Howler

Muskets & Magic - Dark Fantasy RP

@Atrophy
It was a week, I'll admit, but it usually is and all is well.

Glad to see that this hasn't died already though, after a few days I start to get nervous at this point.

Muskets & Magic - Dark Fantasy RP

...so what's good, ladies and gents.

Upon the Sunset Sea; World of Darkness RP

Michelle Darrens & Rachel Rothkopf

Sunset Lounge
Collaboration with @Ruby

---

Vampires always had a dozen and a half things going on at any given time. There were always schemes on schemes, layers on layers, and they all required precise and silent communication. They lived by spinning secrets and lies, weaving intricate little social webs of power and control, and when someone else even began to threaten that web they squirmed. The look on the little Jew's face was priceless, every bit as uncomfortable as one might expect, but after a significant glance over the shoulder she was left with a pretty little smile and nothing to do with her hands.

Which had actually been the extent of Michelle's plan from the beginning.

The benefit of living in the dog-eat-dog world of a burgeoning apocalypse is that one no longer has to care about little things like power games and struggles. Or at least one shouldn't have to, and Michelle absolutely didn't. Was it irresponsible? Probably. Stupid? Likely. Dangerous? Intentionally. But there were benefits to not giving a fuck, and one of them was being able to watch the probably-centuries-old creature at her side shift like an awkward teenager in her seat.

It was the little things.

"Yup. You're cute when you're off balance." Slipping the phone into the padded compartment at the front of her dress that would probably have looked killer on someone else. Her muscles were too defined, the thick scarring to prevalent for her to really be pretty--the art on her body was a different story, an eclectic hodgepodge of surprisingly beautiful work, but beneath it she was all wasted potential.

"How old are you, Rachel?"

There was a long moment of silent staring. Where the doe-eyed, straight laced, overly proper appearance of Rachel Rothkopf almost appeared to take on an edge. Irritation? Curiosity? Something between the two? For a woman who had long ago learned to control her emotions, but not quite her impulsive reactions to the emotions of others, the current situation bordered on dangerous. And that had nothing to do with the 'grr, rawr' nature of the woman next to her.

"You should NEVER ask a lady..." Then Rachel grinned, looking more drunk than amused, even if she wasn't. Drunk, that is. Then she sighed the grin away, leaving only the casually distant expression of her default, cutting Michelle's response off at the knees. "Yeahyeah, 'dowhatIwantI'mthebigbadwolf'--I get it. I'm one hundred and fifty two years old, combining my living days and not-quite-so-living days."

Her initial instinct was to ask whether Michelle meant how old was she in total, or how long until she'd been turned? In the end, she did the very unlawyer like, and very unRachel like thing, of giving more information than was exactly asked for. Maybe because she wanted her phone back. Maybe because she liked the way it felt when the woman called her cute.

It was hard to say.

Rachel wasn't the only one looking like she was feeling it. The benefit to swallowing down a frenzy was the warm-endorphin aftermath that always came with kicking your body into overdrive. Human...hell, Garou psyches aren't meant to sustain that kind of emotion, that kind of fury, and without the knowledge that something terrible had happened the aftermath was actually almost relaxing. Like treading water after drowning. Michelle whistled at the figure, a wry smile on her lips.

"You don't exactly look happy about it."

Rothkopf went blank, for a beat of the creature's heart, before her head tilted just-so, and something curiously close to confusion approached her delicate features. "It is a state of being that I have very little control over given the base instinct of survival. I am neither happy, nor sad, about it--it simply is. I am indifferent on the issue of my age."

It was a bizarre observation, but was it a loaded observation? She wondered.

"Thanks for the party line, Spock."

Michelle couldn't help but laugh. Between the lawyer and the leech it was an open question if there was anything actually human left about the little creature sitting next to her. She sure didn't seem to want to show it. Maybe that's what Michelle liked about this place--most people went to clubs to feel alive, if only because they thought that 'alive' meant 'drunk and horny'. Walk into the Sunset and you get that, sure, but you also get to watch the nightmare creatures of the world try to pretend at it, with predictably hilarious results.

"You get how fucked up that is, right?"

"Vulcans don't use contractions in their speech. I just did. Therefore, I am not Vulcan, clearly. I like Spock, he's very cute, and quite enjoyed Mr. Nimoys work with the character; more so his introspective and reflective books on the subject later in life. And infinitely more than his work on the Mission Impossible series. The show from the 60's, not the walking little man syndrome actor focused movie franchise of modern day."

