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| Welcome To The Night You find yourself in London on a dreary, foggy night like any other. But what lurks in the shadows is the stuff of fantasies and nightmares, far from mortal reality. This game uses the cursed and immortal vampiric condition as a backdrop to explore themes of morality, depravity, the human condition, salvation, and personal horror. We are a writing and roleplaying community dedicated to telling complex and engaging stories. Your fate is your own. Mingle among the ivory-tower elite in the Camarilla, join the fight of the discontented and chaotic Anarch rabble, or set out independently and attempt to survive in London's nighttime underworld. Anything is possible in our World of Darkness. Create Your Account! If you're already a member, please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
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| Cancer, Not Even Once.(ENDED); Toran's Home/Shop | |
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| Topic Started: Sunday, 3. November 2013, 21:04 (1,355 Views) | |
| Toran | Sunday, 3. November 2013, 21:04 Post #1 |
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The Formerly Hated
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Toran had worked hard to brick closed all of the windows and secondary doors to his abandoned building. Then he put up plywood and garbage bags on the outside of those windows to make them look condemned. It helped to have picked the shittiest neighborhood he could find in this part of town, then buy the house. He sometimes wondered what the neighbors thought of a man who purposefully made his house look worse. The inside was different. Using a good portion of his savings he reinforced all the beams with metal struts, welding them into place to make the house damned near a bunker. The front door looked flimsy because he glued a shoddy front to it, but the steel cored door was meant for a security room and the two drop bars he could slide in place were both steel 2 X 4's he had custom cut. The long front counter and blanket covering the entrance to the back added to the look of destitution and were all just a simple way of getting casual customers to leave him the hell alone. The tiny sign Craig's Electronics was artfully defaced, something he'd paid a pair of very enthusiastic and skilled graffiti artists to do, along with most of his outside. The big back room was wide open. 3 of the 4 walls had floor to ceiling shelves covering them now. Heavy affairs bolted to the walls. They were covered in wire, tools, electronics, pieces of random things, scrap metal and odds and ends. A spiral staircase sat near the back on the left hand side and led to the next floor. The back wall had weights and various work out equipment. The strangest being the pull up bar mount, two metal beams rising to the ceiling with upward slanting pegs. The bar adjusted and Toran often flexed his pull ups to bounce higher and higher as he went, straining his shoulders and wrists to keep hold. A heavy bag and martial arts pads sat in the back right corner. A few tables were set up near the front, all with various gadgets strewn about them. The only other items were a heavy safe resting with it's face to the wall, an iron grip welded on top, and a small fridge for beer and snacks. Upstairs the area was spartan. The kitchen was clean, a small table, 3 chairs and painted dull brown. The bathroom was the same. A standing shower, toilet, sink, all simple, plain and unadorned. The bedroom was painted a dark gray. The floor was the same bare wood as the rest of the house. The bed was, big. Easily king sized and sitting on a frame that looked like twisted iron rebar welded together into simple curls. The thing had to weigh over 300 lbs and looked like it could hold an angry bear without flinching. Toran groaned as he rolled to his feet. Today, everything just fucking hurt. He knew the signs. He'd been warned of them. The Prison Docs had been "thorough" in letting him know what symptoms would be. Muscle fatigue. Nausea. Headache. General degeneration of his muscle strength. He shifted and sighed, feeling the spot the tumor had been on his spine. They'd removed it, but it was too fucking late. Shit had already spread everywhere. Dizziness swept through him as he slowly rose to his feet, but he was fairly used to that. He made his way to the bathroom like an old man. Not bothering to get dressed. Looking in the mirrors he snorted at his tan complexion and dark hair. "Fucking liar." he muttered to himself. Opening the cupboard he pulled out an orange pill bottle and regarded it. Oxy, extra strength. Just what the junkies ordered. He dry swallowed one, put them away and moved into his kitchen. His stomach already hurt like hell, the meds would make it worse. He poured a glass of milk and forced himself to choke down a couple slices of bread. Sitting naked at his kitchen table he rested his head in his hands for a moment, elbows splayed on the brown plastic, feet apart, head down. For a moment his huge shoulders slumped and his back bowed completely. The thumb thick scar traveling 10" across his stomach, starting at his navel and passing right back towards his ribs stood out stark white against his tan skin. His chest, legs and forearms were covered in a light curly coating of black hair, to match the jaw length mess on his head, and the ragged beard on his jaw. A fine stubble covered his neck, he hadn't bothered to shave in a few days. He lost track of time, just sitting at his kitchen desk. The world was passing him by, and he didn't care. For a moment he considered just ending it. Going out his own way. Getting the pain, the indignity, the suffering. Getting all the shit out of the way. Six months to two years. As much as five with treatment. Or tomorrow. Got to love the precision of modern medicine. Toran didn't have any items expected, except those goggles and he was waiting on some parts. His phone sat on the kitchen counter, hooked to a charger. But for now. He didn't care. A few small lights illuminated his place. No sunlight, not with the windows bricked up. Toran knew security. Every point of entrance was a vulnerability, and after 3 years, he was just more comfortable living in a box. |
![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
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| Toran | Sunday, 3. November 2013, 21:30 Post #2 |
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The Formerly Hated
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Finally stirring Toran rose to his full 6'4 height and shook like a dog. Rolling his heavy shoulders he walked towards his bathroom, the dim light enough for him to see by. Not bothering to turn on any further lights he starts his shower running, the water taking a bit before it starts putting out a healthy head of steam. Grabbing his razor and a wash cloth the big man slips into the hot water and closes the glass door. Standing under the high pressure spray he sighs, letting the heat sink into muscles and bones that ached continually, no matter how much he exercised, what he took. For a brief moment he almost felt relief, then it drew the line and the pain once more held it's ground. He squeezed out some shampoo into his hand and started lathering up his head, getting his hair and beard full of soap before he picked up his razor. He carefully shaved the hair off his head, then lathered up and repeated the process on his manhood, an odd quirk a girl got him into that he never stopped, even after she was gone. Shaving done he stayed in the shower for a while, soaping up and soaking in the hot steam, hoping that TODAY the hot warm air would seep into his bones and give him some lasting peace. But it didn't. Turning off the water before it could go cold he stepped out of the shower and toweled off fast. Staring into the mirror for a while, somewhat happier to have groomed himself he draped the towel over the glass doorway handle and walked out of the bathroom, ignoring the steam that wafted behind him. He walked into his room and pulled on a pair of simple sweat pants. Grabbing a wife beater he walked down the staircase to consider where he wanted to start in his workout routine. Edited by Toran, Sunday, 3. November 2013, 21:34.
