Zacharius

X-men Noir: Let The Good Times Roll

First post is deliberately over the top and silly. Gold star for anyone who knows which movie scene it's based on (kinda obvious though)

X-men Noir: Let The Good Times Roll

Feel: Smooooth Jazz


The Night Before

"Hey there sir, can I help you?"

The bar was quiet, it wasn't exactly late, only just past opening hours. It was a jarhead bar, or maybe squids or even devil dogs. He didn't rightly remember, nor did he rightly care. Maybe it was the six years of fighting together over one tiny set of islands, but even if the British Navy had always taken the piss out of the army, they'd never produced anything quite like the Americans in terms of internal competition and dislike. It was fairly amusing to watch, as long as he didn't get involved. Here, just like any other business in American, the service seemed ten times as fast and polite as anything back home.

"Yes. I'd like a Budweiser, please. King of beers." The closing comment was said with that typical sarcastic grin, although of course, the barstaff didn't 'get' it, that only made it funnier for Henry. He'd spent a good while fighting in Germany, and he knew many people who would fight to the death before they'd allow American 'water' to be proclaimed over beer's homeland. Pity about them going and losing the war then.

"Bud coming up."

"Oh, my God. Are you from England?"

Henry's grin only widened as he turned in his seat towards the source of said exclamation, or question, alternatively. She was pretty, potentially worryingly so. Most pretty girls his age had boyfriends, as far as he remembered, and there was no way this fine specimen of Caucasian redhead hadn't been fighting off dates ever since she'd started growing that quite wonderful chest of her's. Then it struck him again. The War. Of course there were single women, hell, as a single guy, he was practically an endangered species. How things had changed.

"Why yes, yes I am." Exaggerate the accent, good one Henry.

"Oh... that is so cute. Hi, I'm Stacey. Jeannie?" Henry's eyes followed the redhead's call, to an equally attractive, if more elegant than curvaceous, blonde girl in a booth by the window. How had he missed these two before? Must have been out of his mind, again.

"Yeah?"

"This is....?"

"Henry Warwick." Rising to the offered opportunity, Henry provided his name with full accent, maybe even a little over the top on his surname, it wasn't as if Americans would have any idea about how weighted such a surname was back in the old country, but even here, it could sound impressive. The cute little smile the original girl gave him confirmed all of that in half a second.

"Cute name." The second girl also smiled, earning herself a nod of the head from Henry.

"Jeannie, he's from England."

"Yup, Yelverton."

"Oh."

"Oh."

It was clear they had no idea where or what Yelverton was, they probably wouldn't even know Devon from Yorkshire. He winced slightly that, worst of all, they'd have no idea of the difference between Devon and bloody Cornwall, but in times of need men make sacrifices, and those weren't 'ohs' of boredom, they were 'ohs' of interest. Looking at these two, some semblance of faith might have been restored in Henry, but it was more akin to the Japanese and Indian theories of karma, than some Christian overlord. Better not voice that. Both of them were standing now, so, time for the charm. He swept to his feet, and with a fairly archetypal bow, placed his lips to their hands, one at a time.

"Wait till Carol-Anne gets here. She's crazy about English guys." The blonde, Jeannie, he'd have to remember that, spoke up, past a blush that was unmistakably forming on both of their cheeks.

That’s when a third girl, brunette this time, walked into the bar. At least half latina, he’d have to argue. Well, they probably weren’t all racists then, which was a plus. Evidently there must have been something he was missing, the universe didn’t quite align this well, in his experience.

“Hey, girls.”

“Carol-Anne, come meet Henry, He’s from England

“Well, step aside, ladies. This one's on me. Hey, gorgeous.”

Just as Henry was chatting, to three, very beautiful women, he felt a tap on the back of his shoulder. His grin remained firmly in place as he turned, met with the familiar face of a certain musician.

“Hey K, have you met Maria, Jeannie and Carol-Anne?” All three women said hello, but K, as was fairly usual, ignored anything but his initial purpose. Some called him simple, but Henry knew, the African American simply didn’t have time for what he didn’t want and right now, despite the attractive company of three women, his focus was on the English man in the middle.

