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Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

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Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Guest on Mon Sep 03, 2012 8:20 pm

BOOM.

Chk-chk. "I SWEAR TO FUCK, YOU LITTLE SHITS, IF I SEE YOU IN MY BAR AGAIN, I'LL FUCKIN' SHOOT THE LOT OF YOU." BOOM. Chk-chk. "THINK YOU CAN STEAL FUCKIN' DRINKS OUTTA MY TAPS?! YOU THINK I'M SOME KIND OF IDIOT?!" Two blue-and-gold shell casings trailed along the floor, thin wisps of smoke trailing upwards as the homunculus' brow furrowed and face contorted as the very image of anger.

"RUN ON THE FUCK HOME BEFORE I SEE YOUR FACES AGAIN, YOU DUMB PRICKS." Rooted in place for the moment by way of sheer fury, it was at least another solid minute before the sound of footsteps and the faint echoes of exploding buckshot cartridges faded from the Vainglorian night. Nuevo hadn't had a strong run tonight, but it was a Thursday; however, King's little display had ensured that even the most consistent of drunkards and patrons had long-since scarpered. The bar was utterly empty.

He slammed the Winchester back down upon the bar, and vaulted over it with a growl. That was the third time this week that minors had tried to drink straight from the taps. Disgusting little shits. Fuck, if only manslaughter wasn't illegal. Because he'd be fucked if he was going down for life for shooting these little bastards. He could almost feel Jack's eyes boring into the back of his head, regardless of where he was, off doing... something. Maybe back at the apartment, for once. Maybe even cleaning the dishes.

King pondered it for a moment... nah, if Jack was going to show ANY inclination towards helping around the house, it would be building some form of machine or complex software program to do so via proxy. Regardless, it was closing up to around 1AM; Gluttony broke open the Winchester and loaded in two fresh shells from an open box beneath the bar, before sliding the shotgun back underneath with a sigh. Bartending was good fun, and King did what he did best; he poured drinks, listened to people's stories, and he smiled with that flawless playboy charm.

But now, it was square one all over again. No customers, and last call loomed overhead like a sweeping blanket of darkness ready to descend, and for once, King wasn't sure whether he wanted to stay here or go home. Regardless, he spun around, shrugged off his jacket, leaving himself in the cool September night garbed in only a thin grey polo and a pair of jeans. Propping his hands against the bar, he smiled and stared on up at the wall of various expensive bottles of alcohol above, all prepared and ready at different heights. Well, if he didn't have business, at least... at least he had alcohol.

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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Alisa Donnikova on Mon Sep 03, 2012 8:58 pm

How the FUCK did anyone find this piece of shit freezing island hospitable?! WHY THE FUCK HAD SHE TAKEN A JOB HERE?! Oh yeah, because she had a previous engagement in La Cerise, and Gelemorte was right fucking there. So logic. ..... Fuck that, she had been a fucking idiot for taking the job here. When the fuck had she decided to use logic anyways? Shit was overrated. She didn't even have a safe house here because it was so fucking REMOVED. Mainland was three weeks away, and she had just come for one little job? Cost benefit analysis = FAIL. She might as well just try to find-

BOOM.

The sound of the round reached her ears and she slowed to a stop on the relatively empty streets of Vaingloria, an eyebrow raising in mild interest. Gunfire usually meant something interesting. Something interesting usually meant some kind of work. Or amusement. Whichever. She wasn't going to be particularly picky at the moment regarding which she wanted to happen first. It could also mean something she should avoid, but pfft. She just wanted to find somewhere to go at this point. Her feet slowed in the snow, her cowboy boots almost buried in the snow as she pulled out a pack of smokes from one of the pockets in her brown jacket, the fleece about the collar doing little to nothing to protect her from the harsh wind. She was wearing her usual fingerless biker gloves with a transmutation circle engraved into the palm, her thumb sliding against the wheel as a little flame blossomed to life, lighting up the tip of her cigarette. She took a deep breath and pocketed the pack along with the lighter, cracking her neck as she pulled her jacket a bit tighter about her shoulders, still inwardly grumbling to herself about her being so fucking brilliant. She was wearing black tights over her legs, a black turtleneck, and a pleated red skirt with a stripe near the base one of the few spots of color amidst her clothes.

A group of teen's burst past her, running away from an establishment, all of them having a rather pale appearance to them. Well well, they must have born witness to the gunfire that had shattered the night so completely. She stood up a little straighter as she took a deep draw on her cig, her brow furrowing a little at the name of the place. Nuevo. Huh. "Whatever. Long as they got booze." And hopefully no fucking idiots would drive through the front of it. She had just about had her fucking fill of mobster pricks. So without a second thought about any particular rules, she pushed the door open, tapping the ash off the edge of her cig before the door closed behind her. Man it was fucking empty in here. Raising an eyebrow, she inwardly shrugged as her boots thudded against the floor, sliding onto a bar stool as she took another puff. "Something that'll knock me on my ass." She said quietly as she rubbed her eyes, growling in frustration as she suddenly rubbed the snow off of the top of her head. "It's like I'm fucking back in that fuckhole of a country." She muttered to herself, her cig dangling from between her lips as she fixed her ponytail.

It was then that she actually looked at the bartender and paused for a couple of seconds, her hands resuming their task as she took another puff. Well, she managed to be lucky enough to find some eye-candy too. Wasn't that fucking lucky.
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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Guest on Mon Sep 03, 2012 9:14 pm

Slowly and silently enough, a woman sidled in. King smiled up at her and scanned her up and down, nodding. Biker gloves, shorts, tattoos poking through the fabric on her hands, guns... yeah, he was no moron. He could see the pistols. Before he could ask what to get her, the shivering woman took a seat and made her "order"."Something that'll knock me on my ass." The homunculus bartender's brow furrowed. He didn't like vagueness, but, hey, the customer was always right.

"Your funeral," He smiled, and spun around, brushing his fingers against the various collection of bottles, humming as he did so, eyes trying to find the highest ABV percentage he could, when, finally, he came to it. Strongest bottle of anything he could legally buy around here without risking his bartending license. Musty and covered in cobwebs, King shivered from even looking at it, grinning to himself. Inhaling and blowing away as much of the dirt and dust as he could in a single breath, a low chuckle escaped Gluttony's mouth as the calligraphic white writing set out just how strong this particular bottle was. 69%. Her funeral indeed.

Twirling the bottle around as dexterously as the bartender could muster, King smirked. The girl was hot, but he didn't really want to mess with her. With a grin, he spun the cap off and raised the bottle in the artificial light of the halogen bars above, ancient white lettering reading clear. "'Arty's Absinthe'." He murmured out loud, before fetching two measure glasses, and pouring a couple of inches of liquid into each, screwing the cap back onto the bottle and setting it up on the shelf, grimacing and preparing his throat, sliding the woman's drink down the bar. "On the house." The homunculus nodded. Drinks were always on the house for chicks as hot as she was. And that tattoo... damn.

"It's like I'm fucking back in that fuckhole of a country." He rose his cup, ready to down the vile liquid all in one swig, before pausing. The language took a few moments to click, but then King realised, before setting the glass back down with a smile. Drachman. Fate was a cruel mistress, it seemed. Not three weeks ago had he forsaken Alena, Aurel, RIOTE, Drachma... the entire little package all rolled up in one, when Vanity had blindsided him and kicked him straight in the ass, having apparently unintentionally toyed with his feelings. Gluttony didn't care. That was all gone, ancient history, as far as he concerned, but it was just Sod's Law that not three weeks later, in the opposite ass-end of the world, a Drachman girl would stumble into his bar, apparently just as miserable as he was.

"I disagree," King rose the glass and pressed the cold ridge against his lips, before tipping it upwards in a single motion, and letting the absinthe burn its way through his mouth and down his throat as he winced gingerly and swallowed. GOD was that horrible. He set the cup back down and shook his head, still grimacing, before finally gasping for air as if it was the world's most valuable commodity. "Moscow is definitely a lot worse than Vaingloria ever gets."

Slowly, he swept back along the bar, recovering as he did so, and extended his hand. Last call suddenly didn't seem so far away. She was his only patron, she was smoking, she spoke Cerisian and Drachman, and she seemed interesting enough. So, maybe... maybe it was time to make another acquaintance. Planting his hands on the bar and drawing a pack of Marlboro Golds from his pocket, King smiled, and picked one out from within, propping it against his lips. "Name's King." The homunculus switched back to Cerisian, not even bothering to fumble through his pockets for the lighter that he knew was already there. "Got a light?"

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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Alisa Donnikova on Mon Sep 03, 2012 10:13 pm

"Your funeral," Tch. Yeah fucking right. He had no fucking clue who she was or how much she could drink. It was like he had thrown down a gauntlet, and fuck yeah was his challenge accepted. Bring it pretty man. Alisa glanced along the bar for an ashtray before pushing herself up to slide it over to herself, tapping out the ash again before she took another decent draw, the smoke curling about the corners of her mouth before she exhaled it all. She was staring rather distantly at the wall in front of her, her mind drifting from any particular thoughts which was a great relief to her. For once she wasn't thinking a lot and boy did it feel amazing. After all, she had that woman asking her shit about her paintings in La Cerise so how the fuck could she just chill out and not think then? Not to mention the mafia decided to have a fucking problem with her and her guns. Oh yeah... It was then that she glanced over to the bartender, wondering if he was going to have an issue with her Cutlasses that were in their holsters inside her jacket beneath her arms. He didn't seem to so far so that usually meant positive things. Hell right now he seemed more focused on the bottle he was twirling about in his hands. "'Arty's Absinthe'."

The fuck was that? It had to be some kind of Gelemortian drink because she sure as hell hadn't heard of it on the mainland. Or maybe she just didn't remember it. Heh, hey... She had asked for something to knock her on her ass. That was just kind of mood she was in. Her hand snapped out and caught the glass as he slid it down to her, chocolate eyes resting upon him as he was even grimacing before drinking the liquid. She plucked her cig from between her lips and held it between her fingers over the ashtray, beginning to lift the glass towards her lips. "On the house." Huh. She only smirked in response, about to take a sip when it was her turn to pause for she REALLY didn't expect to hear the language come out of his mouth. "I disagree," The rim of the glass was pressing against her lips, her eyebrows raising a little at the sound of her native tongue in her ears. What.... the fuck. "Moscow is definitely a lot worse than Vaingloria ever gets." She snickered before downing the absinthe, the liquid burning a trail down her throat into her gullet as the glass hit the counter. Oh that was the best kind of terrible. She hadn't had something that burned like that in ages.

