Roleplayer Guild - Roleplay Forum

Welcome to the Nightside...



The sick diseased heart hidden away from the sane in the city of London. A magical, hidden realm where the desperate and the unworthy congregate and mix with the good and divine. A place of monsters and gods and everything in between – a place where they can go about their business, selling nightmares and salvation in equal measure, where you can buy any dream you want, marked down for sale price and only slightly shop-spoiled.

Not many can find the Nightside and fewer still leave (there is a bustling market for tourists...they taste great in a red wine sauce), but its size defies rational thought – it stenches on, far larger than London itself – but hidden, somewhere other. The moon hangs far lower than in the normal world, huge and bloated, glaring down on the Nightside, where the night never ends.

The night life is hotter and brighter, the towers taller, the slums more dangerous - business districts are like gravity wells of industry, the clubs sweat hot neon across the street and the crowds bay for blood. Dark alleys run riot, like the undulating tunnels of ants, filled with predators on the unwary.



Science takes new routes here, where quaint notions like logic and reason have been beaten into submission. Power generators run on the tears of demons and the urine of angels. Systems run by AI computers that are far advanced of human intelligence, but addicted to data, sucking on internet connection points like crack-heads on pipes.

Private armies clash secret wars, robots rending apart weak meat, combat-psykers blasting apart grey alien flesh and humans swinging cold steel and firing high-calibre rounds into anything that moves. Political agendas are so convoluted and devious, that even those who spawned them can fall a foul of their own traps.



Restaurants serve the flesh of mythical animals and McSolent Green franchises are popping up like weeds. Art galleries hold works by dead masters, grave dirt still clinging to the frame from when they painted them. Ghost-writers finish stories they never could in life, while auction houses sell genies lamps, pixies wings and no less than seven Maltese Falcons (buyers beware...)

In the Nightside it is always 3am, the longest stretch of the night, where the most deaths and births occur, where the window to the soul can be cranked open by any wandering thief.

You can find anything here in the Nightside...or it will find you.

The Tainted Well is almost always where it isn’t supposed to be. There’s a trick to finding it – let it find you. Easier said than done, but pretty much the only sure fire way. It’s a place for desperate last chances. Faithlessness and broken courage, shored back up with 2-4-1 cocktail nights.
Just when you have given up hope, there it will be in all its morbid glory, breathing down your neck like an unwanted stranger.



The Tainted Well is one of the oldest drinking establishments in the Nightside (the oldest bar is a dubious distinction to the even gloomier StrangeFellows) but it has at times been the most fashionable and conversely the most shady. Fashion is a vicious bitch in the Nightside, the adulation can turn to scorn overnight.

The Tainted Well wasn’t much to look at from the outside – an iron door, deeply etched with protective runes, a welcome mat which had the welcome scribbled out and a pair of artificial plants to either side – one of which kept groping customers, before it got pruned back. The door could pretty much be anywhere, shifting from one location to another – always where it isn’t needed.

Step inside, down the rickety wooden stairs and into the smoke filled interior (the smoking ban never caught on in the Nightside) and if you were pleasantly surprised, you definitely had low standards.

The bar was currently run by Greta Hunz, a shaping shifting goblin, with bags of spare maliciousness – who was slowly driving it back up market, with a chair and a whip (bets were on if it would stick). She ran the place with an even-handed charm and did nightmarish things to those who didn’t pay their tabs at the end of the month. She had hired a fairly good (if not honest) wizard called Amos Allwynd, who had been down on his luck, to act as the bouncer – he in turn had created the two eight foot golems which stood either side of the bar, like grim faced idols, while Amos gets drunk and bemoans fortune. Once you have seen a golem strong arm someone, you never cause trouble again.

At least not where anyone can see.

The bar was emptier than normal, Greta had taken the shape of a leggy, blue tinted super-model, the only hint at her goblin nature as a glimmer in the back of her eyes, a maliciousness barely held in check. Don't eat the bar snacks.

A smattering of the mongrel citizenry that makes up its clientele scattered around the dim interior. Deep alcoves, upholstered in green leather, miles of teak and brass hinges, give the feel of an old gentleman’s club. Plasma screens and subtle track lighting added a more modern feel, the gleaming silver bar at one end is stocked with more bottles and drinks than a recovering alcoholics wet-dream.

A satyr draped in leathers and chains was chatting up a giggling earth elemental as it downed flutes of creek water. A hungman sat alone in a corner, neck distended, head hanging at an unnatural angle as he stared into a half empty pint glass - he had a scarf slung around his neck, to hide the livid purple blush left by the killing noose. A werewolf sat licking itself in a corner, growling when anyone stepped too close. A pair of puppets danced together in a complicated waltz, string swirling around like streamers, tormented eyes staring fixedly into the others.