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![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
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| Clarice Harris | Sunday, 3. November 2013, 22:00 Post #3 |
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Sexually abused by a Jew
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Clarice woke up in a dark, smelly basement of a semi-abandoned building. That was her temporary haven for the last few days. As usually, she was listening to the hood's noises. Soon an angered man could be heard; the same man that she used to spot around a few days ago -What? That cancerboy again? -He's slowly losing -Fucking mortals, why they're even making such problems... -Why don't you help him? She thought about Sioram's suggestion, but she didn't know much about cancer. Sure it was a parasite, seemingly superior to human body. And that spark flashed in her eyes again. She looked around for her notepad and a pencil, after searching all her pockets she found them. She was sitting there and thinking, playing with that pencil like it was a drumstick. Many words were flowing through her mind, after a longer while she could form them into something that would resemble a sentence. She started writing down single words, thinking how to craft a decent phrase. Connecting the words with twisted arrows, crossing them out... Finally she trashed that page, taking another one for the final version. She made several copies, just in case that guy would miss them out She left the basements through loosely closed window, keeping a bundle of letters in her pocket. Where was his crib again? Roaming the hood she eventually found the place, an odd building it was. Going around, looking for a non-existing entrace she's decided to leave some letters in the mailbox and some all around the garbage cans. Every letter was saying the following: Do not try to defeat the cancer because it's impossible Instead, become the cancer. Then you will see that It's not the cancer that needs to be defeated, it is only yourself In case the font doesn't display properly Then the lunatic walked away, far away from that hood, seeking a better place to spend this night and possibly to look out for a new haven |
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| Toran | Sunday, 3. November 2013, 22:40 Post #4 |
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The Formerly Hated
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Toran walked to the front, not bothering for the shirt for the moment. He pulled the heavy drop bars out of place so his thick steel door could be opened. He stepped out onto his landing barefoot, looking to see if any packages had been stuffed into the secure box he kept chained for the front for the purpose. Taped over the lock was a weird note. Pulling it off he checked his mail and walked back inside. Closing the door, though not locking it, since he was technically in "business hours" now. Glancing down at the note his frost blue eyes skimmed it, then narrowed. His tanned complexion paled, then turned faintly green as he crumpled the note in one large fist. His scarred knuckled flash white with the pressure of his grip. He didn't know who was fucking with him, but the number of people was limited. VERY, limited. Like, 3, limited. Unless they were gossips. Fuming he walked into the back and pulled down a project he had been working on. A heavy glove cut to travel all the way to the elbow and made of several layers of fire resistant fabric. Slid between those layers were a ten pound propane blowtorch, good for 3000 degrees and melting steel, and a heavily insulated can of silicon spray. He took out a pair of moldable steel tubes, several clamps and nozzles and set about refitting the openings so they could both lay along the arm and spray forward. It'd only be good for ten minutes before they ran dry, but it'd give someone a really, really, bad day. |
![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
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| Sawyer | Monday, 4. November 2013, 06:44 Post #5 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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It hadn't taken long for him to dig up a handful of addresses of electronic shops in Enfield's rougher locales. Not the more legitimate ones, mind you, but those that catered to a rather select group of customers. The Nosferatu had a vested interest in investigating these sorts of things, and a clan of information brokers tended to be the first ones to know when a new criminal resource arrived in town to shake up the status quo. Mac's friend certainly had; the weapons and gadgets coming out of Toran Craig's shop were a breed apart, truly- ingenious, complex, beautifully effective. Sawyer wasn't any sort of artist, but hell, he could appreciate the work of a master. Business, however, was hardly on the night's agenda. Rather, he wanted a look at his potential... ghoul-in-law?... in his natural habitat. Perhaps an interrogation of sorts was in order, as well- a friendly one, of course! Like any Alabaman father on the front porch with a shotgun on his lap, Sawyer was quite concerned about the future of the most important girl in his life, especially now that a dashing stranger had entered the equation. And naturally, he was going to pry a bit. The front door was nondescript, betraying absolutely nothing of what lay inside, and for a moment, Sawyer wondered if he'd shown up to the right place after all. His sources, however, sounded relatively sure that this was the place. It certainly looked sketchy enough, especially with those bricked-up windows. The polite thing to do, of course, would be to knock. Sawyer did so, head down and hoodie up, his face hidden in shadow. Better to approach this night with as few pretenses as possible. Better to be on equal, honest footing, because however this interview turned out, Sawyer had a sinking suspicion he'd have to be on civil terms with the guy for a good, long time. |
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| Toran | Monday, 4. November 2013, 12:31 Post #6 |
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The Formerly Hated
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Toran rose from his table, walked across the room and slid on his muscle shirt. He'd gotten some progress done on lining up the paired nozzles for glove, but hadn't gotten the trigger working yet. He walked barefoot over to the door and opened it. "Can I help you?" He said, not really looking through the doorway. His mind was on that fucking note and trying to figure out what game those vampires were playing taunting him like that. What the fuck was the point of screwing with his brain like this? |
