Magister

Fallen London: Of Whimsy and Eldritch Horrors (Always Open!)

Montana's eyebrows lifted sightly as he watched the younger man across from him inhale his drink. He didn't seem off put by his actions, rather, a glimmer of humor seemed to dance on his face for a few moments. In contrast to Jeffery's first gulp, Montana raised the glass to his lips, and took a slower, smaller drink from his own. His story painted a firmer picture of his past. Generational sword meant fighting at the very least was in his family, with an heirloom that likely predated the use of modern firearms.

"They abased themselves the moment they drew steel against a more hardened weapon. I've found that the inexperienced noble often conflates expensive with practical."

His eyes moved back toward the woman in crimson, her companion had left her seat, and was moving to intercept the pickpocket. She was a perceptive one. Perhaps she'd be able to spare the urchin an unpleasant possible fate.

"I go by Enoch currently. I'm a courier, so switching names every so often comes with the business. Better I reach out to a client if I need work, than for clients to pursue me so easily."

"The regulars are as you say, fine, but I imagine you've encountered unsavoury characters that, working for once is an experience best not replicated."

Montana raised his hand, and ordered two more drinks. "Are you hungry Jeffery? I'm more fond of my own cooking, but the mushrooms prepared here aren't terrible." A second motion indicated some food for the table. A small helping between them.

Fallen London: Of Whimsy and Eldritch Horrors (Always Open!)

Montana briefly stood, and thanked their server for bringing them their drinks. He left his payment on the tray, along with a small bit of foreign currency, a few pounds by the looks of it, as a tip. He placed Jeffery's drink in front of him first, and his second. The other males surprise perhaps said a bit more than expected. It at the very least said kindness was not something he expected in London, or at least from a stranger, at least to Montana. Along with his weather marked look, he had obviously experienced the unkinder aspects of humanity during whatever journey he was on. It spoke of experience.

"My pleasure, and not at all, would be a bit presumptuous of me to be off-put by the wear and tear of travel."

Montana wiped the rim off his glass slowly, and gave his drink a small sip.

"I'm hesitant to potentially spoil a relaxing drink with talk of work, but I must say your choice of weapons leave me curious." In regards to the short sword he wore at his hip.

"Certainly more function than fashion."

His dark eyes settled on the boy who had undoubtedly been caught by the glamour of the woman in crimson. To him, the urchin was like a magpie who had spotted a pearl in the mouth of a great beast. Perhaps disdain or flippancy would work in his favour.

Fallen London: Of Whimsy and Eldritch Horrors (Always Open!)

"My thanks." Montana lightly dusted himself off, and removed his overcoat. He was loath to fold it, creases and all, so he opted to hang it from a small piece of wood extending just beyond the top off the booth. While largely unspectacular save for the top notch tailoring, the corner of a piece of paper could be seen jutting from the left ticket pocket.

There was a shoulder holster over his waistcoat, but it was curiously void of any weaponry. He was, at least at face value, completely unarmed.

That flash of colour was the true reason he had decided to take this familiar seat. Along with it's view of the door and behind the bar. All points of entry and exit. There were some deliveries he had yet to make, and one could never be certain of where hard to find people might pop up from.

As he sat, he made eye contact with the barkeep, and held up his pointer and thumb, signaling he wanted two drinks for the table.

"If you don't mind, I've taken the liberty to order you a beverage."

The hooded man across from him had been marked as a mercenary in his mind due to the variety of his gear. Long and short range weapons, plus a short sword. Which was a deadly weapon in it's own right, and quite different some the sabers and rapiers members of the military tended to use.

Fallen London: Of Whimsy and Eldritch Horrors (Always Open!)

It was dangerous to move about in the fog without a Lantern. Though the light could be viewed as near useless to the user, save for some measure of comfort, it was more a sign of goodwill for ones fellows on the streets. A lantern signified that some soul was there behind the fog, holding it, and trying to find their way to their destination. This avoided the unpleasant, and undoubtedly uncouth action of bumping into someone in the darker places of the Fallen London streets.

Montana, quite against his outward appearance as a well kept gentleman, had no such lantern. Which meant his eventual collision into someone that did was quite intentional.

As he rounded off of a particularly dark alleyway, his body met with another. He quickly made his apology, and left with a quick pat of the other persons breast-pocket. The slight out of paper giving way under weight could be heard. A message delivered, a message received. This person would be momentarily confused, obviously the kind of person who's first reaction wasn't one of immediate retribution, hence the lack of knife in Roderic's ribcage. By the time they realized that a message had been left, the courier was long gone lighting the lantern he had stowed to blend in with the other responsible, self concerned citizens of the Fifth City.

The Singing Mandrake was his final destination, somewhere to idle for a few hours while he decided what his next job was going to be for the day.