Welcome to the Nightside...

We know you'll have fun.

Something lurked in one of the darker corners of the bar. It was an undead and hideous terror. Earlier that night the thing had gutted three women. People feared this thing, dreaded it. It spoke.
"Hey, what's a guy gotta do to get a drink round here, huh?"
The zombie made big gesture and put the bottle of whiskey on it's table to it's mouth. He downed it. All of it. Patrick McAffee was having a hard time adjusting to the amount of alcohol it took his new body to get drunk.
"What is this stuff, tap water? I went 'n seen some bad things tonight, I need somethin' stiffer! Quick!"
He shivered as he spoke that last word, remembering what had happened earlier. Watching your own hands slowly strangle a woman and then do those unspeakable things to her... He'd dumped the knife, and then stumbled into the nearest pub. He hadn't wanted to drink here, as soon as he spotted the clientèle, but he'd set one step too much and the werewolf in the corner had scared him stiff with a growl. He'd half fallen, half sat down at the table he was at now and ordered some liquor. To forget. But it wasn't working.
"Any drink you've got. Just gimme the strongest stuff in the house!"

Celen drummed her fingers on top of her too-large desk placed in the center of her too-small office at a too-late hour. She held back a yawn as a rotund businessman with a ruddy complexion talked and talked while twisting and wringing his hat in his hands. She barely registered that he was saying something about how he would like a dream cleansing as she glanced around her modest office.

It was small (more of a walk-in closet than a proper office), and was located on the fourth floor of a tall, dirty old brick building full of business offices for rent. Celen didn't even know what kinds of services most of the people in the offices around her offered. She was vaguely aware that the man in the office just to the left of hers offered to travel back in time to procure all sorts of pagan artifacts and ritualistic materials, though how he managed to arbitrarily time travel was beyond her. She was convinced the whole thing was a scam, but she couldn't really prove it. Her office was pretty dirty too, now that she gave it a careful look-over. It was dusty and dimly lit, which only helped make it look dirtier. Her cluttered desk took up most of the office; clients had to slide into the chair on the other side of her desk with their backs pressed against the wall. The office didn't even have a window, not that she wanted a view of the slummy street below anyway.

"So you see, I keep having these...vivid...dreams about my ex-wife. And I just want them to stop. Which is why I'm here. Please can you help?" he was saying in a rush of nervous, frantic words.

Celen tried to seem as professional as possible as she shuffled together some of the many papers covering her desk and tried not to imagine what kinds of dreams he was having. She just knew that she really didn't want to take this job unless she absolutely had to. "Sir, if you'll just leave your number, I'll get back to you when I have an opening in my schedule. I assure you that I'll try to get you in as soon as possible."

He left his business card and left her office, muttering something about sleeping pills on his way out. Celen sighed and rubbed her eyes. It was time to close up the office and take a much needed break. She knew exactly where she wanted to go too; she frequented The Tainted Well every night after office hours unless she had an emergency appointment. Pulling her dark trenchcoat off the back of her chair, she shut off the lights and left the office, locking it behind her. Not that a lock would stop most things from getting into her office if they really wanted to. She wouldn't mind; maybe they would file some paperwork.

The streets were all dirty alleys and gaudy neon signs as she walked toward The Tainted Well. Vendors that sold everything imaginable (and even everything unimaginable) shouted and hawked their unusual and usually broken wares at uninterested passersby. All the foot traffic on the sidewalks avoided the cars that filled the streets because they probably weren't cars and they were probably hungry.

Celen finally reached the iron door of The Tainted Well and went inside where she was immediately greeted by the familiar sight of the dimly lit, rundown old bar. It seemed quieter than usual, and the cloud of smoke that hovered inside the bar seemed less cancerous than most nights. She took a seat at the bar and asked for her usual (a fizzy tequila sunrise), twirling around in circles on her barstool as she waited. She was aware of a man shouting for stronger alcohol from his table, but she paid him no mind as her drink arrived; the bar was usually raucous, so she was used to it. There was nothing like a drink after a long day of work.


((Sorry, it's a bit long; my first posts tend to be long to provide enough introductory information. The ones following are generally shorter.))

__________________

-"A drunk driver is very dangerous. So is a drunk backseat driver if he’s persuasive. ‘Dude make a left.’ ‘Those are trees…’ ‘Trust me.’" -Demetri Martin
-"I'm selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes; I am out of control, and at times, I'm hard to handle; but if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." -Marilyn Monroe

Looks Like Rain...
I Like Rain...

