoke his next words. "You arenÂ’t following me home. Sorry. A quick response had already flared through her mind, though, and she laughed despite the situation, unlacing her fingers and returning, "If anybody asks, it's you who's started this whole thing by gutting yourself anyway. I should follow you home, in the state you're in." But she did hasten to tell him that she was not at all what she seemed. Once more she opened her maw, only to be stopped, but not by him this time. She felt a trickle of warmth down her chin and realized that the slice through her lower lip, which had only just sealed itself, gingerly, had now opened again. The burgundy femme hastily snaked out a pink tongue and swept up the now large bead of blood that had gathered in the shadow of her mouth, and then swallowed, her face poker-style even though she did not like the taste of what had just entered her palate. That done, she again turned to Tazzy and said, "I see what you mean," and truthfully so, as she hooked a claw through one thread in her fishnets. "But no, nothing you see here is for sale," she finished wryly. "Except what I do with these." and she bared her fangs considerably, flashing him a faux-smile for one second before letting dark red lips hide the natural weapons. She'd have added, "I'm an assassin and a spy" to that last statement, but even in his current state she somehow couldn't believe Tazzy was a dipshit. Besides, another trickle had just started wending its way towards her chin, and she spat slightly, lapping up the flow once more and pressing a thumb to the rend in her lip. Just imagine how he feels, she thought, and pressed harder. Giving up, she licked at the wound one more time and tried pressing it against some of the remaining salt on her half-empty martini glass. But there still were other matters to attend to. Though the male seemed to be recovering all right from his "operation", there was still definite doubt in Shiraz's mind as to whether what he'd done wouldn't have permanent repercussions. Quite a bit of definite doubt. So she looked up towards him and crossed her arms firmly. "But really, sir--" she began and broke off. "Okay, I really don't like having to call you sir, to be honest. What's your name? I'm called Monthega," she said, her low voice a silky hum, disguising the easy lie as if it had never been. "Azalea Monthega, to be perfectly exact." Though she wasn't sure what, if anything, this male would do with the knowledge of her real name, she had to be sure that the other femme, and him, wouldn't recognize her title. So she used said favoured alias, and then settled back upon her seat to look at him, imploring an answer with her eyes.
<div align="justify"><blockquote><u>Out of Character</u> <font color=red>Finished</font>. *purr* Oh, I am slightly proud of this. I DO like to ramble. Terribly sorry. But I tried to write this long ago before, but then I was like "No. This sucks balls." So I deleted it and had to wait until an idea came to mind. The idea happened to be Tazzy rambling about his long-lost wife and daughter. Aww. How emo. How sweet. Lyrics by Ani Difranco -- "Shy". A phrase stolen from Jhonen Vasquez: "90% mechanical bodyparts". <u>Back in Character</u> the heat is so great it plays tricks with the eye it turns the road to water and then from water to sky and there's a crack in the concrete floor and it starts at the sink there's a bathroom in a gas station and I’ve locked myself in it to think Suddenly, it hurt to look at her. Carrion couldn’t quite explain it, but studying her face, placing an unfathomably sincere grin on his own, it was almost like looking into a mirror. Glancing into a shiny piece of reflective glass and seeing nothing but truth. Oh, the horrible, horrible truth. Reality was one thing he absolutely could not stand. Reality tied into inescapable, inevitably genuine memories. He did not like memories. He wasn’t fond of his past. The heavy onslaught of drugs and alcohol made sure, most of the time, that he forgot, or at least put aside remnants of his younger years. Tazzy, you see, had had quite the tremendously disastrous preceding life. Teenage angst-riddled? Yes. Clichéd? Most definitely. True? Unbearably so. He felt viciously obligated to remind himself that if there were no roots, the tree would have never grown, though that wouldn’t have worked either. Because he wasn’t a tree, he was a goddamn psychotic prick who cut himself up for laughs. Perhaps the niotie was right. Perhaps he did belong in therapy, but Carrion had taken a class in psychology in his early years in Janardan. He didn’t like it. Everyone there seemed to be trying to analyze him and his bright blue eyes, and the teacher had a beard, and he had a very