"Amen to that." She muttered as she raised her death stick back to her mouth, the tip of it burning brightly for a moment before the air became clouded by smoke. So the man had been to Drachma. If she were paranoid she may have wondered for a moment if he was here to track her down, but even she wasn't THAT paranoid. It was just uncommon to find someone who had been to that fucking hellhole. Like the mafia was supposed to scare her when she grew up in motherfucking russia. Her eyes lifted as he approached, staring at him with a very mild interest though his smile had caught her attention. It was a nice smile. Not a nice that triggered thoughts of He-Who-Would-Not-Be-Named, but a nice that was just... well... nice. "Name's King." King eh? What pretentious parent named their child that huh? "Got a light?" She nodded once and drew the lighter from her pocket, flicking it so a little flame came to life on the wick. She held it up to the tip of his smoke till t was lit before the lighter retreated back into her jacket. "Alisa." She murmured between her cig, taking the moment to pull off her jacket. She was inside now, she didn't need it anymore.

Now he definitely could see her guns not that she particularly cared, taking a moment to crack her neck just as a chuckle escaped her. "I'm assuming you usually have more business than fucking teenagers who think they are slick and bitches with nothing better to do." Hm.... now there was a thought. Her one elbow propped itself on the counter as she rested her chin in the palm of her hand, a wide smirk spreading across her features. "I don't suppose you need a merc for something huh?"
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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Guest on Tue Sep 04, 2012 6:57 pm

"Alisa." Pretty name for a pretty girl. King nodded to himself and smiled, wondering just what she'd thought of his moniker; of course, there were only three people alive in the world who knew his real name, two of whom he'd abandoned long ago, and the other one respecting the fact that he took to aliases over that horrible fucking alternative. "Zachariah". Zach was too plain. Zachy or Zacky just sounded weird as all hell. Zachariah was a real mouthful. So, instead, he was King. King of the castle. "I'm assuming you usually have more business than fucking teenagers who think they are slick and bitches with nothing better to do."

King chuckled dryly and looked out over the sea of empty tables and vacant stools. "Yeah, uh..." Reaching under the bar, he pulled up the 1887, clutching it by the barrel, and shook it from side to side. "Florence here doesn't really get on with my regular patrons." The gun was fucking loud, and served well for distraction tactics, but gave Nuevo a bad reputation for deafening regulars and had a kick like a fucking mule. Sliding the shotgun back underneath, he grinned. "Close to last call, though. Good to at least have someone to talk to..."

Grabbing the absinthe again off the shelf, having not yet felt the alcohol truly kick in, King poured another couple of inches into each glass, just a touch taller this time, grinning as he did, before setting the bottle back done. Fuck was it rough, but it would get him drunk. And with a girl as good-looking as Alisa in his bar, alone - albeit armed - drunk was he needed to be. "I don't suppose you need a merc for something huh?"

King froze for a moment as memories of Alena flitted back over his eyes. Twin emerald pools widened as the craziest thought of the day haphazardly danced into my head. Could she... would she be able... no... no. That was a stupid idea, even in conception. For a single mercenary to take on the most powerful woman in Drachma alone? Not all the rubles, vodka, and nine-millimetre ammunition was going to convince your regular merc to take out wet work which more or less involved destroying the home of the Sekretar herself and pumping her full of rounds until she finally died. And nothing that would kill Alisa had killed Vanity. Yet. The odds were stacked heavily in the eighth homunculus' favour. Hell, even if King came along, there was no telling how many security staff they'd stocked up in front of her little palace. Gluttony had been a one-man army as the Left Rook, but in his absence, they probably needed quite a few more to fill his gun-toting shoes.

Smirking, King rose his glass in a cheering motion, knocking it against the mercenary's with a smile. "Unless you're feeling particularly suicidal..." Cool ridge of the glass against his lips. Lifted sharply upwards with a jerking motion. Glass tipped down. Absinthe seared its way past his lips, into his mouth but for a moment before he swallowed out of what appeared to be sheer pain, and let it flow down, burning as it went, wincing and dropping the glass back down casually, the fire of the liquid slowly working its way down to his stomach. Christ, the stuff was horrible. Horrible... and yet, so good.

Eventually, it calmed down, and King's breath exploded outwards in a single, alcohol-laden pant, a playful smile, and his eyes a tad more bloodshot than usual. God, even with Gluttony's powers protecting his insides, that shit still managed to burn its way down as if he were drinking a neat combination of liquid fire and hydrofluoric acid. "...then no, I'm afraid." The after-effects finally settled down and he sighed. "Shit. Think the drinks company's got it out for me..." Looking over his shoulder towards the bottle sitting oh-so-ominously on the counter, he shook his head. "No way that's meant for anything other than industrial cleaning or sterilising medical tools."

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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Alisa Donnikova on Wed Sep 05, 2012 12:29 am

For once, she wasn't flashing back in the least bit to.... S.. Sp-.... Spade. Ugh, she still hated thinking the name, but thankfully, it didn't tear into her like it had only a couple of months before. She didn't feel a sudden strong urge to kill everything in sight at the very thought of him. She didn't feel wary in this bar, or worried that that fucking tale might repeat itself like some sick joke from fate. When the fuck had this shit happened? She was.. ok. Completely fucking ok, or as ok as she could ever be. In order for her to be perfectly fine she had to kill at least fifty people, remove some misdemeanors recorded by the law, and punch Spade in the mouth. Then she would probably be fucking peachy as all hell. But there was no way that would ever happen. She wasn't some omnipotent being who could just give herself a clean slate, and she certainly couldn't take out all of the people she needed to since she wasn't even counting their lackeys. Ugh, whatever. She had done fine so far with her survivalist core, no need to try messing with that any further than she had. She had already seen where that led, and all she had to say? Fuck that shit.

She snickered as she glanced around at the empty room, almost wanting to ask about the Gelemortian night life, but she may as well hold it into herself. If he had been firing a shotgun (if she was any judge of that gunfire earlier), then it wasn't surprising that there wouldn't be many customers here. Still, it was only like... 12 something! The fuck did these people even DO for fun? They were surrounded by snow, ice, a fucking ocean.... She seriously hoped they didn't hunt wombats or something for amusement because that would be fucking pathetic. "Yeah, uh..." She raised an eyebrow as he reached beneath the counter, her smirk faltering as interest took hold of her. Now just what kind of.... Oh... Oh now that was a gorgeous piece of work right there. Alisa had to resist pawing at the beautiful Winchester, her eyes widening slightly as her lips loosened slightly around her cig so that it dangled at a dangerous angle out of her mouth. If the cigarette hadn't been there, and if she had less control of herself, she probably would have drooled a little. You rarely saw guns like that around anymore, and certainly not in such excellent working condition. Just old farts collecting relics so that they could act all high and mighty in their fucking mansions. Pricks. "Florence here doesn't really get on with my regular patrons." She let out a bark of a laugh as she straightened up in her stool, the laugh lessening to a chuckle as she glanced to Florence as she vanished beneath the counter. Ooo she did kind of want to see her inner workings, or at least find out where he had acquired her. Alisa did feel like she needed some more guns for her arsenal.

"Close to last call, though. Good to at least have someone to talk to..." Heh, so he closed up shop before 3am then. Probably wise. She could only imagine how balls ass cold it could get here at night. Actually, she didn't really want to. Her tits would most likely freeze off and that was what mattered in the long run. She liked her tits staying exactly where they were on her chest. She found herself licking her lips as he picked up that bottle of bloody glory, the sensation of that volcanic liquid fresh in her throat not that she particularly cared. A grin of pure joy filled her as she lifted her glass and downed the firey contents with a slow, shuddering exhale. God did that burn like bad vodka.... But it was twice as powerful as that shit so who the fuck cared? It was like you could practically feel just how shit-faced you were going to be the instant it worked into your system. It would be like a punch to the face! Aw fuck... when was the last time she had gotten into a good tussle? Far too long. Fucking twat waffles.

The grin faltered and fell as she half-grimaced at how he tensed up so, the glass clacking softly against the counter as she stared at him for a moment. What, had her offer made in jest hit some fucking nerve? Maybe he DID have a job for her. That would be nice... and give her more of a reason to stick around. She just wanted that fucking boat ticket to be worth the long ass trip. Had they seriously not figured out some better way to get to this god forsaken rock in the north part of the ocean? Nah... She wasn't sure if she wanted this job or not. He was taking just a liiiiittle bit too long to answer or even comment back. This was something personal. She wasn't the best reader of people, but she still recognized that look. Her eyes lingered upon him as she took another puff, sliding over his handsome features easily. So who was it? Was it some ex-lover? Pretty boy like that she found the thought amusing if cliche. Or... man, it better not be fucking mob ties because she was absolutely done with that horse shit.

He finally smirked and hit his glass against hers even though it was empty, her drinking ettiquette forcing her to feel a little bit bad for having beat him to the punch. Pfft, it was a feeling that didn't last long. His fucking fault for getting lost in thought. "Unless you're feeling particularly suicidal..." Ah fuck, she hated being right. Then it hit her like a goddamn freight train, taking two slow blinks as her head felt a fuckton heavier than it had just two seconds before. Fuck yeah thats what she was talking about! "...then no, I'm afraid." She shrugged lightly and took one last drag upon her cig before putting it out in the ashtray by her hand, both of her arms leaning against the counter. What had she been worrying about? Meh, whatever, wasn't important now. "Shit. Think the drinks company's got it out for me..." A soft chuckle escaped her as she too, glanced down towards the bottle sitting there so harmlessly upon the wood. "No way that's meant for anything other than industrial cleaning or sterilising medical tools."

HAH. "Nonsense. It's purpose is to rape your stomach and get you shwasted quick. Sounds fucking glorious to me." She muttered with a fresh smirk, almost half-tempted to start asking for whiskey. Somehow she got the feeling that it was unwise decision, buuuuut.... Did she really care? "What whiskey's do you have King? If you can't do something smart, may as well do it right." She had heard that somewhere, not that she could particularly recall at this point in time, but she knew it was from somewhere! "Sounds like you have some serious demons though. Maybe if we had discussed me a couple of months ago I would have said yes." Sad thing? It was true.
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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Guest on Wed Sep 05, 2012 6:48 pm

Having seen how she reacted at Florence, an artifact of a weapon that had very much seen better days, King smirked and figured he'd give Alisa a little treat. He couldn't really carry a holster as he was only wearing a shirt, and reaching underneath for a side-arm was fussy and cost time when it came down to draw speed and little else. As much faith as King had in his gun arm, he didn't particularly want to test it, invincible or not; a bullet to the face still hurt. With a coy smile, his hand went to the back of his waistband and wrapped around the Automag there, slowly and obviously drawing, holding the pistol by the barrel to indicate he wasn't making a move.

"If you think that's nice..." A soft thud against wood, and he set the hefty piece upon the table, long, engraved barrel and all. It was funny; the only thing he'd kept for his time in Drachma was the first thing he reached for when the car went up in flames. Regardless; the Automag belonged to him, and it was a part of him, gift from Alena or not. "Automag Point-Four-Four." He beamed, gently running his fingers along the furrows and curves carved in the pistol's barrel. "Nine-mills are reliable, but they've got a lot of bullets 'cause you need 'em." The bartender stated, as if it was fact from the holy fount of firearms knowledge itself. "This thing has got enough stopping power to cut through body armour. This isn't a regular pistol." He grinned, raising it and pointing it up to the ceiling, cocking his head towards it. "This fucker will put any human being down to the ground with a single shot, guaranteed."