He Stood Atop An Office Building, Staring Down Upon The Tainted Well. A Small, Overly Popular Place To Get An Alcoholic Beverage.
Most Things In Their Either Wanted To Forget Deeds Done To Them, Or Deeds They Them Selves Have Committed.
Nonetheless He Had A Job To Do.

Stepping Off The Five Story Building, Cole Seemed To Disappear For A Brief Second, Before Re-materializing Upon The Ground. Almost As-though He Had Always Been Their, Walking Along The Pavement Towards The Eery Bar.

'Pip.... Pip.... Pip.. Pip.. Pip'
The Rain Had Started, Causing Small Darker Dots Upon His Black Suit Jacket.
The Cloud Was Only Small, And He New How To Get Rid Of It. More And More Common It Was Becoming, The Cloud That followed Him Just Above His Head.
Always Did Before Finding His Target, Hated His Job, Although Liked The Feeling it Brought Him Once Completed.

Coming Up To The Gateway To Such A Miserable Place As The Tainted Well, He Stopped To Check If His Package Was Upon His Person, Nothing Like Feeling Embarrassed In Such An Unforgiving Place As This.
He Passed Through The Door, Leaving A White Chalky Human Silhouette In His Wake.

Arrrhhhh... Went Through His Mind As He Scanned The Bar And Laid Eyes Upon His Target. She Was Sat At The Bar, Drinking A Vibrantly Fizzy Beverage.
He Walked Towards her, The Cloud Getting Darker And Darker, Charges Of Electricity Bolting From The Plumes Of Grey Water, Swelling Atop His Head.
He Placed His Hand Inside His Jacket....
Still Walking Towards Her....
Peoples Attention Moved Towards Him, He Could Feel The hateful Eyes Of Merchants And Wrong Doers.

He Approached Her Back.
And Cleared His Throat.
" Celen?.... "
He Caught Her Gaze.
" You..... Have Just Been Served... " He Stated, Placing A Small Coin Upon The Bar Next To Her Drink.
Almost Instantaneously The Cloud Lifted, And He Placed A Dirty, Half Used Cigarette Upon His Lips As He Stated:
" You Have A Nice Day Now " With A Smile On His Face.....

__________________

The bright red lips moved back to stretch into an inhuman-like smile; a smile that seemed to literally stretch from ear to ear...
Mr. Wu, left arm stretched towards the sky holding an open umbrella the same color as his lips, floated gently down from the top of a four story building to land softly on the dirty pavement. As soon as his feet touched the ground, Mr. Wu's umbrella closed. Strapping it to his back, Mr. Wu took out his favorite black, gel-ink pen from one of his tuxedo's pockets. Then he patted himself down as if searching for something. "Where did I put it?...always misplacing stuff..." Mr. Wu mumbled to himself. Then in an exciting reflectional flashback he remembered: "Oh! why do I always forget this?," clearing his throat, he spoke. "Blanko!" A red book with gold edges and trimmings appeared on the ground before him. Picking it up with haste, he opened it to page marked number twenty-three point five. On the page was a map. The map displayed the southwestern part of Nightside. The map was obviously hand drawn, but never-the-less pretty much accurate. The map also contained many spots that were blank. In one of these spots Mr. Wu drew a small building representing the very building he just floated down from.

Mr. Wu turned towards the building, which was called "MindScrambler". It was a whole sale warehouse in which everything pertaining to the mind could be bought or sold in bulk. They even sold minds! It was Mr. Wu's favorite store. Unfortunately, every time Mr. WU tried to go back to the store, all he would find was a small wooden signpost that read: Sorry, moved to new location. They never did tell the new location either. Consequently, if someone seen the map in Mr. Wu's book, they would see about fifteen different spots labeled: MindScrambler.

"It's taken a lot out of me to find you," Mr. Wu said, pointing at the blank, whitewashed building. The building had a sign on its front door that read: Door out of order. Please use next usable entryway.
On the sign, underneath those words was a green arrow pointing up. Four stories above the door was another door. How was Mr. Wu (or any customers for that matter) able to get there was an unanswered question. Mr. Wu continued: "Next time I come looking for you you better be there!" He did an abrupt about-face and started to walk away before he decided to give the building one last piece of his mind (not literally of course). He turned, red lips already forming words... to see that the building had already disappeared. "Dammit...the sixteenth time this has happened." Mr. Wu said to himself. He watched as a wooden signpost appeared in the buildings place. He already knew what it said, matter of fact, he had memorized it. "Sorry, moved to new location" he sighed. "So effin typical..."