![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
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| Sawyer | Monday, 4. November 2013, 16:19 Post #7 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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The guy seemed a bit off tonight, as if something'd shaken him up and left him more than a little pissed. This was not a terribly good sign, so Sawyer figured he'd keep things as pleasant as possible, at least until he had a good reason to either do otherwise or run for the hills. "Sure can. You wouldn't mind a lil' chat, right?" He cocked his head and smiled- more of an awful grimace without the mask, really, but it was certainly meant to look friendly. "Didn't quite get a chance to talk one on one back at the bar, and I'd like to, bro. That cool with you?" Hmm. Maybe he should've just snuck in and given Toran a scare. Small talk, after all, didn't seem like the big guy's forte, at least not compared to the constantly babbling Nosferatu. Back at the bar, he'd been more the 'spoke-when-spoken-to' sort, which probably wasn't unusual, considering the circumstances. Vampires did tend to have that effect on people. With that in mind, Sawyer waited patiently, hoping to at least be invited in properly. |
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| Toran | Monday, 4. November 2013, 16:30 Post #8 |
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The Formerly Hated
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The 6'4 tinkerer swept his arm in a "come in" gesture and walked over to the long counter that took up the front room of his shop. A bit stiff at the sight of Sawyer, wondering if he was the one screwing with him. The letter appears, and then he's here. This some kind of fucking test? Prison-rules would be to smash his fucking skull in with a weight bar and cement him into the wall. The knuckles of one hand popped as Toran pressed on the counter top and lifted himself with the downward pressure, pivoting to seat himself on the flat surface with just the strength in his wrist. Always good to show you're a hard bite to chew, otherwise you end up with your stomach ripped open with a sharpened pencil, holding your intestines in with one hand and pounding a shanking little bastard with the other. "Come on in." His voice was deep, rolling and smooth, and this time, a bit gravely from suppressed anger. His frost blue eyes were sizing up, regarding Sawyer quietly. Contemplating the crowbar strapped to the back of the counter, how fast it would take to get. What safe distance might be if the guy was hungry. "Don't suppose you're the one who posted the notes advertising my cancer tonight?" He kept his words steady. A slightly challenging question, solid eye contact. But not a direct accusation to fight. He wanted to see which way Sawyer would jump, if the inhuman bastard might give himself away. Having his imminent death and bodily decay turned into pamphlet material had put him in a REALLY bad frame of mind. |
![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
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| Sawyer | Monday, 4. November 2013, 18:50 Post #9 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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"Huh?" Sawyer gave him a puzzled expression. "Notes? Somebody botherin' you?" That accusation didn't make the slightest bit of sense to him. Was this guy fishing for sympathy or what? Surely he wasn't going around telling folks he was rotting away from the inside; on the other hand, though, Toran'd been awfully forthcoming with details in the bar, even though he and Aguirre were both perfect strangers. In either case, it mattered little to Sawyer. He wasn't here for a pity party, and as far as he was concerned, personal issues were personal for a reason. That aggressiveness, though, bothered him. Better to expect the worst, he supposed as he watched Toran's movements carefully. If it came to blows, well, Toran might've once had the edge on him in terms of size and skill. Death, however, had its benefits, and there weren't many mortals who survived tangling with a cornered Nosferatu. Still, he'd prefer it not come to that. He didn't reckon Mac would be very sympathetic if he broke the guy they'd inadvertently signed on to save. "Uh... no," he muttered, still confused. "That's your business, buddy, not mine. I'm just here to talk." He raised his hands in a gesture of "I come in peace", eyeing the man with vague suspicion, unsure of whether it was safe to do that talking just yet. |
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| Toran | Monday, 4. November 2013, 19:02 Post #10 |
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The Formerly Hated
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The big man just nods, grunts and tosses the crumbled note from his other hand to Sawyer. "Sorry, found that fucking thing on my mail box. Anyway, speak your mind. Gonna tell me to stay back from your Lady? Don't hurt her or you'll feed me my own liver? That sort of thing." He dropped most of the attitude when it seemed like Sawyer wasn't the one screwing with him. He couldn't read the dudes... face?... but it didn't SEEM like he was the type of person to pull that shit. Just a bad day all around. |
![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
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| Sawyer | Monday, 4. November 2013, 20:35 Post #11 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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He took the note, frowning at it slightly. Spidery handwriting formed crooked words, scrawled hastily on ripped, lined paper. Nothing he recognized certainly. The lines themselves read like the world's most unhelpful self-help book, and probably didn't do much to improve Toran's mood. Couldn't blame him. "This s'posed to be somebody's idea of encouragement?" Whatever it was, it didn't seem like it was going inside a Hallmark card anytime soon. He passed the thing back to Toran, glancing up at the slightly taller man with appraising golden eyes. "Actually," he said very carefully, "No. She can take care of herself. I wanted to get your take on this... thing..., buddy. What'd Mac have to do to talk you into this? Sure, stayin' alive is damn good motivation... but you do know what you're gettin' yourself into, don't you?" |