mild case of pogonophobia, and he failed the fuck out of that class. But this girl, this girl… he lifted his right leg, balancing it on the counter precariously. Long, knobbly, flexible fingers traced a line over a piece of black rubber protruding through his skin very momentarily before disappearing back in side his calf. He wasn’t that good a surgeon, apparently, though the XLR did what it was supposed to do. His leg was more than workable. With a slight grin, a grin that would jaunt a question from the innocent onlooker, he couldn’t wait until he was 90% mechanical body parts (could a heart be replaced by something? It was such a hassle, being so bloody and all). His wife could, but couldn’t anymore. Tazzy’s bemused smiled contorted suddenly to a pained grimace. His wife who died, accompanied by his only daughter, from a badly constructed trip, but not hers, nor his three-year-old girl’s. He had forgotten their names, and perhaps that was for the best (one more step to complete and utter obliviousness) but the his mind still supported the vaguely faded faces, faces that suddenly came to life when their records were most unwillingly brought up. His wife looked indistinctly like his new friend, though she was much older than this young girl seemed to be. Not much, but her years were more pronounced in her figures. Baggy eyes, and the winged patch on her haunch—the one they had both shared; only hers was reflected backwards—loosing its bright colour. Yes, she looked like this young femme, and her attitude towards his neurotic sense of self-mutilation seemed painstakingly familiar. Fuck, did he miss her, so much that his eyes adverted from staring confidently into hers. They, instead, resumed watching the thick crimson liquid swaying about in his goblet as he sloshed the cup around idly. Fifteen years ago, it was, fifteen years and he couldn’t even stand to look at someone who even resembled her, in a painstakingly faint sort of way. He needed a fix. The two white tablets that had once swum so strongly in his system were beginning to fade away. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, took a strong, metallic gulp of the liquid, immediately realised it was too strong, but forced it down anyway. He was cold (it had begun to rain and thunder outside the tavern, something the drugs had successfully managed to conceal for the first few moments of the storm), but the blood, of which he was most definitely lacking at that moment, warmed him briefly. He needed a coat. He needed to keep the memories in. Something soft, thick, easy to hide behind… Ripped muscle shirts and bright orange Capri cargos were perfectly acceptable in the beforetime of a squall, but after the unbearably hot warm spell and rain hit, it was cold. Cold, when water could wash away what protective bodily fluids he had left. Briefly, he wondered if the girl would go shopping with him, then realised that he should probably answer some of her questions first, before asking some of his own. “Therapy," he said coolly, perhaps too much so (would she be offended?), “is bullshit. Pardon my English. All that analysing, like life isn’t already as confusing as it is. Who’d want to do that for a living, with all the thinking involved? Someone who’s got something to hide, that’s who: someone who’s compensating for something. Redemption from whatever the hell evil he’s got all bundled up inside him. I don’t need that kind of man preaching to me." He spoke all too calmly, deliberately, as if he had been thinking of this for quite a long while. Candidly, knowing Tazzy as a full-blown conspiracy nut, he probably had been. In all truth, he barely trusted the teachers who gave him his Masters in Machina Technology and Space Operations. And, to be honest, he was still a bit unnerved with this girl looking like the woman he loved for all of ten years. Convincing himself it was the aftermath of the drugs, nothing more that altered his perspective of reality (however welcome), he took another ill-thought-out gulp of the life-giving fluid in his pewter cup, eyeing the girl sceptically. “It might have been me, hon, but you were the one who came up to bless me with your presence. You could have walked on by, or turned and left. Ignored me, whatever. Or use those impressive teeth of yours. What kind of toothpaste do you use?" He squinted mildly at her mouth, somewhat interested, as oddly as it might seem. Talk about your pearly whites. Despite his controversial attitude, Tazzy placed his leg back down on the conveniently located footrest, just about perfect for his height. Though he seemed shorter than he should have been, it was, ultimately, his drug-affected spine, curving the bone slowly, so he seemed to have a permanent