With that, he twirled the pistol around, flicked the safety on, and holstered it at the back of his waistband again. Now that the dick size contest had been started in the firearms department, it was time for a little more alcohol! "Nonsense. It's purpose is to rape your stomach and get you shwasted quick. Sounds fucking glorious to me."

King smirked, starting to feel the alcohol hit him a touch. He'd already treated himself to a few beers over the night's progression, as was textbook bartender method in Nuevo, but this was the first hard, solid drink of the night. And it was going to ruin him. "Can't argue with a woman who knows her drinks on that point, can I?" The question was rhetorical; emerald pools danced over Alisa's features. She was... pretty. And it wasn't just the alcohol talking. Beneath the hard face, the rough exterior, and the waves of danger that she seemed to simply radiate - which the homunculus was attracted to, anyway - she was really, genuinely... astoundingly beautiful. It was beauty that hit later, crept up on you and thwacked you around the side of the head. It was beauty that three drinks later, Gluttony suddenly realised.

"What whiskey's do you have King? If you can't do something smart, may as well do it right." Amen to that. The pair of them seemed to be full of depressingly true idioms that both of them seemed to almost live by in their separate ways. And both of them found their solace in the same place: the bottom of a bottle. King more or less realised maybe a touch too late that Alisa was well past knowing that he was just a regular bartender; but last client of the day was a merc, and one who seemed to know the value of silence and promise, only having learnt it the hard way. "Sounds like you have some serious demons though. Maybe if we had discussed me a couple of months ago I would have said yes."

King shook his head to start, smiling to himself as he gazed off for a moment into the middle-distance. "Everyone's got demons, just different shapes and sizes." He uttered, apparently feeling a touch profound. "And, no, you wouldn't." He focused his eyes back on hers, green meeting hazel as King exhaled the smog-like cloud of another ashen, nicotine-laden breath, before stubbing the last quarter-or-so of the cigarette out and brushing on to the other part of her question.

"What whiskeys do I have?" He smiled, repeating the question and shaking his head, his face level with the mercenary's. "Alisa, if there was any doubt that you were leaving this bar with any blood left in your alcohol stream, it's now entirely fucking gone." Pivoting on one foot, King drummed his fingers along the sides of each bottle, running along the rows, until he finally got to the arguably more expansive and taller left side of the bar - seemingly devoted entirely to whiskey. In excess of fifty upturned bottles, some dusty, some fresh, some empty, and some full. A crass menagerie of spirits that were different means to a single end: getting fucked.

"I've got Calish, Cretan, Creig..." The three big Cs in whiskey. "Bourbon, single malt, double malt, triple malt... I got big-name, obscure as shit, old brand..." King smirked, before turning back to Alisa and sighing. "And I'll bet you the sum of one kiss, no more, no less, that there isn't a brand of whiskey you can name not to be found on these shelves or in my cellar." Slowly, he sidled back down to her height, smiling that smile of his. King hadn't seen action in quite some time, given current affairs and his prior obsession with Alena; of course, he'd had a few drunken flings to clear the pipes and all, but Alisa felt different. Like she wouldn't just jump into bed with him. Like there were some issues with trust. He liked that. He liked a challenge. And he liked a girl that wasn't some tottering orange late-teenager who stumbled in and stumbled away re-organising her underwear unable to remember the name of the guy whose bed she'd just walked away from.

Whilst Jack was ever the great talker, absinthe made him romantic, it seemed. And ballsy. If Alisa didn't take kindly to this in the slightest, she was out of that door and he was sitting on his ass, sexually frustrated and tipsy. So he hoped to God that the next thing that came out of her mouth was "you're on, pretty boy", and jack-shit else. "And for good measure, we'll do a couple rounds of it afterwards." On the house. Tonight, for her, for them, everything was on the house. "What d'you say?"

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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Alisa Donnikova on Mon Sep 10, 2012 2:16 pm

Now what da fuck was he was reaching for? He was reaching around to his back for something, an eyebrow raising in mild interest as Alisa leaned back slightly on her stool. It turned out to be a firearm, but even before he laid it down on the counter she could see it wasn't just ANY firearm. This was another thing of beauty. "If you think that's nice..." Her eyes grew wide as she had to lean forward, her eyes sliding over that engraved surface. She hadn't seen such nice craftsmenship since her own gunsmith that she went to, the very same man who had made her her Cutlasses. "Automag Point-Four-Four." Huh, a bigger sonuvabitch then. It appeared King had a love of the higher calibers. "Nine-mills are reliable, but they've got a lot of bullets 'cause you need 'em." Pfft. Whatever. A difference of opinion then. She honestly couldn't give a rats ass about the caliber of the bullet as long as she could fire the fucking thing. And trust me, Alisa knew how to wield a lot of different firearm weaponry. "This thing has got enough stopping power to cut through body armour. This isn't a regular pistol." It was now that she finally raised her eyes to meet his gaze just as he began to grin, those chocolate depths following the motion of the gun. "This fucker will put any human being down to the ground with a single shot, guaranteed." Heh, that may be true. But any weapon could do that if you could wield it with enough knowledge. And thats it really fucking took wasn't it? Knowing your way around a fucking gun. Only idiots wasted their bullets. Besides, shit could get fucking expensive as all cock-fuckers.

Now that the thing of beauty was gone, Alisa couldn't help but glance around the establishment one more time. She was seriously debating lighting up another death stick, but for now she would hold off. Last thing she needed was to suddenly start choking on a combination of booze and smoke. Shit happened before, she was not happening again. "Can't argue with a woman who knows her drinks on that point, can I?" She chuckled, almost sounding like a dog barking with how staccato it was. Damn right you couldn't. Though... wait a minute. Was that a compliment? Casually, she turned her gaze back to her esteemed host to see that he was staring at her quite intently. Or maybe that was just her. What the fuck was he looking at her like that for? Was there something on her face? The smirk faltered a little bit as she raised an eyebrow in question at him. Oh no. This was NOT going to be a fucking repeat of that fucking bullshit from that motherfucking twat waffle. What had her mother once try to tell her though about that relationshit? Wasn't the same every time? Fuck did Alisa know about that horseshit though? Her father was right, it was a fucking reliability when it came to survival. She should have just listened to him right off the bat. Love was fucking useless in this world. Only money and power. Oh, and booze too. And guns... And the occasional lay. Ok so maybe the last bit was optional. Fuck, she was thinking too much again.

"Everyone's got demons, just different shapes and sizes." The smirk was completely gone now as she stared without focus at the ashtray on the counter, a grimace twisting her features in the slightest. Wasn't that the fucking truth. And Drachma was fucking full of them. That land may as well have been hell with how many demons were infested there. "And, no, you wouldn't." Now she looked up again with an odd sort of look in her eye. He didn't know her. He didn't know what the fuck she would and would not do. Was that a fucking challenge, huh? He had no fucking clue what she had been through, what the fuck she had done in her life. He had no right to fucking make such statements. So she merely cracked her neck as she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before sighing it out in a slow, even stream. Yeah. She might need another cig at this point. C'mon asshat, where was the fucking drinks... "What whiskeys do I have?" Now they were talking.

She met his gaze with little to no expression of her own, wanting him to answer her goddamn question. "Alisa, if there was any doubt that you were leaving this bar with any blood left in your alcohol stream, it's now entirely fucking gone." HAH. Like she hadn't planned on that fucking outcome. When she went to a bar, she went to get fucking drunk. Not just sample the wares like a fucking pussy. She followed his movements as he ran his hand along the various bottles of booze until she finally settled upon the whiskey. Now THAT was what she was talkin about! The smallest hint of her smirk began to return at that lovely sight, "I've got Calish, Cretan, Creig..." She could see that even from where she sat at the bar. "Bourbon, single malt, double malt, triple malt... I got big-name, obscure as shit, old brand..." Well, well, what did she feel like getting fucked by tonight? What hadn't she had in a while? "And I'll bet you the sum of one kiss, no more, no less, that there isn't a brand of whiskey you can name not to be found on these shelves or in my cellar." The instant he said kiss, her eyes narrowed and her whole body tensed. What. What the fuck was he playing at? She did not share that fucking smile, in fact it was making her boil a bit.

So what the fuck did she do? She HATED to back down from a challenge, especially such a challenge as that, but fuck a fucking kiss. She didn't give a cunts tit if it was only one, she wasn't sure she liked what he was implying (if he was implying anything at all). What, was he planning on getting her wasted to fuck her later? Think he could take advantage of her? "And for good measure, we'll do a couple rounds of it afterwards." Grrrr..... FUCK. THIS FUCKING SUCKED. "What d'you say?" Her grimace had deepened into an outright frown now, and Alisa.... wanted to get drunk. Fuck consequences, she'd fuck him up if he even tried anything. Most would have said the grin that she got was almost murderous, but she wasn't exactly in a killing mood at the moment. Or at least, not yet. She slammed a hand down on the counter top, "You're on." Now... he certainly had quite the collection out in visible view, so what did he have in the cellar then? OH HOLD ON. Hehehe, would he have this then? "Do you have Johnny Jump Up?" Now THAT was something she hadn't had in an extremely long time. So did he have that particular brand of whiskey? Because that.... if he had that, she could tolerate a kiss because he fucking had Johnny Jump Up.
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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Guest on Mon Sep 10, 2012 3:52 pm

"Do you have Johnny Jump Up?" King smirked to himself immediately. Bartender senses kicked in, almost instinctively, he went straight to the shelves, drumming his fingers along dusty and grimy bottles as he hummed the old Creig folk tune under his breath. Johnny Jump Up was bartender's basics, an old wives' tale passed on through stumbling and stuttering Creig barmen through the ages. Some sources claimed it was three hundred years old, others, three thousand.

"Oh never, oh never, oh never again..." The song sounded best in Cretan. Hands shoved aside old bottles of liquor that King didn't care to recognise, for Alisa had just made his night that much more interesting. Like a man cutting through cornfields taller than a full-grown man trying to reach the middle, the homunculus brushed aside bottle after bottle after bottle with a symphony of light clink sounds, before, finally, there it stood at the back. The holy grail. The one whiskey to rule them all. A label glinting in the fine twilight. Jack Daniel's Old No. 7 Brand. His favourite in all the world, this bottle of Tennessee Cretan sour mash whiskey.

Wrenching it from the shelf with a mighty tug, King's singing, infused with the measures of absinthe slowly rushing into his blood, grew ever louder. "If I live t'be a hundred, or a hundred and ten..." In a flash, he brandished two pint glasses with the ancient bottle of Jack Daniel's somehow transferred to his underarm. Here, the Gelemortians indulged themselves in their fancy wine or their shitty lagers. This baby had only ever been drawn forth from the very back of King's reserves for a seldom few occasions, each of which, he had been one of the ones drinking it, and each of which, he remembered with nothing but fond memories.