Her eyes drifted skyward for a beat, as reflection overtook her. "I miss the '60s, especially the television, although that HBO does some good work." When her gaze returned, a cold index finger "booped" the nose of the wolf, the downright silly smile seemingly coming to her at random--but it wasn't random.

"Just because I don't wear my emotions where everyone can see them, doesn't mean I don't have them. The Coterie I'm apart of is the most human group of vampires I've ever encountered, to the point where they might as well be walking heresy to many of the values spouted by other governing groups of undead. It has a lot to do with their connection to art, and the human experience, and the massive tragedy that defines our fearless leader. I have plenty of joy and humor and, some would call it, "life" under my surface--but I'm a soul that doesn't trust easily, and likes to keep that stuff to myself, and the precious few I trust enough to show it to. Last night I giggled so much I was thankful I haven't the need for constant breath. Why? My "sisters" are silly, and my "brothers" are dopes. You're a stranger who's trying to make me uncomfortable WHILE, I think, anyway, trying to flirt with me. I can't understand the logic, but I'm still here, right?"

Her face lit up, even if her lips remained silly, the humor was there.

The fact that there was such an identifiable verb for someone touching someone else on the nose was bizarre. That the little vampire next to her had just "booped" her was more bizarre, and honestly Michelle was trying to figure out quite how to respond to it for a good portion of her schpiel. By the end of it she was just feeling lonely. Of course the little thing had a happy and cheerful undead life and family. Why wouldn't she? That was the point of the Wyrm, after all, the problem with it these days. Why wouldn't you be able to have your cake and eat it too? Hell, contribute a bit to spiritual entropy and you can have all the cake you want! She smiled back, wry and defeated, and flicked the fingers beneath her chin up in amused surrender.

"This is why everyone hates vampires, you know. Too many years of accumulated comebacks." Wrapping one mottled arm around the other, she pulled her arms above her head and stretched until her shoulders popped. What was she even doing here, trying to kill the party? Actually flirt with the creature next to her? Because if she was really trying she would...

...yeah. You know. That.

"There's no logic to it." Fuck it, why not be real for a change. If the vamp could do it, so could she. She laughed again. "I got zero game. You are still here, though, and you shouldn't be. If your family makes you smile like that then you should be hanging out with them, not some bitch trying to poke holes in you and see what makes you tick."

The smile relaxed into the memory of a silly, happy, smile. The very hand used to "boop" now held out to Michelle, palm out and up. "Sure thing, just release my phone back to me, and I'll be on my way."

Michelle snorted at that, waving the hand off and tapping the top of the exposed phone to tuck it more firmly into her non-existent cleavage. "I said family time, not phone time. Go play, I'll leave it with the bartender when I'm done or something."

"Okie-dokie, have fun."

Well that went well. The irony that a random dead girl was better adjusted than Michelle was not wasted on the werewolf. Waving off the vampire, she turned back to order a drink and blinked to find one already in front of her. A look at the bar tender directed her towards the stunning woman (human, if Michelle's admittedly intoxicated nose was on point) settled nonchalantly on the other side of her.

Damn. Maybe her game was better than she thought.

"Man, I know I struck out but I didn't realize it was pity-drink worthy." She snorted by way of introduction. "Fair warning, if you turn out to be some vampire starlet living the dream I may laugh in your face."

Muskets & Magic - Dark Fantasy RP

There. Took longer than I hoped, but it's up at least.

The general situation as I figured it was that the Wallers were sent to relieve and recall O'Reik's Rounders from their sweep of the ruins out in Westkirk but ran into some trouble with a pair of more advanced monsters ("Horrors") that were backing up the local shambler masses. They barricaded themselves in an old church and have been holed up there waiting to make their move for three days now.

My thought was to have Harker and a few of his men would stay behind and cause a distraction while the rest of the unit made for the ruins with the injured in tow. They would meet up with the party proper, who would then head back to base camp safely and successfully head out to rescue the Lt. and crew.

Feel free to correct/change any bit of that, @Vietmyke, I'll adjust my post properly.