hunch. That, and the fact that he spent quite a bit of his time bending over machinery and controls and wires and his own lower body (by this, I mean his legs and such. This male was certainly not all that interested in sex). He forced his eyes upwards, and flashed a cheerful grin at her, sticking out his blood-soaked hand in something that resembled the propriety of a gentleman, even though he could never be one. “Tazinerique Jaebelieon Allegrotus Carrion, although you may call me Tazzy. Most pleased to make your acquaintance, miss Azalea." and back in the city the sun bakes the trash on the curb the men are pissing in doorways and the rats run in herds i've got a dream of your face that scares me awake i put too much on my table and now I got too much a stake
<span style='width:100%;font-weight:bold; font-size:10px'>Out of Character</span> <table class=ooc><tr><td>Agh, I love! Tazzy's so disfunctionally cute, it makes me melt. Poor darling he is. And about the other thread with Tazzy, I'll start that after this one. Sometime today. (For the records 'today' is Monday.) 333. I'm trying to develop 'Razzy's character by making her real self come out. Uhm, yeah, let me know if that's working at all, lmao. I'm kind of playing off the whole mirroring of feelings thing. Let me know if that's okay.</td></tr></table> Therapy is bullshit. Pardon my English. All that analysing, like life isnÂ’t already as confusing as it is. WhoÂ’d want to do that for a living, with all the thinking involved? Someone whoÂ’s got something to hide, thatÂ’s who: someone whoÂ’s compensating for something. Redemption from whatever the hell evil heÂ’s got all bundled up inside him. I donÂ’t need that kind of man preaching to me. Shiraz listened with head cocked to his words, her fingertips beating a soft rhythm against each other. She closed her eyes to contemplate what he'd said. Then she swung the barstool around sideways, turning to look at him. He looked... how did he look? Shiraz wasn't sure she knew. He looked his age, but there was something so young about him, so insolent, some part of him that wouldn't hesitate to flip you the bird if you pissed him off. And yet-- the 19-year-old saw some sort of deeper wisdom that permeated him, however poisonous the blood coursing though his body was, however strange he seemed. He was his own antithesis, it seemed, and that in itself was far more confusing to her than all the therapy in the world. Any negative feelings toward the older male had dissapated now, and she for once was content not to take any action, and just to watch the rich tapestry of thought and-- really?-- emotion that darted across his facial features in various shapes and forms. --But who am I kidding? Who in hell am I even kidding to become caught up in something, someone, who has no business with me? Even in her mind the thought was haughty and cold. Her soft upbringing was showing again, shining through her tough metallic carapace of silky lies and ill-concieved aliases; her dislike of those she deemed lower than her in this case. But the fierce femme's confused mind was penetrated deeply by the bloody male's further words. ...you were the one who came up to bless me with your presence... Shiraz, however lithely calculating, did have a heart. And not a mechanical one. A pumping and fully alive heart. A heart that felt the impact of the words regardless of whom they were coming from (though, technically, the mind is supposed to be the one that generates emotions. But don't we all want to be more romantic?). In any case, she stopped her brattish thoughts and looked up into his eyes. It was a reflex, and she had no time to temper the gaze. The glance that she sent towards him was not through the smoulderingly, dangerously seductive eyes of Azalea Monthega; it was not the cold and cruel and businesslike glare of Oyster. Nor was it the innocent, simpering stare she'd have employed has she been Ria So'ala. No, it wasn't even the controllingly, cooly intelligent smile she kept close at hand when playing at Marian V'neth. She was, for once, exposed, naked, and cold with the spotlight bleaching out her dark red fur. For a second, she was herself. She was Shiraz Montai. Her mouth was hanging open and she was ugly and tired and had a fat lip and was smart and didn't take every opportunity she saw for information and money. She was frighteningly, jarringly real. As if from thousands of miles away, his voice came drifting in on a tide of thought, a bit of seaweed floating into her brain. What kind of toothpaste do you use? For a moment, she couldn't answer. She wasn't really sure why this particular male, at this particular night, had brought out such a shocking feeling. It was as if she'd just