[open/active] If you like it innovative Better get someone creative honey
Characters: Thomas Raith, anyone who wants to run into him
Time: Daytime
Location: Blackstone Hotel: Charity's forge, the lobby, in the halls, gym, etc
Content: One vampire, armed to the teeth, wandering around the Blackstone Hotel. Because this'll end well.
Format: Poster's choice. Prose/commentspam/whatevs.
Warning: Beware of Thomas.
Notes: Multiple threads welcome. Pick a location.
[Charity's Forge]
The parking garage was empty, the forge's fire banked if not extinguished, and the clink of metal echoed hollowly along the bare concrete. The source of the clinking was one Thomas Raith, a black duffel swung carelessly over his shoulder as he poked around the forge's contents. He was careful, moving only what was necessary, until he found a wide, flat stone. He hefted it in his hands, as if testing the weight of it, before adding it to the duffel bag.
He did, however, have the presence of mind to pick up pen and paper afterward and leave a quick note:
Mrs. Carpenter,
Borrowed whetstone from forge. Be returned in same condition.
T. Raith
[Blackstone Lobby]
Given that the Hard Rock Hotel's lobby was still a little charred around the edges and the scent of stale smoke and explosives lingered (thanks Deadpool), Thomas had taken his borrowed whetstone to the Blackstone Hotel's lobby. The fact that it was closer to the forge where he'd liberated said whetstone lest he be accused of stealing it rather than just borrowing it was a happy coincidence.
Motives aside, Thomas sat at one of the scattered couches, the black duffel he'd been carrying tossed carelessly onto the coffee table in front of him. A sheathed cavalry saber could be seen inside, as could several firearms and a knife. But his attention isn't on the modest arsenal in the bag, but the bent-bladed sword in his hands. He worked it carefully, skillfully, along the whetstone, pausing every so often to buff the blade with a soft cloth, his expression one of relaxed concentration.
[Blackstone Gym]
Having finished keeping up his blades (and cleaning out the guns, because why not), Thomas headed for the Blackstone's gym, hauling a couple of cheap wooden chairs on a bellhop's dolly in his wake. Once there, he placed a chair in the center of the workout mat in the middle of the room and eyed it thoughtfully before eyeing the freshly honed falcata. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he swung the bent-bladed knife at the chair's back. The wood split with a sharp, satisfying crack and he nudged the small piece out of the way before stepping back and eyeing the chair again.
Repeat.
Time: Daytime
Location: Blackstone Hotel: Charity's forge, the lobby, in the halls, gym, etc
Content: One vampire, armed to the teeth, wandering around the Blackstone Hotel. Because this'll end well.
Format: Poster's choice. Prose/commentspam/whatevs.
Warning: Beware of Thomas.
Notes: Multiple threads welcome. Pick a location.
[Charity's Forge]
The parking garage was empty, the forge's fire banked if not extinguished, and the clink of metal echoed hollowly along the bare concrete. The source of the clinking was one Thomas Raith, a black duffel swung carelessly over his shoulder as he poked around the forge's contents. He was careful, moving only what was necessary, until he found a wide, flat stone. He hefted it in his hands, as if testing the weight of it, before adding it to the duffel bag.
He did, however, have the presence of mind to pick up pen and paper afterward and leave a quick note:
Mrs. Carpenter,
Borrowed whetstone from forge. Be returned in same condition.
T. Raith
[Blackstone Lobby]
Given that the Hard Rock Hotel's lobby was still a little charred around the edges and the scent of stale smoke and explosives lingered (thanks Deadpool), Thomas had taken his borrowed whetstone to the Blackstone Hotel's lobby. The fact that it was closer to the forge where he'd liberated said whetstone lest he be accused of stealing it rather than just borrowing it was a happy coincidence.
Motives aside, Thomas sat at one of the scattered couches, the black duffel he'd been carrying tossed carelessly onto the coffee table in front of him. A sheathed cavalry saber could be seen inside, as could several firearms and a knife. But his attention isn't on the modest arsenal in the bag, but the bent-bladed sword in his hands. He worked it carefully, skillfully, along the whetstone, pausing every so often to buff the blade with a soft cloth, his expression one of relaxed concentration.
[Blackstone Gym]
Having finished keeping up his blades (and cleaning out the guns, because why not), Thomas headed for the Blackstone's gym, hauling a couple of cheap wooden chairs on a bellhop's dolly in his wake. Once there, he placed a chair in the center of the workout mat in the middle of the room and eyed it thoughtfully before eyeing the freshly honed falcata. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he swung the bent-bladed knife at the chair's back. The wood split with a sharp, satisfying crack and he nudged the small piece out of the way before stepping back and eyeing the chair again.
Repeat.