__________________

Franklyn was not happy.

Sighing, he lent back on a handy wall, fumbling out a battered pack of Lucky Strikes and sparking a match with a flicked thumb. Tiliting his head back, smoke wreathing around his head like a dirty halo, he closed his eyes and wondered how he ever ended up working such a no-luck case.
God dam sob stories and bleedin hearts, good for your moral constitution, not so much for debtors and outstanding bills.

It had all seemed fairly open and shut, well to begin with anyway, but three days of running around, seven dead leads (with only one of them breathing before he got there) and sod all to show for it. His knuckles hurt from reasoning with the natives and his head hurt from the constant exposure to the memories of the dead. He felt blunted, his thoughts worn down like an axe after cutting narl-wood.

The wall he was resting on was part of a dilapidated , shambling alley of seedy store fronts, all owned by one P. Charming, the gender confused pimp who ran one of the most aggressive escort services in the Nightside and that was saying something, when you competed with agencies like Date-a-Demon...His shirt was getting dirty on this particular wall, as he had just turned the attached building upside down, letting some of his pent up displeasure vigorously and loudly known, trying to find out if the Simpson (that ‘bleedin heart’ family who had hired him) kid had been there.

Bupcis, zip, nada. Nuttin’

Every dam place he went to and all he got was close mouthed silence and awkward, tense denials, which they didn’t even bother to polish into something like a plausible lie. But no matter how hard he leant, and he was leaning pretty dam hard, he’d not got a single reliable lead. The union had closed ranks and no one wanted to discuss a stiff call girl, who didn’t have enough skull left for him to just dip into the well of her memories and find out what happened.

Which meant some hard-work.

Hence, Franklyn wasn’t happy.

So, what to do when you ain’t got a lead, have no purpose, no direction and no dam chance? Get a drink. Specifically at The Tainted Well. Not only could you get drunk, but you’d be surrounded by fellow losers, who by their very, pathetic, existence could cheer you up just through comparison.

Dropping the ciggerete, he stood away from the wall and stared down the street, arms loose at his side, but unable to conceal the tense knot of anger which was coiling in the bottom of his gut. He pulled out a divining rod, felt it tug in the direction of water and for the first time in three days, he knew where he needed to be.

At the bottom of a bottle of gut-rot.

Celen had been counting bottles of beer on the wall when she heard someone clear their throat behind her. Startled, she whirled around in her bar stool to face a man in a dark suit. The brim of his fedora cast most of his face in shadow, and all she could see of it was his too short to be a beard too long to be stubble facial hair.

When he said her name, she raised an eyebrow in suspicion and subtly moved her hand closer to her belt where she had one of many daggers hidden away. People who knew her name weren't always good news; she knew she didn't have many friends, and she also knew you just couldn't trust men in suits. She watched carefully as he placed a small coin on the bar right beside her drink.

"You...have just been served. You have a nice day now."

Celen stared warily at the coin and then glanced back at the man, who was now taking drags from a dirty cigarette. "I don't...think I follow? Is this...mine?"

__________________

-"A drunk driver is very dangerous. So is a drunk backseat driver if he’s persuasive. ‘Dude make a left.’ ‘Those are trees…’ ‘Trust me.’" -Demetri Martin
-"I'm selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes; I am out of control, and at times, I'm hard to handle; but if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." -Marilyn Monroe

No One Knows Me....
Sometimes....It Hurts....

He Stopped Dead In His Tracks.
Ha....Dead....No Pun Intended.... He Thought As He Spun On The Spot And Reached Into His Trouser Pocket, Revealing A Small 'Business' Card.
He Lifted It Up To His Rolling Eyes And Read The Following;

" Dear Sir/Madam/ And Or Creature Of Equal Stature,
It Is With My Greatest Pleasure That I Present To You The Following: "

Pausing for A Second And Lowering The Card To See The Lady In Question He Replied In A Tone Which He Almost Sounded....Bored:

" A Twenty Pence Piece "

And Brought The Card Back To his Face To Read The Rest;

" I Hope You Look After Your loose Change In The Future, And Remember, Where There's Lost Change, There's Me.... "

He Lowered It Again And Said His Name To The Lady.

" Dom Jones......Have A Nice Day Lady... " And Started To Walk Towards The Exit Of The Bar, Feeling a Clink In His Pocket indicating Yet Another Coin Had Come Into his Possession To Return To Its Rightful Owner....