been engulfed in a wave of freezing water. It felt as if the salty starkness of the moment had just-- taken the flesh off her bones. And then she realized that trickery and quick-witted lies were so automatic that she'd not seen the real Shiraz in over a year. She shivered, feeling both the same vulnerable cold and the same recognition as the one before her. But her chill wasn't from loss of blood, it was from loss of identity. And her recognition, in turn, was not of another, but of her own malnourished, underfed personality. Of course, she knew nothing of the feelings or thoughts Tazzy was having. How could she have? But it seemed that, in a strange way, each of them evoked the same certain feelings in the other, albeit in different forms. "Eh," said Shiraz. It was the first unwitty response she'd given in her memory. "Kjats." She swallowed. "I'm glad you like my... teeth?" With a steadying breath, she forced the same frosty frown onto her visage and took on Azalea's personality, almost reluctantly. But once it was on it fit like a glove. Her silky and controlling attractiveness felt like vinyl against her skin. She gave him a chilly and quizzical look when his scarlet-stained hand thrust toward her, but took it, squeezing it domineeringly and pumping it twice. A droplet of the vermillion life-giving fluid spilled out from the union in their palms and snaked over the side of her hand and down the back of her paw. Tazinerique Jaebelieon Allegrotus Carrion, although you may call me Tazzy. Most pleased to make your acquaintance, miss Azalea. Shiraz let a soft smile enter her features. "Tazinerique. I love saying that," she said, truthfully. She sighed, trying to forget the wash of feeling that had just taken her. She settled her arms down across the bar counter, resting her chin across her forearms and looking at him. She knew the hand she'd shaken with was going to leave a soft red smudge on the tile counter. "So where in Bhim d'you live, Tazzy?" she asked, her dark eyes showing all emotion and yet none at all.
<blockquote><div align="justify"><font color="686868“ size=1><p align=center><font color=cc6600 size=2>Out of Character</font></p> Ohh, thank you very much. ^ ^;; He's even more dysfunctional in this one... ahaha. Iunno about cute, though. o 0;;;; I think you're doing very well with Razzy, especially with her being such a tough character. x D; Kinna vague, but I think it works perfectly, don't you? <p align=center><font color=cc6600 size=2>Back in Character</font></p> Oh, she was nice! To be honest, Carrion had doubted her ability to be sensitive from when he first saw her less-than-modest attire. Now, he realised, it only added to her curious personality. Yes, she was kind, despite her cool, almost apathetic nature. The male, however lacking in the ability to actually mind-read, such was the birth-given talents of females, had developed the knack of reading someone’s eyes. Granted, this was much, much harder when he was still feeling the after affects of the drugs, and even more so when his companion had such an adept poker face. Everyone broke down sometime, he mused cheerily, cocking his head curiously at the female. He had, for the time being, forgotten his momentary panic, and resumed again his natural grin and cheerful posture. All right, so his physical posture wasn’t great at all (another defect to his otherwise gentlemanly persona), spine curved delicately from years of hard drugs, drugs that rivalled earthen ecstasy. But maybe this sudden change resulted from the exchange of names. Tazzy always felt a lot more comfortable around others when names—friendly intimacy, he figured—were exchanged. He leaned forward, slouching over his “drink", watching Azalea with a smile. His elbows rested easily on the bar, and briefly, he even forgot he was cold. Carrion was tired, though, and he couldn’t as easily forget that. Happiness brought cheerful memories and inner warmth that somehow managed to turn outer, but it didn’t suppress the urge to sleep. At least not yet, not when the two were just sitting there, mulling over drinks. He had again the urge to go out into the rain and browse the shops, or if not, just walk about. After another couple large gulps of the fluid—he had gotten used to it, and nearly had a virtual vampire-like attraction to it—the older male felt he had gotten enough blood back into his system, enough new cells so his heart could restore its own fast enough, without making him faint from the lack thereof. Still, as mentioned before, it did carry some odd, otherworldly attraction. He leaned over the counter, and grinned flirtatiously at the bartender, who took an almost panicked step back. Tazzy chose not to notice this—or maybe he really was