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| Toran | Monday, 4. November 2013, 20:49 Post #12 |
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The Formerly Hated
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"Ah, Lemme tell you what Mac "told" me about this situation." He grins slightly. "I went to a bar. I ordered a nice glass of whiskey. My old friend Mac was there. We grabbed a seat to drink and reminisce. Then I woke up with the worst hangover I have ever had. Mac left an address and a text saying to meet her to get fitted for a new knife harness." "As for what I "know" is that 8 years ago some tiny black girl attacked me on the street when I came out of a bar. I had a hundred and sixty pounds on her and she pinned me like a bug. She bit me. This crazy amazon dropped off a fire escape and whacked the bitches head off with a machete. The shit sprayed into my mouth. I freaked and ran while the girl drained the body into MASON jars of all things. Then I spent a month detoxing, depressed, freaked out at having left that poor body. I fucked about every woman who said yes. Beat up 9 guys in one bar fight and ate nothing but steak and potatoes. Until finally the feeling went away. Then I had a couple months of shakes, nausea and vomiting. Mac stuck around for a bit. She wanted to see if she could get me to come in as a partner. Took care of me when I was coming down. I made her some custom shit when she saw my place and realized I did stuff like that. Put together some straps she could wear under her clothes. She'd go out, come back beat to hell, covered in blood. We sparred a lot, the violence helped. Thought about making a play for her, but.. she's got a wall. Far as I can tell the only way to get through it is to punch your way in with brass knuckles and... well, I think she needed a big brother. So I took all her shit, and made stuff for her to use. Band-aids and bullets. That's me, as my Dad's military friends called it. Logistics. She got me some high paying jobs with a few others like her. Customizing ammo, that kind of thing. Real weird types. Always yelling about sin and demons. Then, eventually Mac vanished. She didn't come back before I got sent to Prison." He stopped and took a deep breathing. Realizing that speech may have been the most he had said to ANYONE in over... 4 years. "I know the blood's like an addiction. Like the worst drug you can imagine. I know it makes you love whoever is giving it to you. Makes you want to worship them. Fuck them. Sometimes eat them. I know it fucks with your head and steals your soul and leaves you a groveling slave. Saw it a few times. Mac... rescued a couple of young girls who had been, play things. I didn't ask questions. Something about a Pack. I just nursed them to health, got them to a safe space and didn't bother her. That was around when she vanished." His frost blue eyes stared right into Sawyer's horrible face without flinching. "Do I want to be that sexy little Mouse's puppet? No. Not really. But I don't want to die. Or... I don't want to END. I like living. But I've been locked in a box since Prison. I made my home a bunker because it feels natural to be encased in a solid stone fortress. So what are my options?" Edited by Toran, Wednesday, 6. November 2013, 18:29.
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![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
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| Sawyer | Tuesday, 5. November 2013, 17:06 Post #13 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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He listened patiently as the big man finally seemed to find his words, filling in the background of a hard-spent life of work and an inexplicable friendship with the Amazonian hellbeast. That background, unfortunately, was even less enlightened than Sawyer had expected. Toran's examples of ghouls seemed to consist of Mac and the cast-off playthings of the Sabbat- and neither were exactly paragons of normalcy. God, what a warped world they lived in when even mindless slavery looked benign in comparison. But as Toran's gaze met him defiantly and he commented on a 'sexy little Mouse', Sawyer's mood abruptly soured. "Don't call her that," he said laconically, eyes narrowed. "Don't think of her like that. This happens, she owns you. She could rip your fuckin' throat out any time she wanted to, could leave you bloody and broken and beggin' to die. She could beat your fuckin' skull in, and you'd love it. You must be dumber than you look if you think she ain't a threat. You ain't got any idea who your puppetmaster really is." There was a dangerous glint in Sawyer's eyes as he leaned forward. "Tried to ask your friend what she thought that sorta life was worth, but she didn't really feel like discussin' it. I'm curious to know what price you put on livin', though. "See, I've been dead long enough to know that somethin's gotta keep you goin'. Sure, you don't want it to end- but why not, hm? What're you livin' for?" He paused, giving a wry little shrug. " 'Course, it don't matter what your answer is. You go through with this, the only answer you'll have'll be her. Do you want that? Worth it to still be breathin' if even your own mind ain't your own? You know prisons pretty well, boss, but soon enough your head's gonna be the worst one of all. Will livin' be worth it then?" |
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| Toran | Tuesday, 5. November 2013, 17:51 Post #14 |
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The Formerly Hated