“You said you’d fill in for us, we only need you for the first slot. Come.” An order, Henry was used to those, as much as that grated on him, but K meant no harm by it. Half of everyone had wartime experiences now, of course it was going to slip in to usual dialogue.

“Very well. Ladies if you wouldn’t mind waiting for a little while, I have a few songs to sing.” His declaration was met with three false-sad smiles, although in general he felt musical talent only piqued their interest further. He was pretty sure by this point he’d run all out of positive karma, so, better not mess up. By this point the bar was starting to fill up slightly, jarheads, it would seem, from the tattoos, although a fair mix racially, even if the minorities earned themselves some dangerous glances from the ‘alphas’ of the white packs.

The piano on stage was well worn, but surprisingly functional for said face. Sliding onto the stool, Henry gave the keys a few testing taps, before nodding to the rest of the band. While he was only a temporary replacement and had no real ambition in music, he had still practiced with the band somewhat, he was fulfilling a favour, he’d do it properly. Moments later the band, and whole bar, where in the swing of things. (this song, for the idea)

Once the segment he was required for was over, Henry stepped off the stage with a slight bow, returning, among a few whoops and cheers, to the three women, smiling at his own performance, if he didn’t say so himself. After a hushed moment of conversation, one of the girls, Carol-Anne spoke to him.

“Where are you staying?”

“I don’t actually know, thought I’d just check into a hotel, like in the pictures.”

“Oh my gosh, that is so cute.”

“No, no, no, listen. This may be a bit pushy cos we just met you but...why don't you come back and sleep at our place?”

“Well, if it's not too much of an inconvenience…”

“Hell no! But there's one problem.”

“Erm...The thing that's gonna make it more crowded...Harriet. You haven't met Harriet.”

“There's a fourth one?”

“Don't worry, you're totally gonna like her cos she is "the pretty one".
“Oh, well praise the Lord.” Not that he had any semblance of faith, but Henry felt the need to thank something for the current chain of events, starting to follow the three women to the exit, earning himself the usual glares, of daring to steal women from the ‘rightful’ patrons of the bar.

“Oh, and he's a Christian!”

---

The morning had none of the harsh glare that others felt after nights of excess, although he felt mildly bad his company would be feeling all the worse for it later in the same morning. It wasn’t like he could stop it, even if he’d wanted to, his mutation passing off his ailments to those around him, not that he expected they’d have all been feeling well for wear anyway. Only the first girl, Maria, the redhead, had been awake. He’d made some promise or such to be in touch, after a night of club-hopping with the free ladies, until they ended up back at their place, she seemed to have taken the most personal shining to him, and perhaps he could reciprocate that. Even still, he had business to attend to.

He’d met Xavier a few times, after coming to America, but he had yet to see his ‘hideout’ or meet many of his other companions, in fact he’d been putting it off somewhat. True they were mutants, but they all died like everyone else, would they really feel any different to the rest of humanity? At least until he met them, they couldn’t disappoint him so, there was still some hope of finding his ‘own people.’ His coat was a souvenir from his time in the military, a trench coat for the winters of mainland Europe, although he’d since had it dyed black. Approaching the address he was told to find, the coat caught in the bracing New York wind, whipping to, through his hair, although no matter how hard and fierce it was, Henry’s appearance and demeanor remained the same. There was no mark of the bullet that had entered his skull, his skin would not be reddened or damaged by breeze.

It was a bar, the discovery almost made him laugh. Early in the day, he didn’t expect to find any inhabitants, but as he pushed open the door, escaping the elements outside, he found a fair few individuals, while his first thought was normal patrons, he also considered they to had been called by Xavier.

“So, it may be early, but what are we all drinking?” He spoke with a smirk, noticing the somewhat tense atmosphere in the room, oh well, it’s not like a fight, even among mutants, could truly harm him.

X-Men Noir: Let the Good Times Roll

Name: Henry Joseph Warwick

Age: 19

Alias: Leech

Appearance:


Abilities:

'Leeching': While it may appear that Henry simply has a healing factor, his body actually steals from those around him, under his control if he remains conscious, but otherwise acting instinctively (there is some precedent of his subconscious 'going for' threats over allies, but it's sporadic at best). If standing in a crowd of people, this can be so unnoticeable as to make those around him slightly more tired, but individually it can be much worse, eventually simply passing the injury onto the other, if only one other person is within a certain distance of him (fluctuating, like most untrained mutants).