oblivious, it was difficult to tell with this fellow—and asked softly if he could have the rest of it to go. Or, as softly as humanly possible, with the noise level slowly increasing. The lunch crowd, full of upper-class dealers and suspicious, mafia-like businessmen, was slowly leaving the safe, quiet haven of afternoon emptiness. Loud soon-to-be drunks were filing in, group after group, and person after lonely person. Incidentally, he, having been watching his drink transfer from the pewter goblet to a small Styrofoam cup, as well as surveying the passing and leaving people, had not been listening to the entirety of what Azalea was saying. Not intentionally, mind you. Not maliciously at all. In fact, he was quite interested in what the female had to say. She seemed to be an extremely appealing character. Only, Tazzy had the unfortunate habit of not remembering certain things, like he was currently involved in a conversation. He was not, however, malicious. His attention span was just… extremely short. Which was why, when he turned to his new companion, he only heard the words ‘…like my… teeth?’ Since Tazzy was not as dumb as he looked, despite his odd habits, he guessed there must have been more to that question, because he had already answered it in his previous statement. Unless Monthega was just that ditzy, which he somehow doubted. So, he simply flashed a cheerful, agreeing grin at her. Only, that wasn’t the only thing he was slightly baffled over. As aforementioned, the male was quite adept at reading people’s actions, and Azalea was somehow… different. He couldn’t exactly explain it. Her cold, indifferent attitude disappeared. For a brief, tender moment she was someone else. It caught Tazzy quite off-guard, and he frowned at her, wondering at the moment she was… awkward? No, too hazardous a word for her. More… frightened, baffled. Hurried. But for what? Tazzy couldn’t deny that he would have liked to meet this sudden new side. ‘Tazinerique. I love saying that.’ He was pleased. He didn’t mind his name, not at all. It was just too long. His father had a fetish, it seemed, for giving his sons long, unusual monikers. Carrion claimed his father enjoyed the surprised, pleased looks on strangers’ faces when they said ‘Oh, where are you from?’ His father liked exotic names, even ones that weren’t particularly real. They shortened them as soon as they could form concrete thought, though his brother’s name was a little more civilised than “Tazzy". He simply went from Jeikorotumi to Jeikk. By the by, Tazzy smiled happily at Azalea, and said modestly in an odd sort of way, <font color="CC6600 “>“Thank you very much, but don’t you think it sounds a bit like a pop music star who thinks he’s a knight and likes Italian crotches?"</font> He hadn’t really meant to say that. Well, he wasn’t against it, but it didn’t really turn out right. He frowned. It had obviously made a lot more sense inside his head. He shrugged, and sipped on the crimson drink. Mm. Addictive. <font color="CC6600 “>“Bhim? I’m not actually from around these parts, but I guess they could be called my second home, because I often rent a hotel room somewhere West of here." </font>Obviously, Tazzy had stopped wondering whether his knew companion would turn out to be some sort of horny stalker. Besides, girls weren’t really like that, were they? Well, he guessed, one could never really tell around these parts… Still, he trusted her. He didn’t find it difficult to trust many people, actually. <font color="CC6600 “>“I live officially in Swaraj. Mighty original of me, no?"</font> A slight, sincere laugh. <font color="CC6600 “>“But anyway, I know these parts like the back of my hand." </font> He glanced at it. Partially covered in Band-Aids. He knew that. Right? <font color="CC6600 “>“If you want, I could show you around. Or if you already know the place, we could go shopping or something. You could show me the… ohh…"</font> Crap! Suddenly, the after affects of the drug came into play. The bad ones. The slight hallucinations, the headaches, the nausea, the feeling of a combined hangover and the state of being drunk… Without thinking, he buried his head in his arms, hands clenching and unclenching repeatedly at thin air. Fight it, fight it, he thought desperately, momentarily unaware of Monthega, and what she might decipher of this. Get the FUCK out of my head! With considerable difficulty, he wrenched his head up, trying desperately to focus on Azalea, who, in his mind, was turning in circles. <font color="CC6600 “>“Stop… err… spinning… mmf…"</font> Realising she would have no idea what he was talking about, he fruitlessly tried to shake the drug demons out of his head, before managing to crack a grin at his counterpart. Now he really needed a fix; something to get his mind off this crap, literally. Vaguely, he wondered why he ever agreed to buy this shit off that man. <font color="CC6600 “>“Uh, sorry, doll… ugh… face. Umm… Wanna go, like, err, walk a-around a bit?" </font> Walk it off, walk it off, man… Goddamn, I need something. Anything. Fuckkk.</font></div>