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The big man snorts and stares at Sawyer, then hops down off the counter and walks to the back, waving for the vampire to follow him. His voice soft, deep and rolling. "You got to ask why I want to keep living? Maybe you been dead to long. But I'll tell you what. When you've come close to death a couple of times. You realize when you're ready to face it. When you're not." He propped his hip on the table, next to the heavy glove, just a big brown gauntlet that looked something like an oven mitt with a pair of silver tubes sticking out over the knuckles and some tape around the fingers. "You got an interest in the girl. I get that. You don't want me to fuck it up. I respect that. I don't want to find myself desperate and panting over a girl I don't know. So who is YOUR boss? Who decides whether you get to live or die? This half life shit seems... stupid. The fact that Mac hasn't killed you means SOME of you manage self control, keep from being total beasts. You don't have to kill when you eat, yeah?" He turned to face Sawyer, his face closed. "So, call your boss. Have him come down. Do what you got to do. Or explain to Mac how shit went totally wrong. Because one thing I learned in Prison. Never let a solid moment pass you by." He reached up to a shelf and pulled out something like a thick needle, an ugly heavy gauge thing he used to fill hydraulic tubes in small devices. He held it up to Sawyer, then he jammed it into his neck and pushed in the plunger. A flush of black fluid visibly moved through the skin of his neck. His tanned features broke into an ugly sweat and he leaned hard on the table, blood dribbling down his throat. "Or... you can explain to Mac, why I'm dead, got about an hour boss. But I'll be unconscious well before that." |
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| Sawyer | Wednesday, 6. November 2013, 06:50 Post #15 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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"What the hell are you- no- stop that!" By the time Sawyer made a lunging grab at the syringe in Toran's hand, it was far too late. His jaw dropped, eyes widened, ears suddenly flattened like an indignant cat's. "What the fuck are you doin'?! You goddamn idiot!" What exactly had just happened? Toran was trying to force his hand, force him to turn him, preying on his good nature in a way Sawyer had never expected. He would've wondered if the guy was suicidally idiotic if he hadn't just confirmed that. Who chose to get embraced Nosferatu? God, this guy was nuts. Cashews. Almonds. Motherfuckin' coconuts. And as the gravity of the moment dawned on him, his face fell into an utterly stoic expression, staring straight at the bleeding, wincing man across from him. There was nothing funny about this situation, though he was certainly stuck by its absurdity. The embrace was not a burden to be given lightly, and his own clan's had a nasty habit of warping and ruining whatever it touched. Even if he had the primogen's permission, even if he knew and respected the man, even if it was the only option left- he'd never turn someone without them knowing exactly what hell they'd be plunged into. It had been years before he'd felt he knew his first childe well enough to sire her, and she'd known exactly what unlife would hold for her. He'd ruined her all the same, a mistake he'd never repeat if he could help it. And if he had been offered a choice by his own failure of a sire... Well, he'd never be here today. That was for damn sure. "You still don't get it, do you?" Sawyer said quietly, voice surprisingly even. "You still think this is a question of life and death. But you die either way, Toran. Everyone does. Even us. Only question's what happens to your soul before your body's done with it." He smiled wanly, and the expression didn't reach his cold eyes. "And I won't take that from you. You don't know what you're asking me to do. Good night." He turned and left, back straight, mangled and gristly face impassive. The walk to the door felt like the longest of his life as he managed not to betray how fucking uncomfortable he was at the current moment. This was not at all how he'd planned for the evening to go down. Pleasant conversation, his ass. He didn't even bother to shut the door behind him as he wandered resolutely into the freezing November night. He pulled his phone out, staring at the touchscreen as he stood frozen and dazed on the sidewalk. What now? He should call the police, report a suicide threat. Call an ambulance, scream about poisoning, beg them to get here as quickly as humanly possible. Call Mac. He should call Mac. Oh god, what was he going to tell Mac? Fingers fumbling, he dialed, at a loss for how to play this situation off as anything other than an absolute disaster. He wouldn't bother, he decided. There was no time to be anything but honest with her. When the line picked up, he didn't even give her time to spit out a greeting, instead launching into a breathless, panicked warning. "Your friend just tried to fuckin' blackmail me into turnin' him by-" "What? No hello?" Her voice was grumpy and breathless, as if he'd called her in the middle of a marathon or something. "And- " " -tryin' to kill himself and injectin' some poison or somethin'. Mac, what am I s'posed to do?" The girl on the other line sobered instantly, sincere alarm creeping into her husky voice. "- motherfucker, what did he inject into himself? WHY?" Sawyer felt like slamming his head into the nearby brick wall. "I don't fucking know! God, I just wanted to /talk/ to him!" He tried to put what had happened into coherent sentences, but the truth of the matter was he still had no idea. "He... I don't know, Mac, something bad, like, he says it'll kill him in an hour? I don't know shit about poisons, it could be anything, it was just some big ass needle, what the fuck do I do!?" His voice trailed off into a faint note of dismay as he paced back and forth on the front step, trying desperately to just think. Luckily, Mac seemed to be more than a little experienced with coping with disaster, and her mind was much quicker than his in light of the circumstances. "You rip open your wrist, stuff it in his mouth, and force him to drink," she barked at him. "Then, you tell the idiot that I'll be there as soon as I can, and he better hope to fucking die before I get there to kill him." There was a sound of a seal being broken, like a fridge opening, and air escaping with a slow hiss. Then a ruffling of something. Oh, please, let that be something that would help. "Should I call-" His timid question was immediately cut off as she blazed onward, giving directions like a very pissed-off drill sergeant. "Don't call the cops or an ambulance, Toran knows his shit well enough that whatever the fuck he's done can't be prevented by traditional methods. And yes, I realize I'll owe you for this, Sawyer. Stick around, I want full details." Okay. She seemed to know her shit as well. He listened to her, silent and timid as a mouse, wondering how exactly he was supposed to subdue the bastard without beating the crap out of him in the process. Which, admittedly, was a tempting prospect at the moment. "Gah, okay, okay, shit, I'll do that!" "And you do owe me, Mac," he added, feeling a bit freer to fume now that he had a semblance of a plan, "because