A dull sloshing and before long, into each glass, King had poured a liberal couple of inches of whiskey, filling the empty pints up to almost a quarter. He surveyed her once more as he screwed the lid back on; ah, she was a big girl. She should have known what she was getting into, asking any bartender for Johnny Jump Up. "I fell to the ground, an' I couldn't get up..." Drawing each of the pints back, he thrust them beneath the taps, the left-most on Alisa's side, the nozzle decorated with extravagant engravings and the picture pertaining to it a logo that not many had heard of outside of Carraig. Magners' cider was possibly the best he'd ever tasted, brewed in the village of Clonmel with rich cider apples. And by lord, was it beautiful. A cold pint of Magners' after a day in the sun or a lukewarm one to warm your belly after freezing in the Gelemortian wastes... each of those was roughly, for the homunculus, one rung below orgasm.

A slow hiss emanated from the bar taps as King looked to Alisa. He'd done this routine many a time before when he'd had a Creig friend stay around. A barman himself, actually, who had managed to form a special trade link between salesmen in Clonmel, so the man himself could get the world of alcohol's best kept secret at a tad of a discount. The room filled with a deathly silence; Gluttony switched the glasses around for a few moments, before flicking the tap off with a subtle click and raising both full pint glasses to the counter. "...after drinkin' a quart of the Johnny Jump Up."

King swiftly switched back to one of his native tongues, Cerisian. "You see," The bartender smiled, tapping the glass as, slowly, a droplet of condensation formed, shook, and dribbled down to the bar and turned there to a dull splodge. "Johnny Jump Up isn't whiskey. It's not even a brand. It's a drink that you make with a shot of whiskey in a glass of cider." Once more, the homunculus unscrewed the lid of the Jack Daniel's bottle, and took a swig from the neck, very much now wanting to get drunk. "Common misconception." He slapped that smarmy-bastard grin on and lowered back down to his shoulders, narrowing his eyes at Alisa.

"I've just poured up the best-tasting and the most lethal Johnny Jump Up you'll ever drink," King flashed that trademark grin. "And I believe, Miss Alisa, we had a bet..." He set the Jack Daniel's down and wrapped his hand around the cold, crisp pint glass, with a grin and a wink, before raising it up and taking a sip. The taste of fresh apples mixed in with the dull, smoky burning of the whiskey down his throat was heaven; the worst kind of heaven, and the kind of heaven that he knew was going to leave him with a grimy hangover the next morning. But it was heaven all the same.

King took the longest sip he could recall, letting the liquid flow down his throat, and nodding as he set it down. Not bad. Not bad at all. Then, his vision met the mercenary's and he smiled. "...so, how about that kiss?" Maybe Jack had been rubbing off on King a... little too much, on the arrogance scale of things.

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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Alisa Donnikova on Wed Sep 12, 2012 4:51 pm

"Oh never, oh never, oh never again..." Alisa's grin couldn't be growing any wider as he began to sing that familiar song that she had heard during one of her times in Carraig. She found herself humming along, rather poorly, along with him as he moved through the bar, watching as he searched for that one particular bottle that he wanted. Even her eyebrows raised as she caught a glimpse of that label, licking her lips in anticipation. Jack Daniel's Old No. 7 Brand... She hadn't had whiskey of that caliber in fucking months. Maybe years. She wasn't ever that sure. She might have, but she just might not remember it. That seemed to have happened a lot within the last few months in particular... God how many times had she woken up with a hangover like fucking dwarves beating on her head like it was some piece of fucking metal.

"If I..." She just stopped because she knew her singing would just be painful. She could maybe do screaming, harder stuff, but that was about it. "If I live t'be a hundred, or a hundred and ten..." And why would she bother trying to sing with him when he could actually fucking sing? She just didn't have a pretty voice. That was the bottom line. Her eyes began to follow after those pint glasses like a cat watching a goldfish swimming around, completely ready to pounce upon it. Ohhhh she could just taste that burning in her throat, the sensation of the absinthe's own fire still fresh to her. But it would be nothing compared to the glory that she was about to consume. Ohhhhh she was going to be so fucking shit faced that it wouldn't fucking matter anymore. "I fell to the ground, an' I couldn't get up..." "I'll be falling over alright...." She muttered with a snicker, resting her hands on the top of the counter as she did end up lighting up another death stick.

The smoke trailed upward lazily as she paused to stare at her lighter, watching the flames dance about as she exhaled slowly through her nose. Flames.... She was getting a new idea for a painting already. FUCK! Why didn't she have any shit to paint with here?! Fucking-ass-runt-tits-sucking-monkey-fucker-ASS. The lighter flicked closed as the pint came closer to her, her hand practically zipping like a snack to the handle so she could drink that glory before her. "...after drinkin' a quart of the Johnny Jump Up." Amen to that. She didn't want to get up. She was about to lift the glass to his lips when he began to speak, her features falling as an eyebrow twitched in annoyance. "You see, "Johnny Jump Up isn't whiskey. It's not even a brand. It's a drink that you make with a shot of whiskey in a glass of cider." No fucking shit, she fucking knew that. She just didn't fucking care because it was fucking Johnny Jump Up and she hadn't had it in fucking ages. As he took a swig for himself from the bottle, she had to bite her lower lip a little against the comments she wanted to make and the jealousy of getting to drink that ambrosia. "Common misconception." Grrrrrrr..... WAS HE EVER GOING TO SHUT THE FUCK UP?! She hated when people spoke down to her, and it sounded real close like he was fucking SPEAKING DOWN TO HER.

Fuck him. She didn't bother waiting anymore and brought the glass up, tipping it back and gulping down that heavenly liquid. "I've just poured up the best-tasting and the most lethal Johnny Jump Up you'll ever drink," She was barely listening, more and more of that liquid dripping down into her stomach, finally lowering her glass with it now being about almost half empty. God that shit was fucking fantastic. "And I believe, Miss Alisa, we had a bet..." Ah fuck. Licking her lips, she could only focus on the amazing sensation inside her right now, lifting her cig to her lips to take a draw on that. God she was feeling so fucking good right now. All she needed was some fucking leaf right now and THEN she'd be set. "...so, how about that kiss?" He wanted it that badly? Ah fuck it, he had just given her JJU. Without any warning as she exhaled the smoke slowly, she suddenly pushed herself up, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him rather roughly towards her. When her lips met his, it wasn't graceful, gentle, or anything that fucking sissies might look for. It held power and the hurricane that was her inner self.

It wasn't long, just a brief smooch which she pulled away from while shoving him back lightly, flopping back down on her stool before picking up her pint again. "Merry fucking Christmas." She muttered with a chuckle before downing the rest of her glass.
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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Guest on Wed Sep 12, 2012 5:25 pm

Raising his glass, she leapt out of her seat like a snake and launched herself at him, grasping him by the collar and tugging him forwards. Shock grasped the man first out of sheer confusion, then he realised what was happening, and lulled himself into the kiss. There was strength in it; she was domineering and powerful, this he couldn't deny. But as she released him, pushed him back, grinned, and returned to her pint, the taste of her second-hand alcohol upon his tongue, King knew there was a chance tonight was going to get better. "Merry fucking Christmas."

"Happy new year to you, too," King murmured, raising his pint in response and pressing the ridge of the glass against his lips. A swift upward motion and the liquid hissed its way down his throat, a pang of disorientation slamming into his mind like a train - that was the absinthe, definitely. Slam. Glass met counter. A slow, drawn-out sigh of relief. "Beautiful." He murmured. Wasn't talking about the alcohol, either.

King was getting brave. And King getting brave didn't mean many things, but those that it did were fairly absolute in their want. He rose the half-empty bottle of Jack back upon the table, and grasped a pair of tall, funnel-like shot glasses, letting the still liquid glug out. Best way to get themselves drunk was to keep on drinking. Adrenaline trembled at his fingertips as the golden-brown whiskey slowly filled both glasses and he slammed the bottle back against the lower counter, away from her reach. Bartender 101.

The homunculus switched back to Cerisian. "Tide you over with some Jack," He grinned, sliding the full shot glass along and winking at her, raising his own before knocking it back. The smoky, oak-scented whiskey burnt its way through his gullet and settled like fire in his stomach. King shook his head and set the glass back down with a smile. "Y'know," He begun. "Some people say that a bottle of twenty-five-hundred dollar whiskey is the best drink on the planet." This spiel, all over again. "I've tried it."

He grasped his shot glass again, and poured another liberal helping in, before just sliding the bottle over to Alisa. Wasn't like there'd be any left over in the morning. "And, honest to the booze god," King tipped the next shot back down his throat with a snarl, hissing as he tossed the glass aside. Fuck the middleman. Next time, he was just going to neck it. The alcohol lowered his voice to a hoarse growl as he reached for another crinkled Marlboro in his pocket and set it between the throbbing vice-grip of his lips. "It tastes exactly the same as twenty-dollar Jack."

Less-than-eager to ask for Alisa's lighter again, he swept the counters once more, and produced an old, dusty Zippo, one of many knocking around. The request for her lighter was, in the first place, just working on friendship. And now that hurdle had been overcome, they were at the stage of acquaintance where all they did was fucking drink. He snapped the head of the lighter open with a distinctive clink, rolled the wheel against the flint and let the spark take to the gas like flies to rotten meat. A gentle pillar of flame, waving wildly from one side to the other between its metal restraint, met the waiting end of King's cigarette before he snapped it shut and tucked it back beneath the bar, taking that first, beautiful drag.

"To alcohol," He murmured, grinning like an idiot. "To all the good times, whether you remember them or not." Reaching for the bottle, he unscrewed the cap and rose it with a grin. "To all the bad friends, the stupid decisions..." His eyes met hers once more. "The creatures crawling out of your bed the next morning." King pressed the bottleneck against his lips, flicking the cap away, and uttering one last conclusion. He was no poet. But this would do. "To alcohol." He rose the bottle, and by God, did he drink.

It was a few solid seconds and resounding gulps before the bottle, now less than a quarter full, met the surface of the bar once more, and King snarled. He'd put a lot of drink inside him, considering he'd been consistently at the Foster's off-and-on all through the night. A good meal made sure he wasn't going to projectile vomit in his latest crush's general direction, but now was as good a time as any, with a pleasant buzz and the feeling making his arms sag, to hand the drinking cap over to her for a moment.

Then came the question. The make-or-break. The unspoken, subtle acceptance or denial which would pave the way for the rest of the night's progress. Whether it was a pair of stupid action junkies drowning their sorrows, or maybe something more. "Where are you staying tonight, Alisa?" He gestured off down the road, out of the bar's closed, transparent door. "A hotel or something?" King shrugged, jerking a thumb to the ceiling and taking another drag, slowly exhaling as he pinched the cigarette and lowered it. "If you haven't got anywhere, or don't feel like hiking back through the cold, I've got a spare place upstairs. I could put you up." Okay... maybe not as subtle as he'd hoped.