Thank you very much, but donÂ’t you think it sounds a bit like a pop music star who thinks heÂ’s a knight and likes Italian crotches? Shiraz giggled, her head sinking down onto her arms. Her teeth shone through her tired smile, white slivers of vibrancy outgleaming anything else, though she only showed their tips. "I'm not sure about the knight part. I think knights usually have really respectable names... even if they only think they're knights. But Italian crotches, sure. In fact, French crotches come to mind also." Shiraz hadn't the faintest inkling whether the words that had just reached her ears had been born of drugs or a twisted mind, but somehow she didn't really care. Pushing her upper body up off the bar, she sucked at the dregs of her martini, swilling the ice and apple shnapps and sour mix at the bottom of the glass around. Then she dumped the whole mess into her mouth, ice and all, grimacing. The drink had not been shaken all too well and it seems the shnapps had been added in last-minute. In fact, it was nearly all shnapps and hardly any sour mix or vodka. She swallowed the liquid and then ground the ice between her teeth rapidly. Eating ice was mightily fun. She purred, her vocals grinding out the rasping hum. She watched Tazzy inquisitively, her one eyebrow quirked in that Ãœber-obnoxious, elitist, chill gaze that everybody knows and hates. But she was, honestly, now occupied with far more difficult thoughts. As much as she hated to think about it, it was true. A hole had been melted in her armour. Did he notice? Shit, did he notice? 'Razzy had never let her true self out in public since she became a spy. It felt so unnatural to be natural that she was sure he'd seen it. How couldn't he have? But he's a bit drugged up, she reminded herself, instantly feeling bad that she had thought this. Why? It just seemed like she was taking advantage of the male, however, fucked he was. But he was old. He could have been taking advantage of her, should have been, if taking advantage was in the cards. Which it wasn't-- And so on, her thoughts galloped about, leading onto others. Indeed, she barely heard his words 'till something about his tone brought her fiercely back to reality. If you want, I could show you around. Or if you already know the place, we could go shopping or something. You could show me theÂ… ohhÂ… He trailed off, collapsing onto the table, his head buried somewhere near the crooks of his elbows while his hands worked at the air. 'Raz set down her martini glass. It teetered, dangerously off-balance. She grabbed it once more and set it down firmly, annoyed. But her eyes didn't leave Tazzy. Forcing her voice into a mould that felt more and more like it didn't fit, she said frostily, "Tazinerique? Is everything--" but she cut off, knowing that everything wasn't. Her breath caught. Somehow she felt that his fragility would be her guise's undoing. She wanted to slip out of character again, to hop from her seat and... see if he was okay. But before an internal battle could begin to rage inside of her again, he raised his head. He was bleary-eyed now, and staring at her. His eyes seemed to move as if she was doing some crazy manoevre in her seat. Just watching him made her dizzy. "Tazzy." her voice was still stiff and businesslike, but rather than being crafted of ice, it now held similarities to the soothing power of cool water. Her eyes, she was afraid, might betray her sudden worry, so she lowered them, staring at his right shoulder rather than his face. StopÂ… errÂ… spinningÂ… mmfÂ… "Okay. Shh. I'm not spinning, I'm right here... You're okay," she said, sliding down to the ground. Her heels clicked on the wooden flooring and she walked to his bar stool. When he implored that they walk around, she couldn't help but want to jump for joy. She bar was stuffy and the rain, while cold, would be fresh and sharp in her lungs. So she nodded, wordlessly. She reached into her bodice and withdrew a bit of gold, throwing it onto the table. Hookerish, she realized, and then decided to fuck that shit anyway. Tazzy didn't care. He knew she wasn't a creature of the night. At least not that way. Didn't he? Shaking her head of her own inner monsters, she unceremoniously took his wrists, easing him down from the chair. She thought he could stand on his own, so she walked over to the door, throwing it open and feeling the bright