Skills:

Wartime Skills: Like most young men, Henry has fought and near enough died in the Second World War. While there wasn't much in the way of formal training for the early conscripts, experience and later drills turned Henry into a true soldier and survivalist, to the point that civilian life seems rather...easy. The lack of challenge in his life, beyond hiding his mutation, has actually become a big of a grinding psychological issue for the young man. Despite being a rifleman, and thus now being a fair shot, the main skills that have transitioned to civilian combat is close quarters combat, be that with fists or whatever weapon he has to have, if you couldn't fight dirty, you didn't survive.

Into the Breach Men!: Despite his youth, on multiple occasions throughout the war, Henry found himself in a position with no surviving immediate officers, and the only man present with enough spine to actually start making calls, thus he's fairly accomplished at motivating people, then making sure they all get it done.

Ironsights: There isn't much that shakes Henry anymore, be it done to himself or to others, his eyes, heart and stomach have seen to much to flip at gruesome sights and experiences.

Codebreaking: When he was later promoted, having shown signs of being fairly capable with technology, to a platoon radio officer, Henry taught himself (with communication to people more skilled in the area) to break various in-battlefield German codes. On that note, he also speaks German, although refused to learn French, properly.

Personality Traits:
Sarcastic, outwardly arrogant, gentleman, traumatized, survivor, warrior.

Backstory:

Born to middle-class land owners in Devon (although with some connection to the Southern Midlands upper class family of Warwick) Henry was privately educated, and thus 'escaped' the South-Western accent, instead picking up the more widely renown 'British' accent, much lauded across the Atlantic. Despite most high achieving private schools, and later universities, still very much being the haunting grounds of the upper class, Henry made enough friends among said group to have a comfortable time, and a possibility of convincing a university to take him on despite his 'disadvantages of character.' During his time at school, his mutation remained a mystery to both him and others, although he always seemed to 'bounce back' surprisingly fast from hits and injuries on the rugby field (at a slight loss of energy to the other team, but that was never noticed).

Any hopes for further education were dashed by the war. While in the first years of conflict Henry was too young for feasibly pass as 18, even to the very lenient eyes of the recruitment officers, at the age of 15, Henry enlisted, just in time for the last year of strategic defeats for the British Army. Being one of the few reinforcements sent to the East African campaign at the time, Henry found himself in an army group outnumbered in the hundreds of thousands by the Italian East African Empire. The fighting was as harsh, if not harsher, than anywhere else in the world. Despite a generally textbook withdrawal, during the Italian capture of British Somaliland, Henry was taken prisoner by the Italians, before they attempted to interrogate him, within a local village. Henry was eventually discovered by members of the Ethiopian Nationalist forces, fighting alongside the British, among a horrific scene. Despite being bound and gagged, Henry was discovered wide eyed, surrounded by the bloody mess of six Italians. In the moment of extreme stress and pain, Henry's mutation had finally revealed itself in full, as the enemy had attempted to torture him slowly to death, they had unknowingly killed themselves, when it came to just two remaining, one had put a bullet in Henry's skull, only to find it signing a death warrant for himself and his companion. Despite how mad the situation had sounded to Henry himself, the militias who found him seemed to nod, speaking of tribal shamans in broken English. Henry was set free and allowed to regroup with the remaining British forces, the Ethiopians never revealing the circumstance of his rescue.

Throughout the remainder of the war, Henry fought with distinction and courage, never truly advancing high in ranking, but showing great heroism in the face of the war. The young man 'survived' many missions that were deemed suicidal, often being one of few survivors, usually helping injured or near-dead companions back to friendly lines. For that he eventually earned himself the Victoria Cross, after a brief stint in a hospital due to post-traumatic stress disorder (although, not really called such), Henry took part in the D-Day landings, having returned home for the medical obligation. Fighting alongside Americans somewhat endeared Henry to them, although he was always quick to deal out withering banter along the lines of comparison between the two Anglo-nations. By the time the war came to its bloodshot end in Europe, Henry was willing to be among those British soldiers that were to be moved in support of the American campaign in the Pacific. When that to came to a close in Nuclear fire, Henry never returned to England, instead being convinced by an American officer who had been 'watching' him, and expressed that the young man should contact a 'friend' of his, one Charles Xavier. In the process of moving to the States to join said group, Henry has very much enjoyed a popular time for 'Brits' in the US, especially one with war stories and the medals to prove it.