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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Alisa Donnikova on Sun Sep 16, 2012 9:16 pm

"Happy new year to you, too," Alisa couldn't help but snicker at his reaction, pushing the empty glass a bit away from herself along the counter as she took another puff on her cig. She watched him in amusement as he seemed rather dazed by that singular kiss, smirking as she tapped out the ash, then one thing changed it. "Beautiful." Her whole body froze with her cig poised above the ashtray, her eyes beginning to rise from that death stick between her fingers. They stared without seeing at the counter just beyond his knee, her smirk vanishing instantaneously. What was beautiful? He better be talking about the fucking alcohol. She was not beautiful. She was a fucking wild dog with matted fur and blood dripping from its claws and teeth. She was not beautiful. She swore and drank like a fucking man, smoke constantly drifting from either a cig in her mouth or her guns. She was not beautiful. She had no need for pretty words because they held no meaning to her. Just like those precious little emotions that people clung to like love. All it did was drag you down and get in the way. Sentimentality? HAH! That didn't get you fucking jack.

Her free hand tightened into a fist upon the counter as she lifted that cigarette back to her lips, leaving it there as she took a deep puff, exhaling the smoke in one fell swoop. There was the clink of glasses but she didn't even bother to look as she stared at the bottles across from her, her eyebrows tilted downward as the brown of her eyes seemed to harden. As he placed the glass towards her, she lifted it and downed it as if it were water, the burn ripping its way down through her system just as the absinthe finally hit her square in the jaw. "Tied you over with some Jack," "Thanks, your a fucking peach." She muttered quietly, briefly glancing over only to see him wink at her. God fuck whore, he wanted a fuck didn't he? Sure, he was fucking hot, but was that enough? What the fuck else did he expect from her huh? Calling her beautiful and shit, WHAT THE FUCK DID HE WANT. And this many drinks on the fucking house? "ahh fuckin fuck..." She muttered as she cracked her neck, "Y'know," She raised an eyebrow to him, what now? "Some people say that a bottle of twenty-five-hundred dollar whiskey is the best drink on the planet."

"That fucking so?" She mumbled with an edge of sarcasm, tapping off another bit of ash. "I've tried it." "Good for you." That was definitely insincere. Yeah, and she'd had old fucking vodka before. Whoop-di-fucking-do. She caught the bottle and stared fondly at the label, some of that harshness leaving her as she drank directly from the bottle. You pass her a bottle of whiskey, she'd drink from the fucking bottle. "And, honest to the booze god," He was hissing? Fucking seriously? She scoffed at the sound of it, finding that the world was a bit more wobbly than it was a few moments ago. Had it always been that hard to lift her cig to her lips? "It tastes exactly the same as twenty-dollar Jack." As she exhaled, she almost blew in his face which made her inwardly snarl at herself. No, get a fucking grip. No need to send messages like that. "Booze is booze. Whazzit fucking matter how much it costs? S'long as it fucks you up, then i'sdone its fucking job." Ah fuck, she was starting to slur. Fucking brilliant. She wasn't fucking going to be alright in the morning and she gave no fucks about it. She was in a freezing country that she knew nothing about, she had no fucking art supplies, and no fucking jobs, AND A FUCKING 3 WEEK LONG TRIP BACK.

Alisa was about to shout when his voice cut her off from even opening her mouth to. "To alcohol," Heh, she did have to toast to the booze god. Saved her ass, and others asses more than once in her lifetime. "To all the good times, whether you remember them or not." Some she really rathered that she didn't. Fuck she wanted to take another gulp, but he had the goddamn bottle. Fucker! She stared at that lovely label with slightly narrowed eyes, willing it to come to her as if she had telekinetic powers. "The creatures crawling out of your bed the next morning." Huh? Now that caught her attention, her eyes following the shape of the bottle as he tipped it back to let that burning joy roll down his throat. Was he implying something? GRRRR FUCK SHE WAS THINKING TOO MUCH! "To alcohol." "Amen to that." The words were barely audible as she tapped out the ash to distract herself from waiting for him to be done with the fucking bottle.

The very instant he let go of that bottle, it was in her hands, pouring the rest of it down her throat. Down towards her stomach so full of booze, and her liver that would fucking hate her in the morning. She wasn't letting it go now, not when he had had it for so long. And so with one final gulp, the let the bottle touch the counter, its contents now completely in either one of their gullets. Ah fuck.... Holy shit was her head heavy. She blinked slowly a couple of times as weight descended into her flesh, the world wobbling just a bit more beneath her even though she sat there relatively still. Thank fuck she had eaten over those business discussions earlier or she would be so fucked right now. What was she saying, she was still totally fucked. Was his hair always so silver? The tension seemed to leave her face, except for the slight hint of a frown. That remained. Y'know... Cerisians were fucking attractive. That was something she had noticed up here. But they were so fucking far away.... it wasn't even worth it mate.

"Where are you staying tonight, Alisa?" Huh? She raised an eyebrow and placed both hands flat upon the counter, turning towards the door as she thought about the cold she still had to face. Fuck. She hadn't even thought about that minute little detail. [i]"A hotel or something?" Waaaaaaiiiiiiiiit a minute. Just hold on a fucking second. Turning slowly back to him, her eyebrow remained raised as if to say, "I'm listening." She knew exactly where this was going. She'd heard these lines somewhere before. Fuck if she could remember where, but they felt familiar. "If you haven't got anywhere, or don't feel like hiking back through the cold, I've got a spare place upstairs. I could put you up." Bingo. Waaaaay to be subtle buddy.

She smirked and began snickering as she took one last drag on her cigarette before pressing it out in the ashtray, her brown eyes meeting his silver gaze with amusement in them. [color=blueviolet]"Don't even fucking try to hide it King. You want to fuck me, and thats why you're offering me a place to stay."[/colo] Her mind clarified enough to get those words out, or maybe her eloquence had finally kicked in now that she was pretty much on the road to shwasted. Straightening up a bit, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close, this time not moving herself as she just sat there with that smirk on her lips. "Be careful what you wish for." She hissed at him before letting him go, her chuckle growing into a low laugh that racked against the walls.
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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Guest on Mon Sep 17, 2012 3:57 pm

"Booze is booze. Whazzit fucking matter how much it costs? S'long as it fucks you up, then i'sdone its fucking job." The homunculus raised the bottle and took another liberal swig, staring back at it. Fuck, the pair of them were working through it, fast. The deep golden liquid within was swiftly diminishing and being replaced with flowery bullshit engravings over the top of the glass.

"I'll drink to that," He murmured with a smile. In all honesty, as Jack, Alena - fuck her - and many others knew, he'd drink to anything. He'd drink to life, or drink to death. Drink to marriage or drink to divorce. Drink to celebration or drink to regret. And drink to drinking, because it was the best damn thing that whatever god out there people saw fit to believe in had given them.

"Amen to that." King smirked. Down the hatch, and before he could even think twice, she had the bottle again, lapping at it like a thirsty cat would milk. He shook his head with drunken glee and chuckled like an idiot before she finally finished up and retaliated to his "offer". "Don't even fucking try to hide it King. You want to fuck me, and thats why you're offering me a place to stay."

"Well, yeah. The spare place I was talking about was next to me in the one double bed I have upstairs." A grin as he waited for her to finish drinking and shoot him some evil glance, taking another drag from the cigarette and taking it deep back through that burning, sore, ruined threshold he caused a throat, scorched from cigarette smoke and years of continuous drinking. "No-one who sleeps upstairs sleeps alone." Just in case there was any need for more clarification. He flashed a wink, too, for good measure.

It wasn't long before she reached out and grabbed him, snarling and pulling him close by his collar. King grinned dumbly, staring back into her eyes, barely inches from her. Was she going to kiss him again? "Be careful what you wish for." For a moment the tension had been so desperately confusing that the homunculus had no idea as to what was going on, but eventually she tossed him back with a hiss and he grinned like a moron.

"Yeah, well, I make the mistakes nobody else has the balls to." That was his life in a nutshell. "I walk around fearing nothing and caring about less than nothing." Talking through the alcohol. "All I want is reason and excitement." Slowly, he reached beneath the counter and produced a butterfly knife he used for the occasional trick, snapping the button and watching the blade pop out with a flick. "Regret is for idiots who have time to waste thinking about it." Self-destruction.

He slid his hand back onto the bar and spun the blade in his hand. For a moment he flashed another grin at Alisa, before bringing the knife down in a swift, swooping arc through the air, shearing the oxygen itself. It wasn't long before the blade's point finally met the tender flesh of King's upper hand and carved right through, the distinctive thwunk of metal sinking deep into the strong redwood of the bar underneath ringing out.

For a moment the homunculus let out a brief, false howl of pain, but the reality was that when you've experienced flames searing away and devouring every layer of flesh and muscle, stripping it all away from you til you're nothing but a smoking husk... there's no pain that can compare. Things like that became background noise. Crimson blood welled up over his hand and the "scream" quickly dissolved into laughter. A ballsy notion to further reinforce his point.

A dull grunt and he tugged the blade out, flipping it in his hand and sheathing it, before tucking it back under the bar and raising the "wounded" appendage. With a grin he wiggled all four fingers and his thumb in succession, the tendons, muscle, flesh, and even shards and scrapings of bone all re-aligning themselves and knotting back together in front of Alisa's eyes. "Reason and excitement I can't even have any more." He smiled. "I'm an indestructible man. Regret?" King shook his head. "Just a waste for me."

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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Alisa Donnikova on Mon Sep 17, 2012 8:26 pm

"I'll drink to that," Of course he'd fucking drink to that, they both shared an appreciation of booze. Though... they would need more to drink with. Heh, they had just finished off his lovely Jack Daniel's after all. Still, the sneer had not left her features yet as she stared at him smugly, for some reason feeling some misplaced sense of pride for realizing how interested he was in her. There's her drunk brain for you. "Well, yeah. The spare place I was talking about was next to me in the one double bed I have upstairs." HAH. She cracked her neck one more time as she shook her head slightly, that voice in the back of her mind already telling her not to do it. "No-one who sleeps upstairs sleeps alone." Was that a fact? Well la-di-fucking-dah. His wink did nothing to draw a reaction out of her, she just stared at him with that eyebrow still raised. The man clearly had not understood her in the least bit considering his was grinning like a fucking dumbass.

Honestly? She wasn't even sure if she really WANTED to sleep with him. Even in her completely drunk state, she still had no real definitive answer for herself. He was attractive, but god... he could talk too much. "Yeah, well, I make the mistakes nobody else has the balls to." Oh really? Was that fucking so? She stared at him non-plussed. "I walk around fearing nothing and caring about less than nothing." Well....She did know that feeling. She didn't exactly fear anything, though plenty of things made her angry. And she certainly didn't give two shits about a fuck ton of things in this world. She rested her chin in her palm and stared at him, her lips puffing out a bit as she leaned so heavily against her hand. "All I want is reason and excitement." Fuck this shit. Stop sounding like her. Asshole. HE WASN'T ALLOWED TO. Though she had a fucking reason, and that was to survive. That was a reason right? Now... she was starting to doubt that. As he drew out the knife, she only reacted by blinking, knowing she could still probably catch his hand despite how wobbly the world was at the moment.