dampness of the stormy air on her wine-coloured cheeks. Down the street was a clothing store she particularly liked. Past that was a weapons store. She could use a new butterfly knife. Vaguely she remembered that Tazzy had said he wanted to shop... Rather unusual for a 40-odd-year-old male, but when she had gold in her bodice 'Raz wasn't one to argue. The brightly-lit window of Hestra Ramathicana displayed gorgeous, stud-sided green satin dresses, sexily ruched and paired with dark, evergreen-hued stilletos. Shiraz realized she wanted one rather badly. She usually didn't go shopping for pleasure, only because she needed to, but she rather thought darting from store to store with a male at her arm would be interesting. Not as a date. Just as a friend. The thought of Tazzy as a date just made her queasy. An interesting companion, sure, but who'd want to get intimate with a guy that cut out his own organs for fun? After this thought, Shiraz confronted herself briefly about what she was doing. He could be strange, crazy. He could kill her. But then she remembered that she could take care of herself. "And I can," she said aloud. Shit. I hope he didn't hear. Shrugging, she turned to Tazzy. "Will you be okay walking?" she asked, her visage showing a small tinge of-- was it? sympathy.
<blockquote><blockquote>That man, that man… what the hell was his name again? Ah, he couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember a lot of things at the moment, in fact. His head was still spinning dizzily, and he couldn’t clamp down on the dirty Styrofoam cup in front of him. He felt as if he was feeling the after affects of acid, but that couldn’t be right. Besides, with acid, if you looked at something hard enough, it stopped moving. Everything stopped moving eventually. But this cup was still swaying sensually in front of his eyes, and he could have sworn it was about to sprout long legs and boobs. Belly dance came to mind, and he suddenly had a mental image of the mug in a short rap-around and silky Indian-style tube top. For the moment he forgot completely about his smooth companion, as mellifluous cylinders filled his mind. He laughed utterly aloud, and grinned moronically at the liquid-filled cup. If he didn’t know any better, he might have been aroused. Tazzy entertained the thought for the moment, only a moment as he watched tens upon steamy tens of limbed dinner plates performing a scantily clad Macarena. Only a moment, though, only a short-lived moment because just then, just when the shiny dishes were about to spin their hands on their imaginary asses, his nausea hit back in full force, and he groaned, burying his head once more in his arms. Feeling, but not exactly seeing the fingers around his bandaged wrists—come to think about it, he wasn’t exactly sure what was behind those anymore, if there was anything. He’d have to check later on; as for now, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t think whatever was there was worms or fire or something. Ohh, terribly quick drug!—he eagerly grabbed on to the smooth, deep red limb that ran from them. His own hands were quite a bit tighter over her veins than hers over his, but hell, he was the one freaking out over a bad trip, here. He eagerly used the support to, gently, as steadily as possible, slide off the shining stool. Luckily it wasn’t too slippery. Lucky he didn’t fall face-first into the floor. Brushing away images of his neck cracking in do as it glanced off the metal bars holding the seats together, he almost whined as Azalea wandered off towards the door. His visual was improving, thank God, as he quickly remembered to crap his precious appendage and drop it in his Mary-Poppins-esque pocket before lurching towards the door. "Will you be okay walking?" The female’s voice drifted into his head and he winced, sputtering out a “Yeah, sure." He caught himself at the frame, and leaned on it. The older male peered almost sadly at the rain. It wasn’t as though he didn’t like rain; it was just he feared it would only cloud his vision more. He pictured himself flying through the crowd shouting, “I have lost visual! I have lost visual!" Although it was quite the amusing sight to see, even in his own eyes, he decided he didn’t like it. Ah, well, only one thing to do. Around his forehead was strapped a pair of goggles, slightly darker than his hair, with aqua-coloured designs swimming around the edges. They weren’t normal, however. Though the shades were dark, dark enough to completely hide his obviously dilated pupils and heavily stoned gaze, they actually sharpened his perception of the world, make everything seem as it was rather than what the drugs told him was there. All thanks to simple first-year machina