I don't know who the hell you thought this guy was, but there's more than cancer wrong with this asshole." Frustration bled through his voice clearly as he continued pacing, gritting his teeth. "Yeah, like the idea of slowly rotting to death," she snarled back at him, disgust evident in her tone, "trapped in a failin' body that's always been your fuckin' rock-like temple, the anger and the angst at the world and it's unfairness eating you away one day at a time, as your entire world caves in. You're a Fanger, you have no idea what it's like to be made of soft human flesh anymore. Maybe he's trying to choose his way out. I'll be there shortly, but you fuckin' make sure he lives 'till I do, Sawyer." And she clicked the phone shut, with no time to waste on words anymore. "Gah!" He exclaimed, hurling his own phone to the pavement in frustration, yelling at it as if that did a lick of good. "I'M A FUCKIN' NOSFERATU, DO YA JUST NOT REALIZE THAT?" If there was anyone who really understood just how awful it was to watch yourself decay and waste away, it was, oh, probably the walking decomposed corpse. He let out a string of muttered curses as he scrambled to pick his phone back up, rolling his eyes in exasperation at the long spiderweb of cracks running across its screen. Oh, goddamn it, he'd told Aguirre he'd break the damn thing. And also he'd broken Toran! What a wonderful night! He brought obfuscate's veil up as he strode purposefully back towards Toran's apartment. He'd left the door open in his haste to get the fuck out of dodge, and it seemed that the already-ailing human hadn't bothered to get up and close it. Good. The better to keep hidden. And as he walked, he appealed to the last bit of help he might possibly have left, even if this one was a real longshot. Dear Jesus, it's me, Sawyer. I had a question. Is lettin' somebody die the same as killin' them? I mean, in Breaking Bad that one time- I ain't gonna spoil it for you if you haven't seen it, Jesus, but it's a real sad scene- and I really thought, y'know, that was sorta the worst thing Walt ever did. And now it's me in his shoes. Not that, um, I haven't let people die before- but they were bad people, and they didn't need savin' or nothin'! It had been a very long time since Sawyer Flint had attempted a prayer, but with Toran currently hanging out on death's doorstep, it seemed like a decent proposition to have some almighty hand push him back to the land of the living. At least until Mac got here. Oh, shit, let Mac get here soon. Um, anyway, Jesus, this guy doesn't need to die. I think he's probably a real good person. He's just stupid. So can't you just do somethin'? Just this once? So, uhm, amen. And stuff. Well, that would have to do. Grimly, he brought his left wrist to his mouth and slashed the longer of his fangs across the withered, leathery flesh. A cut blossomed instantly, and he twisted his forearm back in an effort not to drip blood on the floor as he crossed the distance between the door and the slumped, sweating figure by the table. Toran took no notice of him as he made his way behind him, claws outstretched and aiming for the thick tangle of the man's long, dark hair. Element of surprise, check. Time to drag the world's biggest St. Jude's poster child back from the brink of death, even if he had to do it while the bastard kicked and screamed. "You CUNT," He yelled, smashing Toran's head down onto the tabletop with a solid thunk. Not hard enough to do any serious damage, but certainly enough to leave him dazed. "Yeah, your body is fucked, but you've still got a soul! So live, asshole! You goddamn coward!" Hoping the guy was too stunned to struggle much, Sawyer forced his head back up, pulling his hair roughly, and attempted to shove his freely-bleeding wrist against Toran's mouth. "Drink, you stupid fuck," he snarled, "or Mac'll make you wish you'd died nice 'n clean. She'll be here soon. At least you've got one friend; lord knows how that happened." |
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| Toran | Wednesday, 6. November 2013, 11:04 Post #16 |
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The Formerly Hated
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The large man grunted in shock and gasped reflexively, his mouth filling with blood. His eyes rolled up in his head for a moment and he convulsively swallowed. Then his instinctual reaction to being attacked took over. Uselessly trying to break Sawyers potent grip the 6'4 man reared up to his full height. One leg rose and braced on the table to shove them away with all the strength his mind could muster. The arm across his mouth precluded speech. The blood filling it with a strange coppery musk he could do little but swallow against. The addiction that had burned in the back of his mind for 8 years took over and he simply dropped to his knees. One large hand rising at first as though to flip Sawyer across the room in a move he'd performed hundreds of times in practice and sparring, then it stopped and shakily pointed to a shelf. Sitting on the shelf among a half dozen cell phones and xboxes were a few jars marked 'additive dyes' various colored water samples. His shoulders slumped. After Mac saved him he'd been tormented by dreams of finding a small headless corpse and cuddling it every night, keeping it with him. Loving it. Only her declaration that the sun would have burn the body kept him from trying to find it. He hadn't been able to cope with the thoughts a fixation like that might do with a sweet girl like the one Mac had introduced him too. Not after the shit Prison had put into his head. Because he'd lied to Mac. Not every fight had let the enemies going to the hospital. One fight had left 2 men in the morgue, nobody had known it was him. He hadn't known why that fight had triggered an addiction flashback, but when he came out of it the two men had been... shattered. Broken and ripped into jointed pieces. The bars used as leverage to split shoulders and hips and separate them from the torso. Toran wasn't sure what he'd done fully. But he'd covered it up and never been caught. Never been accused of violently raping and dismembering two inmates who had taunted him and flicked blood in his face while trying to rape HIM. To Sawyer it might seem like the large man just knelt on the floor, weeping silently. Blood trickling down his neck from the puncture. It would take a mind reader to see the nightmares rolling inside the man's skull. Edited by Toran, Wednesday, 6. November 2013, 13:19.