"Regret is for idiots who have time to waste thinking about it." She stared at him now, like, really stared at him, her brows furrowing in the slightest as her gaze pierced into him. She had heard similar words before many years ago when she was but a child in that fucking shit pile of a country. She straightened up a bit as the haze before her eyes cleared to see what exactly he was going to do with that knife. His grin only made her frown grow. Her senses were prickling and it put her on edge, her hands almost twitching to grasp her Cutlasses in her hands. Her eyes followed the blade, and as it stabbed into his flesh, her right hand was already drawing her Cutlass, starting to draw it out as the thwunk coincided with that howl. But she knew pain, and that was not a cry of fucking pain. Her eyes had gone wide in shock, almost falling backwards off of her chair as she jolted at the flash of that blade. What... the fuck. She didn't comprehend why he had just stabbed himself in his hand. Who the hell had she bumped into now? She did slide backwards off her stool, the wood rocking back and forth as it settled to a stop, her teeth gritting hard in her head.

"What the fuck..." She muttered just as he began to cackle, trying to think of anyone, anyone she knew who was at all like this man. Her nerves didn't get shaken often, but right now? God fuck was she on fucking edge because of this shit. Her eyes could only dart between his grinning features to the injured hand as he pulled the blade out to show her the wound. How the fuck she hadn't stumbled over yet was beyond her, but seeing such fucking bullshit was certainly instantly sobering. And much to her awe, and dread, the wond began to heal itself. Let her repeat herself, the wound was fucking healing itself. She knew she'd seen that before. "Reason and excitement I can't even have any more." She did not share his smile even as her body remained frozen to the spot, standing quite firmly on her own two feet as her hand remained poised on her half-drawn gun. "I'm an indestructible man. Regret?" What the fuck was that supposed to mean, "indestructible?" No one was fucking indestructible. "Just a waste for me."

Although... A voice was whispering dark words in her ear as she stared at him with such a mixture of emotions that was hard to describe, her gun slowly returning into its holster as her hand began to lower back to her side. He was indestructible. Which meant he was an ultimate survivor, correct? Her eyes narrowed as her frown deepened, lips tightening a bit as she took a step forward to retake her seat on her stool. She had heard tales in circles years ago of creatures that weren't human... that got up even after you filled them with bullets. But for the life of her, she could not think of it. And now the shock had faded completely, instead only a newfound respect for him as she gazed on him intently with those brown eyes. "The fuck are you, and is it possible to join you?" She didn't know why she asked that. She really didn't. But deep down... She wanted to be an ultimate survivor. It was what she had been raised to do, survive. Not make pretty with people, not have some happy life, she was born to survive.
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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Guest on Thu Sep 20, 2012 2:04 pm

"The fuck are you, and is it possible to join you?"

King chuckled, flexed his fingers, drummed them along the bar - just incase something had sewn itself back together wrong, a tendon getting caught or disjointed - and smiled to himself, tucking the hand away once he recognised that everything was alright. She'd switched to Drachman; so did he. "Homunculus." Not a lot had heard of them, so he waited to see if it ringed any bells. "Human-based immortal embodiment of a cardinal sin, apparently." He shrugged. "Doesn't mean shit to me. Just that I can spit out bullets like hairballs."

He grinned as he glossed over onto the second part of her sentence. She'd meant it in a different context and connotation, but Gluttony still smiled to himself and moved on. "And, yeah, like I said, you can join me in that double bed upstairs." The alcohol was hitting him now. King hadn't ever been one to slur when drunk, but he stumbled over his words as if they were heavy and unwieldy, blissfully smiling, and the best of all: he got brave.

Maybe she was freaky and got off on weird supernatural shit like this. Maybe she was scared into some form of sexual trance. And maybe she was normal, but King's vision was starting to get a little shaky and he appeared to be only able to concentrate in the deep void between her breasts, smiling contentedly. Boobs. He loved 'em. Everyone loved 'em.

Shrugging again, he drunkenly snapped himself out of his visual trance and focused on her eyes, deep green gazing lawlessly into brown. "As for joining me in the non-sexual sense..." The harsh tones of Drachman speech suited this encounter and their scorched throats almost perfectly. King held his hands up and looked from side to side. "I'm a bartender, not a mercenary. And incase you didn't remember," He jerked a thumb to Florence underneath the bar. "I'm not exactly in need of a bouncer."

King smiled to himself. "If you'd have spoken to me a year ago about joining my little entourage, Alisa," Something wild danced in those eyes as memory flickered back up before them. "With skill like yours and a body like that, I wouldn't have said no." Bluntly enough, that was the truth. "But..." Revelation slammed into his face and he stopped staring off into the middle-distance, returning her gaze. "That King has long-since come and gone. I don't fight any more."

He yanked at the taps and frothy golden liquid began to shoot out in a thick jet as if it were God urinating. The bartender swept a pint glass underneath and slowly let the glass fill up with the deep, rich-coloured Amestrian beer, before slamming the first down on the bar and pushing it to Alisa, and finally grabbing his own, raising it with a smile and sipping at it tenderly. The cold ale trickled down his throat and soothed the burns, the rich, bitter taste something King had long-since acclimatised himself to.

"When the person you're supposed to protect turns against you..." King murmured slowly, staring into the pint glass, frosted from the rivulets of condensation and foggy patches that had formed around it. "It puts a lot of things into perspective. You lose the will to fight for them. You lose the will to fight." The homunculus explained, before taking a liberal gulp.

"And then..." He sighed again, thinking of that damned cynic lying at home, presumably asleep, with a self-contented smile on his face. "You find out who the people who really matter are."

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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Alisa Donnikova on Thu Sep 20, 2012 9:18 pm

She stopped short of her stool and took a step back in hesitation. He was chuckling. What the fuck was he chuckling for, this was some serious fucking shit. Was he just fucking with her? WAS THAT IT?! Urgghh.... FUCK HIM. She'd give him a new fucking asshole or twenty to shit out of even if he'd just regenerate. She didn't move an inch closer to him, remaining in that spot she had jumped back to from her stool with her hands now clenched into fists at her sides. Her jaw had tightened with the coiled tension that just kept building and releasing only to build again at some new thing that tweaked her. "Homunculus." Homunculus? The fuck? Wait.... For once in her life, Alisa's face paled as her eyes widened, brows furrowing as she gritted her teeth hard in her head. She knew of these creatures, these monstrosities that defied the laws of life and death whom held terrible powers. "Human-based immortal embodiment of a cardinal sin, apparently." Yea.... that was definitely sounding more and more familiar, her boot sliding against the ground so she rocked backwards a little. "Doesn't mean shit to me. Just that I can spit out bullets like hairballs." She wasn't sure if that relieved her, or only made her worry more. Fucking hell... how did she end up interacting with these fucking people?

First Alena, now this dipshit? Her expression darkened as she stood up straight again, folding her arms over her chest as she stared at him with something between a scowl and neutrality. Bang! Well, there was the booze again. "And, yeah, like I said, you can join me in that double bed upstairs." "Fuck no." She answered without hesitation. The booze might have made him bold, but it hadn't made her stupid. She certainly wasn't going to hop into the bed of some bartender who was apparently one of the most dangerous fucking creatures on the planet. Though.... perhaps she was being a little unfair. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw exactly where he was staring at this particular moment, and she snarled, "You want a fucking whore then go order one. I ain't some bitch that gets paid to fuck." She wasn't just going to excuse him because he was fucking drunk. Fuck that shit. Swaying, she ran a hand through her hair and half sighed, half growled at her current predicament. "As for joining me in the non-sexual sense..." Oh, were we growing to stop thinking with our fucking dicks now? Fan-fucking tastic.

He was holding his hands up like some fucking pussy surrendering, Alisa's brows only furrowing more as she stared at him. "I'm a bartender, not a mercenary. And incase you didn't remember, I'm not exactly in need of a bouncer." What the fuck was he talking about. She didn't want to work in a fucking bar. Fuck that shit twice! "If you'd have spoken to me a year ago about joining my little entourage, Alisa," She saw that look and it made her lips tighten for a moment before she took one step forward, trying to identify what it was. She was a wild animal, wary of this new intruder into its territory and she was still ready to walk right out of that door right now. "With skill like yours and a body like that, I wouldn't have said no." "Tch." The sound was hard, scratching after the flow of his voice. "But..." She raised an eyebrow with a slight frown, some of the shadow receding from her face as the shock receded from her. "That King has long-since come and gone. I don't fight any more."

What the fuck was this shit then? What did he mean he didn't fucking fight anymore? Someone was always fighting for something, and fighting against something. She took one more step towards the bar, a stool now bumping up against her leg as she did not immediately take that pint. The alcohol swirled around in her mind, heavy and bubbling with images from things past. She knew how to fight, how to kill, how to run, how to fly, how to threaten, how to fix a gun, and how to hunt. There was nothing except money and power, and in order to get those she had to fight. She'd had her first fight at six, fired her first gun at eight, and she'd only progressed from there. "When the person you're supposed to protect turns against you..." Huh? "It puts a lot of things into perspective. You lose the will to fight for them. You lose the will to fight." Alisa swayed dangerously to the side, having to catch herself on the barcounter as a stool clattered loudly to the floor. Her knees gave way as she held on so desperately, memories and images accosting her. The image of her father lying there dead in the bed all mangled and bloody, her mother sitting so quietly beside her. The police was rambling off something about what had happened, but she had barely heard a word of it because her guiding light.... was gone. The only fucking person she had ever cared for was dead. Then the image of coming home to her mother dangling from a tie around the doorknob to the bathroom door. How her 17 year old self just stared at the body for twenty minutes before gathering her things and leaving that house behind.

Then... Spade. "And then..." Her teeth gritted as she pushed herself back up onto her feet, her head bowed so he could only really see the top of her head as her bangs dangled there in the air before her face. Spade.... falling into her at the bar drunk and depressed. Buying her dinner, talking with her, smoking with her, drinking all of her damn whiskey that night, fucking her.... She felt a weight build in her throat as her hands began to shake from how tightly they were clenched, the single image of his face when he said those fucking words to her... "-let's leave Central...together." Then that.. that... that FUCKING look in his eyes before he wiped her memory! It hadn't even fucking mattered that she managed to remember in that fucking war with fucking Alena, fucking RIOTE, that fucking Nika bitch, or just fucking...... "Dammit...." She hissed as moisture built up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks even as she cursed the day that they were born. "You find out who the people who really matter are." Was that it? Was that how it fucking was?

"....People who matter?" She muttered quietly, extremely quietly, the words were practically a whisper. "Don't make me laugh." Her arms were shaking as she suddenly swept her arm across, sending the pint flying off of the bar as the beer soared into the air before spilling its golden beauty all over the counter and the floor. The glass shattered against the ground like a childs favorite toy, sending all the love and hopes with it to the pavement. Her features lost all expression as she wiped those fucking tears from her cheeks, slowly raising her head to stare at him with a face few got to see. There was no smart-ass smiles, no laughter in those brown eyes, not even a hint of the friendly nature she sometimes possessed. The smallest hint of a frown tugged at her lips, chocolate darkening to a black as hard as diamonds without the glimmer. It was the eyes of someone who had stared into hell and come back, of a killer with no remorse, of a dog that prowled the streets at night snapping at those that drew too close. "Such sentimentalities are worthless in this world. People are things meant to be bought, sold, and traded. Their lives are price tags meant to be collected, and their possessions things to be sold."

