[open]
Who: soldiersblade and You?
When: Toniiiight (May 1st)
Where: The Foxhole
Format: Will start with action, but join with whatever you'd like and I'll happily follow suit!
What: Des is finally checking out the town after showing up in the midst of Ogrepalooza. That's uh... it. IT'S A BAR. HE IS A BARTENDER. It was bound to happen.
Warnings: None? Language on his part, I guess?
[He'd have to thank her if he found her, that girl who'd pointed out Anatole's welcoming allowance he'd so quickly overlooked. Des found it all right, after returning to the newbie housing... several hours after the bullshit in town had petered out, after the oogies stopped demanding limbs and cash for passage through alleys, after... that really irritable chick came to save his butt from things he'd never encountered before.
Lady?
Whatever. She seemed decent enough, and sure as fuck knew how to handle herself.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad here. Especially not if all the women who came dashing to his aid wore skirts that short.
Anatole, eh? Dismas?
The names weren't familiar (well, Anatole sort of was, and as the days passed, Desmond was starting to allow the fact that... yeah. This wasn't the Animus.
Thankfully?
But at least he'd found the bar? Or... one of them. The particularly pungent dude sitting two stools down had been rambling for the past half hour about another place called Duncan's, which apparently banned his ass because of POLITICS... THE GOVERNMENT! ALWAYS WANTIN' YOUR MONEY! THESE GUYS, THEY READ YOUR MIND, MAN... YOU GOT ANY MONEY? I'M OUTTA MY... *hiccup* LUCK, MAN.
YOU LIKE DRUGS, MAN? YOU GOT THE DRUUUUGS?
Awesome. Yeah. Great.
Dropping his head to the counter, forehead thudding the wood just a little harder than really intended, Desmond sighed, screwing numbers about in his brain, trying to figure out how many of these ivories he had left, how much drink he needed to get him through the rest of the night, and...
... well, shit. How to get more ivories, because dammit, food was probably something he'd need to quit pilfering from the markets pretty fucking soon. He was good at it, mind you. Such was his nature. But still-- petty thievery? Was he really gonna stoop to that sort of thing right off the bat?
That pickled old bastard's still talking at him.
With a groan, the sound of it muffled between his folded arms and weathered wood, he wondered if Anatole had the same laws his home did when it came to randomly snapping necks.]
"Shut up SHUT UP. I don't CARE. You want some cash, dicknose? Steal me that forty-ouncer of gin over there and then die in a fire."
[No, he wasn't gonna try to explain how the bum would benefit from this deal at all, but hey. Crazies were unpredictable, right?]
When: Toniiiight (May 1st)
Where: The Foxhole
Format: Will start with action, but join with whatever you'd like and I'll happily follow suit!
What: Des is finally checking out the town after showing up in the midst of Ogrepalooza. That's uh... it. IT'S A BAR. HE IS A BARTENDER. It was bound to happen.
Warnings: None? Language on his part, I guess?
[He'd have to thank her if he found her, that girl who'd pointed out Anatole's welcoming allowance he'd so quickly overlooked. Des found it all right, after returning to the newbie housing... several hours after the bullshit in town had petered out, after the oogies stopped demanding limbs and cash for passage through alleys, after... that really irritable chick came to save his butt from things he'd never encountered before.
Lady?
Whatever. She seemed decent enough, and sure as fuck knew how to handle herself.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad here. Especially not if all the women who came dashing to his aid wore skirts that short.
Anatole, eh? Dismas?
The names weren't familiar (well, Anatole sort of was, and as the days passed, Desmond was starting to allow the fact that... yeah. This wasn't the Animus.
Thankfully?
But at least he'd found the bar? Or... one of them. The particularly pungent dude sitting two stools down had been rambling for the past half hour about another place called Duncan's, which apparently banned his ass because of POLITICS... THE GOVERNMENT! ALWAYS WANTIN' YOUR MONEY! THESE GUYS, THEY READ YOUR MIND, MAN... YOU GOT ANY MONEY? I'M OUTTA MY... *hiccup* LUCK, MAN.
YOU LIKE DRUGS, MAN? YOU GOT THE DRUUUUGS?
Awesome. Yeah. Great.
Dropping his head to the counter, forehead thudding the wood just a little harder than really intended, Desmond sighed, screwing numbers about in his brain, trying to figure out how many of these ivories he had left, how much drink he needed to get him through the rest of the night, and...
... well, shit. How to get more ivories, because dammit, food was probably something he'd need to quit pilfering from the markets pretty fucking soon. He was good at it, mind you. Such was his nature. But still-- petty thievery? Was he really gonna stoop to that sort of thing right off the bat?
That pickled old bastard's still talking at him.
With a groan, the sound of it muffled between his folded arms and weathered wood, he wondered if Anatole had the same laws his home did when it came to randomly snapping necks.]
"Shut up SHUT UP. I don't CARE. You want some cash, dicknose? Steal me that forty-ouncer of gin over there and then die in a fire."
[No, he wasn't gonna try to explain how the bum would benefit from this deal at all, but hey. Crazies were unpredictable, right?]