Muskets & Magic - Dark Fantasy RP

Lt. Arthur Harker
Wallmaker's Brigade

Ruins of Westkirk, Outside New Stratton

---

The sound of a long-gun was distinctive compared to the peppering shot of the old Rune Patterns, a sharp crack and a whine of energy that died down quick as the light off the barrel. Arthur Harker had woken up to it enough times to know better than to rush or panic. If there had been an emergency there would be screaming, scrambling, and at least in these parts the dull and seemingly omnipresent moan of the dead. There were plenty of theories on what caused shamblers to sound off by the mages back home or the field surgeons back in New Stratton, but as far as most soldiers were concerned it was just the way of things. Hell on morale, but at least it stopped them from sneaking up on you.

Ruined bits of mortar crunched beneath his boots as he stood, the hob-nailed heels rasping against ground bits of brickwork. Thank Dorsen for His churches, sturdy enough to survive a decade without maintenance or repair. With walls thick enough to keep shamblers from clawing their way through and windows set a man's height off the ground, heavy foundations and tall spires, they were some of the best places to hold ground short of true military installations. The blocky structures were mostly open inside and that was where Harker and his men had holed up, shoving moldering pews back to barricade the door and setting up a quick field position amidst the split flagstones and debris cleared into a corner. As he rolled his neck and took a quick appraisal of the men--five still asleep, three awake around the coals of the fire in the corner, two by the window, three tending the injured--Arthur tried to drum up pride and could only manage weariness. Three days of being holed up into this place was starting to wear on both patience and supplies, and everyone knew a war of attrition with the shamblers was a losing game.

Time was not on their side. He would need to come up with something, soon.

Another crack brought his attention back up to the spire, the familiar pop-and-snap of a reloading rifle coming mechanically from above. That would be Pierce, who as far as Harker was concerned was one of the best on the continent. He wasn't showy enough to get much credit for it but the man was positively lethal at 200 yards. Perhaps more importantly he was dependable--having spent the longest in Harker's unit of any other soldier he could think of, the mage was a dependable second-in-command and a perfect watchman for moments like this. Hand by hand and foot by foot, Harker made his way up the rickety makeshift ladder they'd assembled and out through the section of caved in roof to see the world from his point of view.

Harker's sharpshooter looked almost comfortable in his position on top of the spire, his coat tugged down against the breeze that tugged the smoke from the cigarette at his lips. The lieutenant should have berated him for the breach--no need for an extra scent in the wind--but everyone knew that shamblers didn't track by smell. They followed sound more than anything, stumbling along after it with blindly groping hands, which was why it was important to take them down before they drew close and brought friends.

"They're coming faster." Pierce noted by way of hello, offering a two-fingered wave to his commanding officer before returning his expression to the fields surrounding. Fortunate the place had been a graveyard before everything went to Hell--it kept the lines of sight clear. "You heard the shots? Second one in fifteen minutes, coming out the break in the town ruins." He breathed out, a plume of smoke carrying itself away in the wind as he danced around the elephant in the belfry. Harker was having none of it.

"Have they circled back around?"

"Not today. Night watch said he caught eyes in the dark, but he's green. Can't be sure." Pierce didn't need to be reminded what the lieutenant was talking about. He'd seen the shapes, lurking at the edges of the forest surrounding the town. He'd seen the men inside, torn to ribbons and barely breathing. Shamblers didn't do that, not that quick and not that fast. There was something else, here, and if Harker was right there were two of them. Cutting eyes to his captain, he swallowed and showed a bit of uncharacteristic uncertainty, not quite fear but not far enough from it to play as casually as he tried. "It's balls and bayonets if they push the church, sir. Even if they don't bring shamblers, we won't put them down before they--"

"I know. We're running low." On everything. Ammunition, medicine, rations...this was meant to be a relief mission, not hunker-and-pray. How long had it been since they'd seen a pair of Horrors this close to New Stratton? He'd hoped to buy them some time, give O'Reik's squad a chance to get back on their feet, but the third day had been pushing it. A fourth would be disastrous, and there was a difference between patience and foolishness.

Pierce's eyes never left Harker's, even if his attempt at a cock-sure smile turned a bit sad. "We're not going to make it back with injured weighing us down." He ventured almost hesitantly, as if he'd made a joke, but if he was looking for hope in Arthur's gaze he found none.

"Everyone dies someday, Pierce." The lieutenant stifled a sigh, pushed himself to his feet with a slight grunt. Same as ever. Church walls had more give in them. "But don't write us off yet. I'm giving the men a few more hours before we make our play--you need a rest?"