She pulled out her pack of cigs and lit up another one, taking a deep breath before exhaling the smoke out in front of her. "So what. A woman used you. You were just a tool, an investment. And once she's had her fill, she threw you away." Those fucking green eyes leered at her over those sunglasses in her head and her jaw tightened again before she sneered cruelly at King. "So you backed down like a fucking pussy. Lost the will to fight? No one stops fighting." And just like that the sneer was gone, the smoke trailing up from her cig before her face casting an eerie glare upon her. "That's what this fucking existence is, a fucking fight. And if you aren't fighting to survive, then you fall and die even if you are a goddamn immortal. Nobody gives a rats ass about anyone other than themselves. Like yourself." She puffed on her death stick and pointed with a finger at him, standing straight up to her full height. "You don't give two shits about me, you just wanna fuck me because your feeling horny. So don't go talking to me about "people who really matter" because its a load of bull made up by fools."
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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Guest on Sun Sep 23, 2012 8:28 am

"Don't make me laugh." Smash. He didn't care about the glass. He had plenty more. What he cared about was the look on her face, and the way that she challenged his glare. King had been challenged before... but never like this. In entirety, this was so monumentally different from... anything. New territories were slowly becoming mapped out in his head as he tried desperately to process the look on Alisa's face.

"Such sentimentalities are worthless in this world. People are things meant to be bought, sold, and traded. Their lives are price tags meant to be collected, and their possessions things to be sold." As chocolate hardened and darkened to the black eyes of a survivor, something flickered within those emerald eyes. Sparks colliding atop a powder keg. And it was only a silent instant before they exploded with a maelstrom of green-tinted terror and King's mouth curled back into a snarl.

Florence was underneath the bar. The Automag was at his waist. But when King's instincts kicked in and primal emotions took hold, he didn't reach for either. At his feet, just below the taps, was a panel of wood maybe two feet tall and six feet across that didn't seem to fit in. And at the very left sat a lever, pointing upwards. It was a mechanism the homunculus had installed as soon as he had bought the place, and it had served him well, if it had been seldom-used. Raising a boot-clad foot, Gluttony let every last fluid ounce of energy surge through his leg and down onto the lever as he brought down his heel upon it. The jutting switch flung down with no resistance, and the slat whistled to the left, revealing at the bottom, an open space from which extended two metal prongs, clutched in them the pièce de résistance. The Colt Defender. His pride and fucking joy. "So what. A woman used you. You were just a tool, an investment. And once she's had her fill, she threw you away."

A scooping hand lowered in a swooping motion to clutch the sling, and in only an instant he brought up the chromed shotgun, eight rotary barrels glistening beneath the dim light of the bar. Wind whistled in the distance as he hissed his last threat, brought up the shotgun, and aimed it dead at her chest. "DON'T ACT LIKE YOU KNOW A SINGLE FUCKING THING ABOUT WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!" He rose the weapon over her shoulder and pulled the trigger. The room exploded with noise as the shell launched out of the barrel, pellets shearing through the air and slamming into the side of wooden chairs, tables, beams; the windows had been especially reinforced, but everything else was fair game.

Smoke trailed from one of the shotgun's eight barrels as he swung it back over to her. She spoke again. "So you backed down like a fucking pussy. Lost the will to fight? No one stops fighting." King's eyes only widened further. She was presuming beyond her ground, beyond her knowledge. She still had those balls, and he still respected them; and though, within, he knew she was right, he continued to bitterly defend his sentiment til the end.

"I stopped fighting because I saw shit you can't even imagine." He snarled. "Ever see someone fill a room with poison by snapping their fingers? Or suck ten people into a miniature black hole?" The homunculus sneered and shook his head, still aiming the shotgun dead at her. "I set myself on fire and played dead for two weeks to get out alive." That was blunt and simple enough.

"That's what this fucking existence is, a fucking fight. And if you aren't fighting to survive, then you fall and die even if you are a goddamn immortal. Nobody gives a rats ass about anyone other than themselves. Like yourself." Was... was she... "You don't give two shits about me, you just wanna fuck me because your feeling horny. So don't go talking to me about "people who really matter" because its a load of bull made up by fools."

"You really don't know a single thing." He spat through gritted teeth, defiant that she was wrong. This existence of his was far from egotistic. "Just because you're a cold, hard, stupid bitch who thinks she's the only fucking merc with the salt and experience to back up her goddamn words doesn't mean you're always right." The snarls kept on coming. "I sacrificed my humanity for my little brother's life. I killed and killed and killed to work up enough money for his treatment. I never stopped fighting and I never looked back until he finally woke up."

He prodded the shotgun further towards her. "Just because you haven't met any yet doesn't mean there aren't people who matter." With a smile on his face, his finger tightened around the trigger. Age-old instinct kicked in and he readied himself to squeeze it. And that adage, that saying, that catchphrase, slowly escaped from his mouth. "You're fucked, sunshine-" King stopped himself before the end. The ending became pointless and disjointed. Was he really going to kill for being accused of being callous and selfish?

No. He was better than that. He scanned her up and down and shook his head, before lowering the shotgun, returning it to its hold, and yanking the lever upwards once more. "About the meaningless fuck..." He shrugged. "You're more wrong than you could ever know." The wildfire faded and something odd twinkled in his iris. "I used to think they called me Gluttony because I was always hungry for excitement, high-octane violence, fast cars, and explosions."

King shook his head. "Maybe I do like to live in the fast lane... but I know now just why I'm called Gluttony." A smirk slipped onto his face. "I'm the Gluttony whose hunger is for reason. For meaning. Without my brother, I'm just another stupid motherfucker with a gun." He shrugged. "But I need more reason than Jack, now he's walking again." A smile slipped onto his face as he turned away and ran his empty glass under the tap slowly. "Maybe I thought a little more reason had just walked into the bar. Maybe someone who wouldn't just be a cheap fuck." With a hiss, he yanked the tap off and took a towel to it. These words were drunken and slurred... but there was truth to them. If Alisa had any judgement of speech and truth, she could have seen that. "But, I guess I was wrong."

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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Alisa Donnikova on Mon Sep 24, 2012 12:09 am

Some part of her had snapped, had returned to that time before everything, to the time when she began to turn towards that darkness that she resided in. To the reality that smelled of blood in gutters and the lingering smoke from a gun just fired. Maybe she did contain some hint of humanity in her, but she sure as hell wasn't aware of it now. In the back of her mind, something was shouting for her to stop. For her to get a fucking grip, but she wanted this. She wanted to hurt him. To make him spurn those words he had just spoken to her with such a fucking look in his fucking green eyes. It was as if that fucking face was still there self-imposed upon King's, taunting her and leering and she wanted to rip it all from him. She knew he was armed and she may have very well signed her death contract by spouting the hateful words, but that didn't matter. She was already fucking dead. She didn't move even as he brought his foot down and the machinery clattered to reveal the Colt Defender that he had hidden away, its barrel aimed dead at her. "DON'T ACT LIKE YOU KNOW A SINGLE FUCKING THING ABOUT WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!"

The round roared past her ear and still she did not move, didn't lose that look in her eyes as they stared unfeeling at him. She didn't even care that she could feel some splinters stab into her flesh or the blood that began to pour, she wanted this. "I stopped fighting because I saw shit you can't even imagine." He snarled. "Ever see someone fill a room with poison by snapping their fingers? Or suck ten people into a miniature black hole?" He didn't know. What the fuck did he know about her huh?! WHAT THE FUCK DID HE KNOW?! "I set myself on fire and played dead for two weeks to get out alive." So what? Was that supposed to fucking impress her? He was a fucking immortal. Death fucking sucked regardless if you could survive it, and if you could come back? Then don't fuck up again. "You really don't know a single thing." Oh yeah, thats right. She knew the words that were coming, and she hated them even more coming from him than the others that had come before him. "Just because you're a cold, hard, stupid bitch who thinks she's the only fucking merc with the salt and experience to back up her goddamn words doesn't mean you're always right."

And yet, even as he spat those words at her, her expression still did not change. She just quietly took another puff on her cigarette as she stared at him unblinking, her hackles already standing on edge as she had bitten at the hand that had fed her with such hospitality moments before. "I sacrificed my humanity for my little brother's life. I killed and killed and killed to work up enough money for his treatment. I never stopped fighting and I never looked back until he finally woke up." Wha... It was only then that her eyebrows began to very slowly knit together, that gleam from before returning as she glared at him. The barrel waved like a snake before her, threatening to lash out and bite her, to fill her up with its poison that would surely end her life. Bring it little man. "Just because you haven't met any yet doesn't mean there aren't people who matter." She slid one of her hands into her pocket to wrap her fingers around her lighter, the alchemical circle embedded into her burning against her flesh even as her muscles began to tense. Thats right, just pull the fucking trigger-"You're fucked, sunshine-" He stopped. Why the fuck had he stopped?

Muscles tugged over the flesh of her face as the corners of her mouth tilted downwards in the slightest, tightening as her teeth grinded together. "About the meaningless fuck..." Oh this should be precious- "You're more wrong than you could ever know." Oh really? Was that how it fucking went? Her rage seethed back and forth, pacing on that crimson stained pavement as her hand clenched at her side. "I used to think they called me Gluttony because I was always hungry for excitement, high-octane violence, fast cars, and explosions." Well there was the sin he was. "Maybe I do like to live in the fast lane... but I know now just why I'm called Gluttony." Don't- "I'm the Gluttony whose hunger is for reason. For meaning. Without my brother, I'm just another stupid motherfucker with a gun." Her back stiffened as her pupils seemed to shrink, his voice fading as another replaced it only to fill her with a shame that she wanted to scream, no, roar at. "Any idiot can wave a gun and kill people, but you are a gunslinger. You shoot and kill for a purpose." Her fist slammed with the force of a bullet down into the counter, the pain meaning nothing to her as she gritted her teeth. "Maybe I thought a little more reason had just walked into the bar. Maybe someone who wouldn't just be a cheap fuck. Her head bowed slowly as she pressed her fist harder into the bar to the point her arm began to tremble. Her cigarette broke from between her lips and fell upon the counter, its tip already barely lit as it hit the wood. "But, I guess I was wrong."

"Don't you dare fucking talk like you know me. YOU HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT I'VE BEEN THROUGH." The words tore through the air as a dragons roar at him, wanting to cut his skin and tear him away for saying all those fucking things. She kicked at the stool beside her, sending it clattering away as her breath came heavier and harder, her body heaving against the hurricane of emotions that stormed within her. "You think your the first fucking homunculus to show its fucking face to me? WHERE THE FUCK DO I COME FROM ASSHOLE?!"[/i] She might not have a college degree or any of that fucking useless shit, but she wasn't fucking oblivious. She was there in Drachma when the war went down. "I've seen those fucking black holes, I had to fucking escape them in that fucking shit pile of a fucking country as they tore through everything I knew." Her whole body was trembling with her tension and hatred for.... what? She hated him for saying all those fucking words, she hated him for assuming he knew a single fucking fact about her, she hated.... herself.