__________________

Street performers in Nightside attracted all sorts of crowds, not all of them innocent and not all of them malevolent. Not all sane, and not all to watch the tall, human-like dancer who twirled, her skirts whisking around her olive skin and quite literally, magically, melting into the night air around the figure. She flashed a smile at the crowd, watching and clapping haphazardly to the drums and tambourines that drummed and shook themselves with the breeze that flew up around her. Long, pointed pierced ears were visible sometimes beneath the masses of braided hair. Her eyes glinted in the moonlight, catching the gaze of a few of her customers, smiling as she beckoned them nearer, entranced.

She was Zelika.

Come closer. Are you weary? Are you heartsick? I can give you what you want. I will trade you for a small, insignificant piece of your soul…

For the moment, while she danced and made the instruments tap out the rhythm, Zelika thought nothing of why she worked as she did. Why, more than a year ago now, her entire tribe had been murdered, why she had never found their killer, why instead a drarven demon had given her the powers to exchange in fiar trade for souls…Having you soul chained to someone else did that to you. It could dull your senses, your excitement for anything. And so Zelika danced, and drew potential customers closer.

I can give you anything your heart desires…

__________________
You were wondering why I'm so busy with RP's and characters?

My RP business card.

Still took in that lung full of breath before pressing his lips close to that age old microphone. The club was filled with the pervading presence of darkness, save for the spotlight produced towards him. It was another night at Club Kabomb and the main performance was left to him.

The sweet sound of the band seem to come from thin air. It was a compliment to the angelic voice that rang through the club. He wasn't Sinatra, but if there was anybody better.. well they haven't found him yet.

That's life...
That's what all the people say
You're riding high in April
Shot down in May
But I know I'm gonna change that tune
When I'm back on top, back on top in June

One hand grasped the mic stand, swinging to the tempo of the music, the other stretching towards the air as the passion surged through his form. Every chance he had, his lips would push for more air, keeping that trained pitch as steady as ever.

I said that's life
And as funny as it may seem
Some people get their kicks
Stomping on a dream
But I don't let it, let it get me down
'Cause this fine old world
It keeps spinning around

Trickles of sweat ran down his forehead, the beating heat of the light made the stage feel like a sauna. His eyes were shut closed. The only thing Still felt was himself and the song.

I've been a puppet, a pauper,
A pirate, a poet,
A pawn and a king,
I've been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing
Eeeaaaach time I find myself..
Flat on my face
I pick myself up and get back in.. the.. raceeee..

He was used to the crowd, he was used to the heat. Most of all, he was used to the music. The music was what drove Still to sing; something about Sinatra enchanted the man to follow it in his own fashion. The crowd swayed and glowed almost entranced at his own voice. He was not a siren like so many other singers were. Just a mere human trying to fill a void in the Nightside.

That's life
I tell you, I can't deny it
I thought of quitting baby
But my heart just ain't gonna buy it
And if I didn't think it was worth one single try
I'd jump right on a big bird
And then I'd fly


He was near the end of the song, but that did not end the glamor that came with it. Something in the essence of it always hung in the air. They say that even simple words had power over people, and for Still he believed it.

That's life
That's life, and I can't deny it
Many times I thought of cutting out
But my heart won't buy it
But if there nothing shaking coming this here July
I'm going to roll myself up in a big ball
And die...

MMMMmmmmmy MMMMMYYYYYYYYYYY...

He let loose the last remnants of breath for that very end. He always put his very soul into it, pressing the tenor in a high pitch of a finale. The crowd cheered him on with whistles and applause. Even the monsters grunted and growled throughout the audience. Something about Still always appealed to everybody.

He wiped away the sweat with a handkerchief and acknowledged the people with a raised hand, appreciative of their presence. His buddy, Gentleman Jack stood just by the stage stairs, looking as grim as any six foot gorilla with a gun could.

"Always nice as a ever, Still." mumbled Jack. Still replied with a sly smirk before leaving for the backroom with his friend. Usually after his show, it was open dance floor with the featured disc jockey. Tonight it was DJ Mozzy otherwise known as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Apparently he came from an another reality where aliens and robots were common and the popular music was out of this world (literally).

Still took off into the back side of the club. He wasn't much of a dancer and left that to those who wanted to. The Nightside was always filled with places to be and things to do. The singer was aching for a drink and tried to figure a place to bounce towards.

"You feeling for Strangefellows?" asked Still. Jack glanced over to his comrade with the arch of his brow. Why did he always have to look serious?

"I guess it's the Tainted Well then.." Still replied. His ape bodyguard was never much for words. He usually let his gun do the talking.

(No more lyrics after this, promise. )