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![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
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| Sawyer | Thursday, 7. November 2013, 18:00 Post #17 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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"What the hell is that?" Sawyer exclaimed, releasing Toran as the big man sank to his knees. He rushed over to the shelf before abruptly noticing the yellowed labels peeling off for each of the glass jars, with "dye" scrawled in faded black Sharpie. This... this was his 'poison'? Was he fuckin' serious? What the hell? "You piece of shit, is this a joke to you?" the Nosferatu demanded with a snarl, whirling around to face the other man. The tears that glimmered on Toran's cheeks appeared to say otherwise. What was he crying over, huh? Regretting the fact that Sawyer hadn't cheerfully volunteered to murder him? Jesus Christ. This guy was goddamn pathetic. What, exactly, had he hoped to gain from this little stunt? If Sawyer had simply walked off and left him, would he have just claimed that his suicide attempt didn't work? And god, if Sawyer had done as he said... why would anyone choose this form of unlife for themselves? Toran didn't have the faintest damn idea what a Nosferatu embrace entailed, or he would've never made such an impulsive appeal to Sawyer. He wanted to avoid the slow, painful decay of cancer? Well, choosing a slightly quicker, probably more excruciating method of permanent disfigurement and death sure as fuck didn't make sense to him! The entire affair was mind-bogglingly reckless, even to somebody with as rocky a relationship with common sense as Sawyer Flint. Recklessness was dangerous, especially for a clan whose members prided themselves on subtlety and finesse. Vainly, he tried to wrap his head around the enormity of the disaster this night had devolved into. Not bothering with another word for the sobbing man on the floor, Sawyer pulled out his phone and shot off a text to Mac, claws clicking oddly against the shattered screen. @ Mrs. Church im an idiot and drama queen here was fakin. we need to talk. "Get up," he chided him, frowning unsympathetically as he shoved the phone back into the pocket of his leather jacket. "Mac's gonna be here soon, and you've got a whole shitload of explain' to do." |
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| Toran | Thursday, 7. November 2013, 19:06 Post #18 |
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The Formerly Hated
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The big man grunted and shook himself like a dog coming out of the water. He felt his muscles trembling. He remembered it, had taken quite a while to get over it. He was aware of Sawyer yelling at him, aware of his displeasure. That bugged him. But Toran was a very strong willed man and venting his feelings had caused him to feel quite a hefty dose of shame. A surge of anger rolled through his system, enough to help him get back into control. He put one barefoot on the floor, then the other and stood at his full height. His voice was rolling, seeming to fit coming from a mouth stained with blood. His forehead glistened where a black and blue was already spreading. "I didn't want to want to fuck your girl. Mac had to hold me back from going back for the beheaded bitch that got a hold of me the first time. Your girl seems to sweet. Easy to fall for. Couldn't deal with it. Worked with some ghouls. Mac doesn't know much about it. I helped them break their bonds. Kept them chained until the worst of the cravings fell off... and tended their needs. I know how bad it is. I can't bind to a woman like that.... I won't. So you were a better option." He took a deep breath and regarded Sawyer steadily. His eyes burned a bit, but he figured that was from crying. He felt an immense respect for the vampire's rage and opinion and wanted him to understand. "And I got to protect Mac. She sucks at this shit man. Making friends. Having a family. But her calling you two... I can't let her fuck that up. Woman's demons run deep. I'd rather die that risk her losing what fragile home she might be building." He regarded where Sawyer was standing and sighed, looking at the glove behind him. "If she's coming over you'll want to hide that. Don't think you'll want to risk her hitting me with a flame thrower and having it go off. And if the gamble failed. I'd have vanished. Moved on to another place and burnt this building to ash and stone. Mac would have gotten over it. Your friendship would have been solid. It was panic, blind, stupid, reckless. I know that. But it ain't a joke. I've done shit for that woman she doesn't have a clue about, and I ain't gonna fill her in. I'd rather rot and die than see her wander alone again, because she just gets dumber and more reckless and eventually, she's going to die." He looked around his shop and started systematically moving the heaviest objects as high and hard to spot on the shelves as he could. If she was on her way, she was probably going to try and kick the shit out of him. He almost didn't notice some of the weights seeming to drift in his grasp. More than once he cursed as a small phone crunched in his grip. He'd forgotten about that. About having to relearn the strength. "She goes to kill me. You let her. Because if you hurt her I will burn everything you know and love to ash. Bond or no bond. That dumb beautiful bitch is family." The threat grates out like iron one stone, deep and harsh... but oddly empty. As if he isn't sure he can go through with it. He carefully keeps from looking at Sawyer while he shifts his weights into the area farthest from the door. He doesn't want to move the safe, he isn't sure he wants them to know what's under it yet. But the time might come... and he knew it was false, but he trusted Sawyer more than he should. "Look. If I get... bad. Flesh hungry. Rape hungry. If I'm going to hurt someone, under the safe is a trap door. Goes down to a room big enough for a few people. The shackles require the bronze wrench hooked to the underside of the safe to slip the bolts. They're rounded and custom made so a ghoul can't slice himself on their nuts. The shackles are carved so the head of the bolt sits flush with the inside face, so there's nothing to cut a neck with. They're wide enough to keep a person from bending to bite into their own shoulders. The chains are strong enough to deal with a ghoul in detox frenzy. The hand shackles are the shorter pair and won't let me reach my own body. The ankle shackles are meant to hold the legs under, in a kneeling position and hook together, so I can't claw my legs open with my toenails. The waist chain is the hardest to fit, but important so I can't use the arms and legs as leverage to snap my neck or tear off a limb to lick the blood. In a closet upstairs you'll find a few padded pvp poles with spikes, to hook a dead animal on, that'll satisfy the blood craving. Got no advice for the sex addiction, you'll have to handle that shit yourself, but don't put anything fragile down there or it'll get splintered. ... if you ever have to hold Mac. Bring her, maybe we can fix it. But, if you got to put me in it, make sure the bolts are tight. I know they can hold. I designed it all." He never imagined a day when he'd tell a vampire about his ghoul detox chamber, or instruct him on how to handle a man or woman coming off the blood. But, Sawyer seemed trustworthy, and Mac needed to know it was there. Or didn't... fuck he was getting confused. Edited by Toran, Thursday, 7. November 2013, 19:13.