There was a moment of silence in which it all just.... stopped. The trembling, the torrent, the caring. She slowly straightened up as she began to chuckle, the sneer that rose to her features completely out of place as those chocolate pools swirled with such a spectrum of emotions. Anger, pain, longing, shame, hate, and emptiness. "Thats right. I'm a cold, hard, stupid, fucking bitch. I'm just a rabid dog meant to lick up scraps from the fucking gutter. I don't have any other purpose except to fucking survive." The words were bitter as they rolled over her tongue, burning like acid as she pushed herself away from the bar. "But I'm not fucking wrong." Her hand whipped out and ripped her coat up into her arms, pulling a wad of bills out of her pocket to throw at the counter in front of him. She fucking sucked. "Take it. I don't deserve to be anyones fucking reason to live. I ain't some solid stone, I ain't pretty, and I'm just like every other fucking ass I hate on this fucking planet." It was the bitter truth that she thought she would never verbalize in front of anyone, and certainly not some fuck who had inadvertently torn her back down to her base. She turned away from him towards the door, stuffing both of her hands into her pocket even as her left hand throbbed with blood dripping from the torn skin. "I only know how to live like this, like a fucking wild dog. Sorry to disappoint." Her voice was oddly calm and even for her, especially with the anger that had been boiling within her moments before. She wasn't being sarcastic with that apology, she meant it. And--What the fuck. She felt the hot tears that rolled down her cheeks as she lowered her head slightly. Fuck this. Fuck all of this shit. "Hope you find that reason you're looking for King." And with that she walked right out the door into the freezing cold air that swallowed her whole, glaring at the ground as the snow began to fall heavily all around her.

The snow piled high around her as a blizzard loomed on the horizon, but she didn't care about it. She had burned another bridge before it had even been made, and she again saw that ugly face that she knew to be her own. Love.... People who matter.... She didn't know any who had stayed, and she had no right to think that anyone would. She didn't know how to fucking keep them near or how to be nice. There was no reason to hope because that hope had already been torn down the single time she had dared to look at that light, at that side of the wall that split the reality they lived in. People were selfish bastards, and she... was no better. She really was just a fucking bitch.
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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Guest on Mon Sep 24, 2012 4:39 pm

"Take it. I don't deserve to be anyones fucking reason to live. I ain't some solid stone, I ain't pretty, and I'm just like every other fucking ass I hate on this fucking planet." King didn't respond or retaliate as she howled at him from the very core of her being. He wasn't fazed, he wasn't fettered in the slightest. Instead, he stood, dizzy, sipping at that tall, frothy, cold pint, and chugging down the golden liquid further with every sip.

She tore away her coat and threw a wad of curled-up bills down onto the counter. She spun away and made for the door. "I only know how to live like this, like a fucking wild dog. Sorry to disappoint." Alisa yanked the frame open with such a deathly squeal that the bartender winced. Slowly, he rose the glass and finished the last of the beer. "Hope you find that reason you're looking for King." Slam. Simultaneously the empty glass met the counter and the door shut behind her.

A gentle, low, resonating sigh filled the bar.

King swept up the wad of bills and clenched it firmly in his hands, knowing that later, he'd regret this. Later, Jack would chew him out for giving some loose merc drunkard slut an opportunity to essentially get free booze and money. Later, the government would be on his ass, and later, really, this would cause all kind of fucking problems. The door clicked open and the howling of the snowstorm and wind in the world outside filled the bar, the whistling of gale-force gusts almost deafening him as he caught the sight, through the white haze, of the defiant mercenary stomping through the snow, as if she burnt away another layer with every step.

"You'll freeze to death out here." He rose his voice just enough so she'd hear it over the storm. It was a talent that came to most of those native to Gelemorté; as was King's enduring the harrowing, blistering cold as he stood on the steps to the bar. "Sleep upstairs. I'm not taking no for an answer, you're not going to kill yourself whilst I'm around to watch." A statement, a command; a test of wills, a battle of who could be the most fucking stubborn.

With a throw like a professional baseball pitcher, he tossed the wad of bills down at her, aimed straight for the back of her head. Paper had the unusual quality of, well, in this quantity, thickness, and shape, hurting quite a fucking lot. "Take your money. I've got a job for you." Shouting over the wind was nothing more than an impediment. "Two weeks. I'll pay for your drinks. I'll put you up. I'll let you do whatever the hell you want. And all you've got to do is sit in this bar with me until last call and then stumble upstairs or back to my flat. The sex is optional." He couldn't help but smirk. "At the end of the job, you get half of all the profit I make off the bar, in cash, no paper trail."

A pause and the wind lessened a touch. His voice softened but the cold was still chilling him to the bone. "I don't want to prove that I care about you or that you're my reason to live or any of that soppy shit. I don't want to prove anything about myself." That was the truth. "I want you to stay with me for two weeks, and realise your worth is more than a handful of bullets and the bounty on your head." Stupid-ass mercenaries. "I want to prove that there's the capacity to be something more. More than 'every other fucking ass you hate on this fucking planet'." Direct quotes were good stuff. He wasn't (directly) trying to infuriate her, but he hoped it was working.

"Don't be that reason, but show me you can be." With a smile on the face, he brushed swiftly enough to his conclusion. The wind faded and beneath the night sky, the snowflakes drifted down in droves. Stood there, he stared at Alisa and smirked up towards the stars, the little fuckers up there mocking him with every goddamn twinkle. "And at the end of those two weeks, if you still feel like freezing to death in this godforsaken city, I'll let you go without a single word, your pockets heavier, your wallet fatter..." Glancing back to the bar, he grinned. Something to sweeten the deal. "And I'll give you my gun as a gesture of good will." To most people, a gun as a gesture of good will would have seemed strange or ironic. But King and Alisa were warriors; and they both knew the importance that a weapon held to a warrior, even in this day and age. You held it close. You never abandoned it. You treated it with more gentle love and care than you did every human being. And when the time came...

...you raised hell with it.

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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

Post by Alisa Donnikova on Tue Sep 25, 2012 12:42 pm

"Fuck this weather..." Alisa muttered under her breath as the wind cut right through her coat and layers. Dammit, this was usually enough for Drachma, why shouldn't it be fucking enough for Gelemorte? The lingering streaks of moisture burned against her skin as the moisture wanted to turn to ice. Was the cold merely adding layers to what was already inside her? Ah fuck no. Fuck this thinking shit. She had done it too much already within the past hour. Hunching her shoulders forward against the pounding wind and snow, she was finding herself growing annoyed that the alcohol within her belly wasn't keeping her any warmer, her eyes half-lidded as she almost stumbled. Fuck alcohol. No wait, don't fuck that. She loved alcohol too much to cast it aside. She heard some distant barking of a dog, her head raising slightly to the sound. Was that her? A dog barking to the moon? Heh, maybe thats what the fuck she should do. Become a wolf-chimera. "That'd be damned fitting wouldn't it..." She gritted her teeth as she could just picture those fucking faces from years past that haunted her still. The tension was winding up again as with each step she swam between the present and the past, her teeth gritting together as it built up to a head. "FUCK OFF WEATHER!!! FUCK YOU AND YOUR FUCKING COUCH!! " She roared at absolutely nothing, stumbling and falling into the side of a building. God, she couldn't even feel her fucking bones in this fucking weather.

"You'll freeze to death out here." No. She slid slowly up the building to stand at her height, continuing to lean against it as her eyes had gone wide at that voice. There was no way. No fucking way. "Sleep upstairs. I'm not taking no for an answer, you're not going to kill yourself whilst I'm around to watch." No, go the fuck back inside. Why the fuck did he--WHAM! The wad of bills hit her square in the back of the head, feeling like a decent sized ball of hale or ice. She whirled around to face him, swiping her hand down to grab the bills as her other hand pressed against her wound. "THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR YOU-" "Take your money. I've got a job for you." .... da fuck? Though her expression was still one of rage at the throbbing at the back of her head, she was now just.... da fuck. What the fuck was with him?! Why the fuck did he care?! She wasn't understanding this sudden change at all, hadn't he just expressed his loathing for her? And why did he say he had a job? "Two weeks. I'll pay for your drinks. I'll put you up. I'll let you do whatever the hell you want. And all you've got to do is sit in this bar with me until last call and then stumble upstairs or back to my flat. The sex is optional." She blinked twice as she still stood there frozen in the position of pain and money, that firey anger already fading away to complete confusion. She could barely make out that he was smirking in the storm, pushing herself upright as she stuffed those bills back into her pocket. "At the end of the job, you get half of all the profit I make off the bar, in cash, no paper trail."

She didn't get this, she didn't get this at all. No one had ever given her a job like this before. She seriously just had to sit there and drink with him until closing? Then she had room and board? His comment about sex didn't even register as she was still trying to puzzle out why he was doing this. Nobody, and she knew this for a fact, nobody did this sort of thing without a fucking reason. What did he want from her? Step. Step. Crunch. Crunch. She stopped when she was about three feet away from him, staring at him warily through the snow that whipped past them both. "I don't want to prove that I care about you or that you're my reason to live or any of that soppy shit. I don't want to prove anything about myself." So what the fuck was the reason then?! "I want you to stay with me for two weeks, and realise your worth is more than a handful of bullets and the bounty on your head." Wh.... What the fuck... What the fuck was he saying.... "I want to prove that there's the capacity to be something more. More than 'every other fucking ass you hate on this fucking planet'." Oh no, he didn't just fucking quote her.... Fuck this noise. Fuck all of this fucking noise, and in particular, FUCK THIS FUCKING WEATHER!!

Alisa was completely at a loss. No one... had ever said anything like this. Realize her self-worth? Who the fuck did that sort of shit anymore? "Don't be that reason, but show me you can be." Seriously now, what the fuck was this shit. What the fuck was she supposed to say to him? She didn't get it. Her eyes zoned out as he stared up at the stars, trying desperately to understand what it was that he was going to get out of this. "And at the end of those two weeks, if you still feel like freezing to death in this godforsaken city, I'll let you go without a single word, your pockets heavier, your wallet fatter..." What was it? There had to be something. There had to be something that he was going to get from her for this, so what was it?! "And I'll give you my gun as a gesture of good will." She refocused upon those words and startled, now just the most confused ever. He was giving her free drinks, free room and board, and a fucking gun?! Why? Why was he doing this? Why the fuck was he helping her? What was he going to gain?!

The wind began to pick up again, completely slicing through like some sort of scythe through her mad ponderings. "Ok fine, I'll take the job. Lets just get the fuck back inside." She snapped in response, folding her arms over her chest tightly as she stormed back towards his bar. Dammit.... what the fuck had she gotten herself into now......
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Re: Cold Scotch and Drachman Mercenaries

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