"I'll play this one out, sir." The marksman sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, and turned back out to the field. He could already see a figure moving out by the break of the forest, half stumbling and half plodding its way along. There was no talking to the Lieutenant, he knew--he would run his play and they would live or die by it, as they always had. The familiar urge to run was still there--had never left, really--but he hadn't before and wouldn't now. After all, everyone died someday. He raised his rifle. "Besides, you couldn't ask for better target practice."

Arthur Harker climbed back down to the church below, the crack of a long-gun in his ears.

Muskets & Magic - Dark Fantasy RP

I finished my last midterm today, so I'll likely get a post up tomorrow/this weekend to show off the Lt. Harker's situation. No need to wait on it--it seems like there will be a couple rounds of posting for you lot in between.

Upon the Sunset Sea; World of Darkness RP

Michelle Darrens

Sunset Lounge

What. The. Hell. First she was getting half of the Ventrue's life story, then she was getting half-ignored, half-insulted by some jackass in a suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. After playing blood bank for some Don Juan motherfucker! It was turning out to be a hell of a night, but at least she wasn't bored. And, after that little speech, she was even a little interested in the "JEWGIRL" who was so willing to die for some other leech in a nice dress. She seemed sort of sweet in that earnest, awkward, don't-look-at-me-outside-business-hours sort of way, but as she listed off the dozen and a half things that could be done to earn Michelle's good will back the woman couldn't help but smile, and cup her hand under her chin.

She didn't know the first thing about Michelle.

With her other hand she poured herself another three or four fingers from the bottle the 'tender had dropped off--he'd even brought it up a bit too, thanks probably to the little lawyer's presence, and the reposado she tasted was an awful sight better than the well she'd purchased to begin with. If Rachel thought Michelle would be intimidated by the mention of Eva's new potential Chernobyl she had another thing coming, but frankly Michelle didn't like pissing contests. She was way more entertained by the idea of throwing the little thing back out from her land of organization and bitchy politics.

"Your phone." She said lazily, setting her glass down and reversing the hand to lie it flat out for the brunette.

Upon the Sunset Sea; World of Darkness RP

Michelle Darrens

Sunset Lounge

Teeth.

He was on her in a flash of dark hair and dark suit, pointed teeth breaking skin and flooding Michelle's nerves. Pain, yes, but not nearly as much of it as she would have liked--pleasure hijacked her system in rogue bursts, re-writing whatever it was she was meant to feel about having some leech stuck to her neck. It radiated, coiled, pumped out along with her blood onto his awful tongue, and if she gasped with a bit of a moan on the end of her breath it likely was stolen.

Worse was that it was over in a flash. Her muscles were crawling, her breath was coming heard, her blood was louder in her ears than the music around her, but the half-dozen goddamn vampires crowding around her didn't include the asshole who'd nipped her. They included all sorts of Head Bitch level people, and if Michelle had been looking forward to tangling with Andre one of these days now and here were not the time. The only trouble was convincing herself of that, because God did it sound like what she wanted to do right now. What could have been more satisfying than letting those crawling muscles under her skin burst free? Than whipping around and burying a claw into Pretty-Miss-Thing's tucked little tummy, than turning around and feeling her secretary's skull split between teeth like railway spikes? Like--

Stop. Focus.

She was talking to her, the short one. Babbling on about reparations or towels or what the fuck ever. Didn't she know she should be running? That it was a matter of how many vamps would go down before they could stop her, and that logically it would be the ones closest to her that went first? But this wasn't Michelle's first rodeo, and it wasn't going to be the last time she nearly ripped a dance floor apart. So she turned her swollen black eyes to the counter and spread her fingers over its mirrored circus and focused. She could feel it clawing its way through the skin, through the holes in hers, and she would...not...let...it...win.

It was a handy little trick. She'd learned it from some Child of Gaia peacenik who'd been in her first pack and been damn grateful she had ever since--turning a frenzy inward wasn't easy, and it hurt like a sonofabitch, but it was better than waking up wondering whose liver was stuck between her teeth. Just think about the people, she forced herself to remember, all those people whose lives would end in an instant because she couldn't hold herself together. It was visible, too, her fingers cracking the bar top under forearms tight as iron bars. Her eyes flooded and beaded red at the corners, her tongue tasted blood, but she held on--one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi--

And it passed.

She breathed out low as she did, licking away the blood at her own lips and swallowing it back even as she brought a hand to her eyes and smeared the red of it over the back of her wrist. Rolling her shoulders, she even managed a bark of a laugh as she took the little creature's towel and ran it over her face and neck. It hurt--fuck yeah it hurt--but it was another little fuck you to Big Bad in there and Michelle was no stranger to pain.