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![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
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| Mac | Thursday, 7. November 2013, 20:22 Post #19 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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"Ghoul that's being fed, ain't ever going to need that chamber. I ever detox, put a fucking bullet in my brain. I ain't up for that shit... Ghoul for life, or there ain't no fucking life. You however, appear to have fucked yourself and may be going down there in a few weeks. What the fuck you gigantic fucking idiot? Between us, I always thought you were the brains mother fucker. If we rely on mine, we're fucking dead. I'll flush you Toran, if I think you're sinking my mother fucking ship. I'll let you sink first! Fuck that, I WILL SINK you MYSELF!" She was standing at the door, her ability to be a silent troll always startling for some. She didn't live far, Einfeld being the rather small area when you knew your way around blindfolded. Literally, she could navigate most spaces in the pitch. She'd been without eyes once, and never wanted to be that helpless again. Her gaze on Toran was probably as stone cold as he'd ever seen, her usually flush and golden skin pale and slick with a film of sweat as her body blazed in the heat of her mad dash to get there. She hadn't heard it all, she'd only picked up the last of it... What she heard, she didn't like. She dropped a small red cooler on the floor, the sound of ice within chittering as it slipped about. She stepped in fully, wearing her usual broken and beaten to fuck red sneakers that were oh so comfortable. Military boots were for hunting, everything else was skater style sneakers. She strode the distance across to him, giving him enough time to prepare himself for the onslaught he'd know was coming. He'd expect a punch first most likely, but her hands weren't nearly as excited as her feet. She'd aim a hard and well placed kick to his middle. Stomach, side, back, what fucking ever. She just wanted to knock him on his mother fuckin ass so she could get up on him. She wouldn't start throwing wild fists, she was going to go for a good handful of his god damned balls as soon as she could get on him, and then she would put the squeeze on. Her dreads were a wild mane around her, no time to put them up or away. She was still wearing her work out outfit, a bra less and tight white wife beater that showed off pretty much everything through it's slightly transparent coverage, and a pair of black spankies that covered as much as the tiniest pair of work out shorts ever could. The look may have been sexy, and sure showed off all her beautiful ink and scars, except the shoes kind of ruined the effect. Boots would have been better, but she wasn't there to put the moves on Toran. She was there to save his life, except apparently... She wasn't. What the fuck was going on? "Explain to me quickly, you fucking shit, why I shouldn't shoot you in the head for being an unpredictable thorn in my plans?" |
![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Toran | Thursday, 7. November 2013, 20:37 Post #20 |
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The Formerly Hated
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Toran's first thought was to flinch, his second, was to shift in between Mac and Sawyer, his frost blue eyes narrowed. He waited, watched her come. He wasn't a blushing novice. He knew she'd be pissed and he knew she'd have to show it with her body. It was her wiring. Given that she listened in and he was PISSED to realize his door alarm hadn't gone off because the door had been swinging wildly, he wasn't surprised to hear the threats. Mac sucked at emotional shit. Bluster and fury were more her thing. He stood, waiting for her to get there. His tanned skin was sweat slicked, fine curling black hair covering the back of his arms, his chest where the wife beater didn't hide it, even the back of his knuckles and toes slightly. His fresh shaved neck gleamed pale beneath his black beard and his hair was slicked jaw length against his skull from sweat and his recent shower. His bare feet shifted and when she kicked, he moved. Twenty years of mixed martial arts and a furious cage match that seemed to go on in prison had tightened his reflexes to a hair trigger. He saw the thigh muscles bunch and he shifted. The foot rising to his middle hit nothing as he swept his leg back and made a quarter turn, letting it slide along the hard muscles in his stomach. Then his hand snapped out for the extended ankle. His free arm rose and and an elbow snapped towards her face. He couldn't be a punching bag without fighting back anymore. Prison had torn that out of him. He had to swing back or his mind might crack. At the same time his voice was a deep rolling thunder that seemed to echo in the room. "Four years dealing with brunettes desperate to fuck their former masters. Hooked on blood and desperate. Feeding them chickens to rip up. ... tending their NEEDS... so they don't go crazy." He swung around after the elbow snapped out, moving in a full circle. Toran didn't kick often, his style was more arms and grappling. He wasn't used to the strength flowing through his body but he was damned used to being a strong man. If his grip on her ankle held he'd send her flying towards the empty wall, though he expected her to skid well short of it. His eyes blazed. "Hunters. Sending me broken people to cage and fix. All of them DESPERATE. Begging to go back! Nightmares of fucking a headless black junkie in an alley. You send me a PRETTY LITTLE GIRL?" His voice is practically a roar. He doesn't realize the flush traveling over his system, doesn't see the faint nose bleed start. He'd know what it was if he had. But for the moment he was just pissed. |
![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
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3:19 PM Jul 11