Game of Thrones: Daeron's Conquest

I haven't been so iffy about a post in a while, but I hope it's fine for ya'll

Coming this week:

We all go to Dorne: Roooooooad Trip.

Game of Thrones: Daeron's Conquest

Westeros, The Stormlands, Summerhall

The sands whirled around him, the grains biting at his skin as he pulled himself across the ground. No matter how much effort he put into each haul, the storm of sand around him both hampered his process and made the world into one sight. He lost all trace of distance, the only markers being the mangled bodies slowly seeping into the ground. Despite the swirling cataclysm, the sun still beat down, obscured, but the heat still seemed to seep through into his very being, even as his life blood tainted the ground behind him.

"Daeron! Daeron!" He screamed , although the wind carried it away and the sand made him choke. He coughed, trying to clear his mouth, but only blood dripped from his pale, cracked lips. He tried, truly, to push himself on, but instead collapsed forwards, connecting with the coarse surface of the desert sand.

When he finally pushed himself up, one hand clutching his side, as if to hold in the blood which even now stained his fingers. There was just so much of it. Even as he felt his grip on reality slip away, he knew it was too much for him to ever walk away from this. Then, his other hand hit something. metal. Brushing away the sand, the sound that finally released itself from his mouth was some of a strained, garbled cry. The young features of the King looked up at him, his armour rent, there was no life behind his eyes.

Viserys Targaryen placed his head upon his nephew's breastplate, the tears that he had felt building finally escaping his eyes.

"I'm sorry brother...I failed you."

As he spoke, the corpse he lent on began to twist and shake, the sand storm seemed to change to, darknening, before a tongue of fire leaped from its confines, lashing Viserys away from the body, his vision ceased for a moment, and when he finally retained his sense, pushing himself up, he found himself at the eye of a hurricane of fire and ash. Daeron's body lifted, still convulsing, before twisting into the shape of a black dragon's head, where it's right eye should have been, only its skull was visible.

"Indeed you have, Viserys, as I always knew you would." The voice that confronted him was his brother's, the angry, violent man, rather than the quiet sullen one he had become. When the dragon's jaws stretched wide, Viserys flinched, crawling back, once more the young boy who could never understand his elder brother's rage.

"I tried to tell him, I warned him of this." All his composure gone, the retort was a fear riddled yell as the draconic face approached him. The tears had stopped, but Viserys could not control the desperate gasps that heaved his chest. Still, blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

"Warn him? It is not your place to deny the King his rights...you failed to deliver them to him." 'Aegon' spoke with increasing venom, even as the jaws widened, revealing teeth that ended in white hot tips. He could hear their heat, sizzling like metal. A touch he had felt before. Viserys had so much he could have argued, so much he could have said to tell his brother why he was wrong. At that sight, that sound, he could only respond one way, as he had before.

Viserys Targaryen, Hand of the King, screamed in terror.

The teeth were around him, biting, gnashing, as he disappeared into the endless darkness of the dragon. His skin hissed and melted, a smell he had tasted before. Blood poured from his mouth, but still he could scream, utterly broken by the assault to his body and senses. Just as he thought he could feel no more, as he felt two searing teeth clench on either side of his head, Viserys hit the ground.

The luxurious fabric that stopped his fall was an original comfort for the broken man, but then he began to remember their feel, and smell. A smell he had know for years a lifetime ago, a fragrance he had not known since.

"Viserys my child...it has been too long." Myrish, although Viserys had already known it would be. Struggling to his feet and turning to face the voice, he was greeted with a familiar face. One he had never hoped to see again.

"You are dead."

"It would appear not."

"I killed you myself.

"Poor Viserys...Never quite finishing the job? Well, I can't say I will ever let the same be said of me." In the man's hand, a poker, just as hot as the fangs of the dragon, but ended instead with the man's mark of ownership. As a technical prisoner, Viserys had always avoided its taint.

"I will die first."