"You," she pointed out wryly, coughing past the knot in her throat, "are a brave little bitch, you know that?" Spitting the rest of the blood into the towel and tossing it to the counter disdainfully, Michelle sat up straight and unkinked her neck while her breathing worked its way back to normal. "Next time you see someone like me get chomped by someone like that you run for the hills, cupcake. We're not all so cute and cuddly."

She drained her tequila, sucking it past her sharp teeth and feeling it scream down her torn-but-healing throat before setting the glass faux-daintily back to the counter. Now it was the Ventrue that had her attention, and she smiled a little crocodile smile.

"But sure, honey. Let's talk reparations."

Muskets & Magic - Dark Fantasy RP

Lt. Arthur Harker

Name: Arthur Harker
Age: 37
Race: Human
Profession: Mage

Personality:
"Every man is guilty of the good he did not do."

If you had to come up with a word to capture Arthur, it would be dedicated. Arthur believes firmly in the precept that one should never ask of another what one wouldn't do oneself--if you need to press the advantage, you press. If you need to hold the line, you hold. Not one to be concerned with popularity or pride, his pragmatic and joyless disposition hide a rare kindness--the mage would give you the jacket off his back if he thought it would help you make it through the night. It is this kindness and willingness to take on the job himself that prevents him from being overly disliked by the young-bucks who find him a grueling and merciless taskmaster. Arthur doesn't expect people to work as hard as he does only because he knows betters. Instead, he expects them to work harder than they ever have in their lives because he wants them to survive to live them.

Patient to a fault, Arthur is a conservative defender and a believer in defense as the best offense. Never one to rush into a situation without understanding it, Arthur preaches luck as the moment when opportunity meets preparation and teaches those he works with to think similarly. Dying for what you believe in is easy--waking up tomorrow to fight again is harder, and Arthur has never been one for the easy road.

Backstory:

Maer is a small nation compared to the powerhouses of Ilyra or the Ironhoff Dominion, but it survives because it plays to its strengths. Such was the nature of the Harker family who for generations capitalized on the magic that threaded its way through their bloodlines. While not all members of the family have the gift there are enough of them that any given generation can be expected to produce a few mages of quality; Arthur is one of them, as was his father.

Professor Isaac Harker was a talented mage in his own right, but his sons were brighter and more talented than he could imagine. His first son, Dorien, was a veritable genius in a way that few men are. Magic was a gift to him and came naturally, spontaneously, and inflated his ego in much the same vein. It was dour young Arthur who took to it with effort and force of will, but through his studies and his works he acquired a mastery of barrier magic and defensive tactics second to none. Dorien jokes even now that his brother's 'turtle-shell' was an early innovation to prevent any number of pranks that might have been played upon him as a child, in truth Arthur has simply always been a young man with an instinctive knowledge that the world is not a kind place and that if one is to survive it, one must be able to endure it.

Both brothers were accepted to The Academy at young ages and distinguished themselves even outside of their relation to their father (who had for many years been the Dean of Projections and the foremost authority on energy distribution). Dorien's theories on magical density and the manipulation of the coiled-energy projectile were instrumental in developing a more efficient network of basic defense spells, while Arthur's application of Deghast's Fourth Theory of Binding quickly became worthy of more advanced study. While Dorien jumped eagerly at an early acceptance to a doctorate program and the promise of a Professor's position within a few scant years, both he and Arthur were instead proposed as research assistants to a particularly prestigious program geared towards the New Frontier and the understanding of its' Shamans' nature magic. In tow of a proper professor and a few other prospective students, they made the journey across eleven years ago.

Of them, only Arthur and Dorien lived to regret it.

Not even a year after they arrived the calamity occurred and monstrous creatures descended on the town they pursued their studies in. As magical adepts they fared better than most and managed to make their way back to the ships, surviving side by side to make their way onto the only ship to return from that awful endeavor. Arriving at port and quickly drawn away to the Academy to report their findings, it was there that the two finally parted ways as Arthur... got back on the ship. Having seen what was there, having watched it tear through villagers and soldiers and friends, he could not in good conscience allow others to go where he himself would not. If they were to stand a chance against the threat they would need all the help they could get, and with so few of the survivors of that lone ship willing or able to return... Well. Some things are best done oneself.

