Whiskey Instead Of Water [ACTIVE/CLOSED]
Characters: Odd Thomas, Dante, Tifa Lockheart.
Content: While against his usual nature, Odd nonetheless decides to brave a night on the town once again. With Dante no less.
Location: Pete’s Tavern/Seventh Heaven.
Time of day: Happy Hour (sometime between 4-7pm).
Warnings: Substance abuse? Possible language.
Having faced certain death and insanity not long ago, it took a lot for Odd to even step foot out of the cathedral again. Regardless, a few days of being housed up in that place had been cabin fever enough. With Sunderland still recuperating from the event and not wanting even Mason to go outside, Odd deemed it better to keep his little outing to himself, quietly making his way out the front door so as not to disturb any of his roommates.
It was unhealthy to lie down for so long, and while days had past since and the threat came and went, Odd couldn’t help but feel a little jumpy now. Slight movements, sounds-any signs of life that dwelled the streets had him snapping his head left and right. What happened was nerve-wracking and insane, yet when he had made it back home and collapsed in his room after it all, he had found himself laughing hours later in retrospect.
Odd Thomas had actually laughed despite facing the townful of crab parasite armies and survived with only some cuts, bruises, and a sore ankle. Now, he had some band-aids over his face, some on his arms, and still with scraped elbows, but on the bright side he was alive.
All this served a reminder that he had to keep calm, which served in his favor even in the most intense pandemoniums. Stay cool and breathe. As his poker-playing grandmother always told him: Never let them see you’re worried. Taking his mind off of everything via distractions seemed best. Not to mention it helped with that damn reverse psychic magnetism, partially in which he suspected got him in such trouble in the first place. As the man shuffled his way down the streets, darkening by the hour, he presumed that that had a lot to do with what happened that day.
At the very least, Odd didn’t plan to drink much. It wasn’t that he never really drank before; he just preferred to stay clear from the stuff. Putting himself in such a position while out like this could prove to be more fatal than it seemed to anyone else. Anyone rational, that is.
Just one or two drinks, that was all. If it got any worse, then he’d ask the bartender to cut him off.
That’s what they did in movies.
Most of the time with his hands in the pockets on his jacket, Odd turned the corner of First Avenue. From St. Patrick’s it had been quite a walk, and he had been on his feet a good long while, but Odd didn’t care. The cool evening air helped clear his mind some. Not far ahead, he saw the establishment’s familiar name: PETE’S TAVERN. Figuring that Dante, who he agreed to meet here earlier, might already be there, Odd pushed open the front door and stepped inside.
Content: While against his usual nature, Odd nonetheless decides to brave a night on the town once again. With Dante no less.
Location: Pete’s Tavern/Seventh Heaven.
Time of day: Happy Hour (sometime between 4-7pm).
Warnings: Substance abuse? Possible language.
Having faced certain death and insanity not long ago, it took a lot for Odd to even step foot out of the cathedral again. Regardless, a few days of being housed up in that place had been cabin fever enough. With Sunderland still recuperating from the event and not wanting even Mason to go outside, Odd deemed it better to keep his little outing to himself, quietly making his way out the front door so as not to disturb any of his roommates.
It was unhealthy to lie down for so long, and while days had past since and the threat came and went, Odd couldn’t help but feel a little jumpy now. Slight movements, sounds-any signs of life that dwelled the streets had him snapping his head left and right. What happened was nerve-wracking and insane, yet when he had made it back home and collapsed in his room after it all, he had found himself laughing hours later in retrospect.
Odd Thomas had actually laughed despite facing the townful of crab parasite armies and survived with only some cuts, bruises, and a sore ankle. Now, he had some band-aids over his face, some on his arms, and still with scraped elbows, but on the bright side he was alive.
All this served a reminder that he had to keep calm, which served in his favor even in the most intense pandemoniums. Stay cool and breathe. As his poker-playing grandmother always told him: Never let them see you’re worried. Taking his mind off of everything via distractions seemed best. Not to mention it helped with that damn reverse psychic magnetism, partially in which he suspected got him in such trouble in the first place. As the man shuffled his way down the streets, darkening by the hour, he presumed that that had a lot to do with what happened that day.
At the very least, Odd didn’t plan to drink much. It wasn’t that he never really drank before; he just preferred to stay clear from the stuff. Putting himself in such a position while out like this could prove to be more fatal than it seemed to anyone else. Anyone rational, that is.
Just one or two drinks, that was all. If it got any worse, then he’d ask the bartender to cut him off.
That’s what they did in movies.
Most of the time with his hands in the pockets on his jacket, Odd turned the corner of First Avenue. From St. Patrick’s it had been quite a walk, and he had been on his feet a good long while, but Odd didn’t care. The cool evening air helped clear his mind some. Not far ahead, he saw the establishment’s familiar name: PETE’S TAVERN. Figuring that Dante, who he agreed to meet here earlier, might already be there, Odd pushed open the front door and stepped inside.