He crossed the threshold, quickly shaking whatever droplets had gathered on the brim of his hat, off. There was little do be done about his overcoat, he had no choice but to wait for the room temperature to dry it out.

The man took a quick run of the room, a dash of colour caught his eye, which inspired him to take a seat in the immediate area. The only available booth seemed to be manned by a heavily armed gentleman sporting a rather obsessed look.

Roderic removed his hat, and strode towards the booth, before he spoke, he gave a short, but courteous bow.

"Good Day, It's not my wish to impose so boldly, but would you mind if I took a seat here? I'm quite fond of it's proximity to the bar."

Fallen London: Of Whimsy and Eldritch Horrors (Always Open!)

Full Name: Roderic Alder Mayburry Montana

Nicknames/Aliases: The Asp, Will Of the Wisp, The Fourth Man, and aliases too numerous to mention, but most often a William Evargrant.

Age: Over the age of 30

Gender: Male, most certainly, though though use of makeup and other assorted items can take the appearance of a woman with sharp cheekbones.

Occupation: A liaison for various interests? Or perhaps a courier, one that worked the odd twilight in the sorts of places frequented by the unsavoury and the high born, delivering all sorts of things, promises, and things both real and conceptual. Or perhaps he is a thief and bearer of false witness.

Description: Montana has a face who's expression are subtle, and rarely extravagant when responding to the stimuli Fallen London provides. Shoulder length, pitch dark hair is often swept back, tucked behind the ear. This dark colour is mirrored in his eyes, where the darkness of the pupil is matched, and swallowed by the darkness of his iris.

His most recognizable article of clothing is a wide brimmed hat. What one needs a hat for in a sunless land is mystery itself.

the suit

Personality: A gentleman in the traditional sense of the word, but perhaps only in word, as what is his true personality is likely hidden behind the mask of gentlemanly conduct. There is a touch of idle fancy within his person, or perhaps it's just an abstract world view that influences the way he moves. Sometimes he can be anything. Would that make his personality a series of well rehearsed roles? Who can tell.

Skills: A hand to hand specialist, with a variety of obscure, and at times, depending on how his body moves, obtuse movements. An excellent duelist. A linguist. A crack shot. Perceptive, with a head perfect for the art of deduction. Making things disappear or reappear Finding lost things, and losing found things. Not being in the wrong place, and being in the right place. Understanding the difference between being in the right place at the wrong place, and the wrong place at the right time. Replacing things. Not being noticed for long periods of time, and being noticed when he needs to be.

Weaknesses:

Brief History: A British native, but no native of London, Roderic Montana has been in a military campaign or two, spent time traveling and training in the Orient. Has done work for Britain outside of military service, along with a few other nations. Emigrated to fallen London for work.

Other: Doesn't work with the Royal Navy

Fallen London: Of Whimsy and Eldritch Horrors (Always Open!)

Full Name: Roderic Alder Mayburry Montana

Nicknames/Aliases: The Asp, Will Of the Wisp, The Fourth Man, and aliases too numerous to mention, but most often a William Evargrant.

Age: Over the age of 30

Gender: Male, most certainly, though though use of makeup and other assorted items can take the appearance of a woman with sharp cheekbones.

Occupation: A liaison for various interests? Or perhaps a courier, one that worked the odd twilight in the sorts of places frequented by the unsavoury and the high born, delivering all sorts of things, promises, and things both real and conceptual. Or perhaps he is a thief and bearer of false witness.

Description: Montana has a face who's expression are subtle, and rarely extravagant when responding to the stimuli Fallen London provides. Shoulder length, pitch dark hair is often swept back, tucked behind the ear. This dark colour is mirrored in his eyes, where the darkness of the pupil is matched, and swallowed by the darkness of his iris.

His most recognizable article of clothing is a wide brimmed hat. What one needs a hat for in a sunless land is mystery itself.



Personality: A gentleman in the traditional sense of the word, but perhaps only in word, as what is his true personality is likely hidden behind the mask of gentlemanly conduct. There is a touch of idle fancy within his person, or perhaps it's just an abstract world view that influences the way he moves. Sometimes he can be anything. Would that make his personality a series of well rehearsed roles? Who can tell.

Skills: A hand to hand specialist, with a variety of obscure, and at times, depending on how his body moves, obtuse movements. An excellent duelist. A linguist. A crack shot. Perceptive, with a head perfect for the art of deduction. Making things disappear or reappear Finding lost things, and losing found things. Not being in the wrong place, and being in the right place. Understanding the difference between being in the right place at the wrong place, and the wrong place at the right time. Replacing things. Not being noticed for long periods of time, and being noticed when he needs to be.

Weaknesses:

Brief History: A British native, but no native of London, Roderic Montana has been in a military campaign or two, spent time traveling and training in the Orient. Has done work for Britain outside of military service, along with a few other nations. Emigrated to fallen London for work.