The first years were a learning experience for Arthur. Though his magical arts had always included combat applications it was the day in, day out maneuvers and life of a soldier that took getting used to. Unwilling to simply advise, he preferred instead to put himself through the paces any other soldier would be expected to. He hadn't returned to research, he had come back to save lives. He didn't cut corners and he didn't rush through it, and when the time came to step into a leadership role there was no question that he had earned it.

Lieutenant Arthur Harker now serves as a squadron commander in the New Frontier. His mages, known as the Wallmakers (or, more colloquially, Wallers) are well renowned for their dedication under fire and their grim but resolute nature. They have higher mortality rates than most thanks to dangerous relief operations and a position that frequently places them under fire, but more than once a Waller has made the difference between a position overrun and a line held. Though there have been attempts made to promote him to a larger commanding position Lt. Harker has refused them all--his mind, he says, works best in small unit tactics and he has no desire to be taken out of the field.

Skills and Abilities:

The Wall
Arthur's primary expertise lies in his arcane magic and the creation of energy barriers of various shapes, forms, and sizes. As the foremost practitioner of his art Arthur can create sizeable barriers capable of withstanding tremendous punishment for an impressively long time. These range from defensive ramparts of pure energy to screaming barriers of lightning or fire to personal defense spells that outpace even the strongest armor. The larger the barrier the more energy and concentration it requires to maintain, as one might imagine, and so Arthur is careful to measure his magics.

Battlefield Manipulation
Arthur's secondary expertise is in the use of magic to manipulate an environment. A believer that magic should be used to support cheaper, more mundane methods of victory, Arthur has a gamut of abilities that most would consider supportive in nature--from stasis fields that can slow or stop an advancing force in its tracks to accelerant schemas that empower etherbolts that pass through them to greater effect, Arthur is a team player and tries to use magic as a force multiplier rather than a show-stopper.

Soldiery Most Fine
Unlike most mages, Arthur believes that magic should be relied upon to do what strength of arm can't rather than replace it entirely. As such he is well practiced with a rifle and bayonet, a capable swordsman, and a proficient tactician favoring defensive tactics and counterattacks. He's neither a marksman nor a duelist, but his level-head and dedication to competence puts him cleanly above your average rank-and-file. His technique is clean and practical, with heavy favor towards middle-ranged engagements.

Equipment:
Arthur's equipment is largely standard issue--able to provide much of his own armor, he prefers to demonstrate and master the weaponry that any given soldier can be expected to have rather than rely on fancy or enchanted equipment. That being said, one of the first things he teaches new mages is how to make waterproof, fireproof jackets and boots, and so he sports a pair of both.

His primary weapon is a New Rune Pattern Ethergun. He carries a short, heavy back sword at his waist alongside a dagger in case an engagement pushes to close range.

Upon the Sunset Sea; World of Darkness RP

Michelle Darrens

Sunset Lounge

The benefit of being a garou and the downside of not yet being hammered was that Michelle could still tell she was surrounded by things that shouldn't exist. Admittedly in a proper world she shouldn't exist, but that was an existential-self-loathing kind of thing, not a horrible-abomination-against-creation kind of thing. It wasn't so much that she minded on an academic level at this point so much as it didn't help the urge to crawl out of her skin and gut the nearest walking corpse, but as per usual she turned back to her drink and decided against some half-cocked kamikaze bullshit.

On the other hand, there was the apparent recipient of her drink. She had to admit, he wasn't what she expected--well, in some ways he was exactly what she expected. Tall, dark, pointedly mysterious, impossibly young for the thick scent of mystically charged iron and hemoglobin electrifying dead veins and muscles, he might as well have walked out of some romance novel. Count Skullfuckula III, The Rapening; best seller.

"You know, I never can tell with you guys. I know you can't eat, but can you drink? I mean, I see you doing it all the goddamn time." She snorted at the admonishment, rolling her eyes a little as she put a thumb up to her lips and bit it hard. Her teeth were very white compared to the dull black of her eyes, but when she pulled her hand back she was licking pink off them. She tilted her thumb over the drink and gave her palm a solid squeeze, forcing an extra splash of Grade A Garou Fire-Water into the shot. Hey, look at that--a Tequila Sunrise. Now that was funny.

"There. Red enough for you?" She added without looking, bringing the digit back to her lips and sucking idly on the rent flesh. Feeling the skin crawl back together under her tongue was always a hoot.