and brainwave transmitters, designed especially by yours truly. He doubted they would sell these sort of things on the market. If they did, a lot more kids would get away with this sort of stuff. Unfortunately they did project the image that miss Azalea was pretty, a fact that he’d been managing to disregard in his first state, also a fact that he would never, ever, ever mention to her. Of course he had no sexual, intimate, let’s-go-suck-faces feelings for the youngster, but he was male, after all, and he’d be damned if his hormones had disappeared, even with the age and the drugs and the—he openly shuddered—several years drifting between religious cults. They fitted perfectly over his eyes, lenses stretching around to the summits of his face, giving him all the vision he would have had without them. The “And I can" actually managed to unnerve him, though he hoped his facial expression (what was left of it) didn’t show it. Was he talking to her without realising he said anything? The thought jerked him into slight paranoia, and though he knew his mouth wouldn’t show it (it never did, when he was paying enough attention), his hands would, for sure. In fact, they were shaking, sweating, jerking about even as he shoved them into his thigh pockets. Of course there was always the chance that he was either hearing things, or she was talking to herself, but neither of these options seemed at all comforting, either. The usual flirtatious swing had vanished from his voice, and he didn’t try to recover it, yet, only asked idly of Azalea, “Do you mind if I smoke?" Of course at the moment, he didn’t mind, not at all, if she did, and the innocent-enough cancer stick was soon lit and dangling off his lip, even before he finished the sentence, muffling the “if I smoke". Oh, how he hated cigarettes. He really did. They were even grosser, in his opinion, than Mary Jane. Unfortunately it was all he had at the time being, aside from a bottle of Extra Industrial Strength Tylenol, and despite it’s unnaturally exquisite capabilities of healing normal migraines in a snap, he doubted it would have much effect on this kind of nausea. Tazzy inhaled deeply, making sure the aftermath smoke was directed well away from the female (what a gentleman), and tried to follow her gaze towards the rain-tainted shops. “So, doll," he said weakly, trying his luck at an amicable grin, even though it was near fruitless, “Where do you feel like going?" He took a gulp of the blood and grimaced, not knowing which was worse: the cigarettes, which took five minutes off your life with each stick, or the blood, of which you could swallow a pint without getting sick. Luckily, the cup originally was only half of such.
<span style='width:100%;font-weight:bold; font-size:10px'>Character Information</span> <table class=ooc><tr><td>Hey, I thought I might join this thread with my new character...i'm an ok role-player; Name: Cube (Street Name) Clothing: A leather rock-star outfit About: Chain smokin', drunkin', druggie, who doesn't care about anyone cept himself...</td></tr></table> The air was filled with smoke, coming from the constent light up of cigs. The clouds of smoke swirled around in the room, and into the lungs of Cube. His eyes were red and shocked, from all the alchohal and dope he had done. He had just been dumped by his bitch. It wasn't fair that this happened to the likes of him. So, like most, he went on a drinking binge. The results of such, were always dangerous. He had already thrown up twice, but what did he care. Even if he died no one cared, so eh, what the hell? His old gang, The Ruddies, had failed. All his members had gotten caught by the cops. His chick, had left him. So now, he had nothing left to live for. It was only a matter of time before he went to jail, for all the shit he had caused...All of a sudden, he was dead...pitch black. Cube sat up at the table, in the local bar. Damnit! He had fallen asleep again. He had a terrible dream, where he didn't care if he died, and then he did. Perhaps, a dream into the future? Who cares... He took the last sip of his beer and then payed the bar tender. It was time for him to go. He got up, and put out his cig, then headed for the door. He had work to do. His gang, The Ruddies were supposed to raise some hell in town. Tonight would be fun. He walked outside the door of the bar, which was falling apart. "Fuck, the cops" he yelled, begining to run down the street. If they caught him, it would be three more years in the slammer. He ran down the back ally of the bar and hopped the fence. The cops came round the corner, only to find a wisp of smoke, and nothing more. He sighed, catching his breath. Good, what retards, they would never catch the likes of him.