Other: Doesn't work with the Royal Navy

The Runes (In Need of Players!)

Makorai gave a respectful nod at their answers. Too early. Sounds like he was the sole career alcoholic on his team. Which suited him fine, someone had to keep a clear head in their Aett, and spirits knew it wasn't going to be him, sake and whiskey deep before ten pm. Dawn being a P.I suited her, from what Makorai could tell. She seemed reserved. Really looked at people, not like how others do the once over, but did that little bit of digging that investigators usually did. All through those beautiful pale eyes.

He rested his hand between Amity's shoulder blades, and gave her a reassuring rub. He wasn't as percpetive as his counterpart, but he could relate to whatever it was she was feeling. He assumed it was loss. Or perhaps powerlessness. Either way, despite his flirtatious nature, it was a genuine gesture. Pain ran deep. It always did.

"All good Amy." He winked, then quickly changed the subject back to his weapon. "Oh yeah, close, long, however you want it, I got it. He paused, then continued, a bit more seriously this time. I got your backs. If I can see it in my scope, I'll keep it off you all, and if it's about to eat me, well. He playfully mimicked a door being thrown in. "Between Dawn's Brain, Your Brawn, collective Beauty and my Booze..." He paused again, and nodded.

Hey, not a bad team name. Brains, Brawn, Beauty and Booze." Boobs, and butt. but he wasn't going to say that out loud. Beauty was enough.

Oren's reply elicited a smile, and a lighthearted shrug. Yeah, can't answer a question I wasn't asked gorgeous,
just thought I'd offer my two cents anyway."

He was just shy of another response, when Mr.Clean Cut & Healthy Eating popped in. There was a bit of a rush in his demeanor this time, but, the coif remained undisturbed. Amazing.

What he said snapped Makorai out of his drunken, sarcastic haze, and into the temporary clarity some alcoholics felt when confronted with something serious.

The North side. He had a lot of friends that clocked in on the North side, the kind of of working class folk that let him drink at the club because of one time or the other he lent a hand, or shot a warg

These green in the face recruits were expected to take on the Jotun? His light brown eyes quickly moved across the room, checking their reactions one by one. His entire joke had been a point he was making. Fighting one should be the last resort. These kids weren't ready. Not for the carnage at least. By the time they got down there, gristle would be the trendy new decoration on the block.

"I don't care what anyone here says, including you." He turned to Clifton. "I know those people, you all do what you want, listen to whatever, I'm gone." He wasn't a hero, Makorai, or at least, he didn't look at himself as one. He was just good at shooting, and he'd lost enough people five years ago, and frankly, he was more scared of having to attend a funeral that wasn't his.

"I'm leaving. I gotta make sure those folk get through. Meet me there yeah? I'll need you guys." He wasn't about to get anyone else killed for his stupidity, but he /knew/ he could get there faster by bike. He knew.

With a wave, and complete disregard for what anyone had to say, he walked out the door.

The Runes (In Need of Players!)

That's exciting! I was advocating for a violent character death, but I'm much happier that you're back.

Survival: A Zombie Apocalypse RP

I'm down for a discord channel.

Survival: A Zombie Apocalypse RP

Sound had always been the staple of modern man and theirs vehicles. The deep rumble of a diesel engine on a crowded highway, the way a Mustang barked when it gathered speed, the calling card of those who enjoyed their machines furious. All things that would eventually get you killed. All thing that had undoubtedly got many killed, as evidence from the wrecks and reanimated drivers, still struggling to free themselves from their seatbelts.

Montana's military grade truck, sprayed an innocuous dark blue, was stuffed with so much automotive insulation it's once fearsome rumble had been muted to a stifled hum. This was a sound for the contemporary human, just quiet enough to only attract the most inquisitive of the tireless legion. It allowed him to idle in near silence as well. Useful if there were humans lurking nearby. As was true in the old world, humans were still the most problematic species around.

Problematic enough to leave their abandoned cars in the middle of the road. This issue had grown worse the closer he got to Atlanta. His main options were to try and drive through, or to move them manually. If he was lucky, he could simply move them out of park and they rolled on their own. Other times, he'd have to get out and physically push them out of the way.

Luck favoured the man, and the car sitting in his way, an old sun bleached Chevrolet, rolled freely across the road, where it came to a stop against a parking meter.

Back in his truck, the man continued down the road, passing several landmarks of interest, when he caught the tail end of lucid human bodies entering an abandoned gas station. Valuing intel over rashness in this situation, Montana turned slowly into a group of abandoned vehicles, and brought his truck to a slow stop. Had it been anywhere else, he would have kept driving, but since this was his first time in the city, he wanted to speak with some of its inhabitants. How the next few moments played out would effect his method of gaining that information.