"Perhaps, but it isn't for you." As the man spoke, she seemed to appear, shoved to his feet, but he knew not from where. Vittoria's hands and feet were tied, her clothing ripped away all except for her bedclothes. She screamed at him to help her. Before he even thought Viserys lunged, but chains, that he did not know were there, held him to some far off wall The man laughed at the Dragon Prince, before kneeling. It was clear, immediately, he wasn't to mark her in the usual place, a hand drifting and parting her clothes, revealing her stomach.

Vittoria screamed curses, not at the hand which was about to hurt her, but at Viserys, at his failure to protect and care for her. For his part, Viserys yelled countless threats at the slave master, before begging him, instead, to mark him, to have him.

Their screaming turned to one as the hiss of flesh filled the room.

---

Viserys awoke, sitting bolt upright and drenched in sweat. His hand groped beside him, as his hyperventilation only continued as he found no Vittoria. His eyes scanned the room. Not trace of her or Snow. Desperation clawed at him, the miasma of sleep still gripping him, as he hauled himself from his bed. He was still dressed, having collapsed to sleep after another endless day of plans and war. He had his hand on the door, bolting across the room, before he remember. She was with Elaena and the King, it had all been a dream, a nightmare. None of it was real.

He collapsed against the door, running a hand through his silver hair, purple eyes held tightly shut. His breathing returned to normal, as he struggled with the mental images that had bombarded him. It had been years since he had been struck so awfully, but it had been a common occurrence back then. He did not believe much in the way of prophets, a lesser man may have seen it as a bad sign, but Viserys Targaryen knew better. He had not been back to war since the nightmares had reared their head, and he was going again. He would taste blood, and would have new sights to add to the recesses of his mind. That was when a banging crashed against his door.

"Prince Viserys!? There is something you must see.....The men, they've been..."

He was up before the stuttering could finish, the door swung open. The hurt gone from his eyes, even if his appearance was still ruffled from lack of care, and his bearing from exhaustion. A guardsman, the man was true troubled by his orders to bring the Prince then to care that he did not look nearly as well as he had at the feast a few mere days previously. Those who worked, even distantly, for the Royal family, had a better understanding of how they were in fact people, rather than the heroes of tales. They both rushed to the hill in question, beaten by only those who had initially found the bodies. The horns had started halfway through their journey. Viserys made a note to remember the guardsman had decided to come to get him immediately, rather than alarm the whole host first.

The six bodies clung to their stakes, the all-to-familiar stench of burnt flesh hung in the air. Blackened skin and wood, although it was mostly hard to tell where one stopped and the other began. The Stark-men arrived next, Vittoria's brother, Brodrik, leading them. Oddly the Alchemist arrived alongside them. This perplexed Viserys for a moment before he turned back to the corpses. Formalities could wait, when this was before them. Men from the other camps were not too far behind, although by this point Viserys had enough guardsmen to keep most away.

He knelt around the stakes, searching for footprints, or any trace of movement. There was little and less to be found, although he did not trust himself to find every detail, not right now,even if he was a competent tracker. The embers still glowed in the ash, and twelves sets of empty eye sockets glared down at him.

The familiar pant of the direwolf heralded his wife. Sleep still clung to her, but she was not disheveled as he, she had slept, and changed, while he had his mind tear itself apart....and hadn't changed. For a moment their eyes met, his gaze must have seemed pleading, as if for help, because he was met with concern. His trouble troubled her, but he could not hold the private moment for long. Shame crept through him. Even if it was a dream, he had failed, after bringing her into so much danger. It had felt so real, it wouldn't have surprised him to find the sigil of a certain Myrish slave trader seared over her navel.

Turning back to the corpses, beginning to sway in the Stormlands' wind, felt even this far inland. The Prince stood, speaking, both to himself and those few still within earshot, the strain felt on his voice even as he did so;

"It seems the war has its first victims...Let the Baratheon take a look at it. Double the watch for the day. After that...well, we have a conquest to earn."

Game of Thrones: Daeron's Conquest

Squrmy said
I'll put House Mormont in the accepted thread, then. I'm working on a sheet for Hendri Hotspur and the Cadet branch of the Daynes; so hopefully we can get some stuff going on in Dorne soon!Does anyone want to collab while the Mormonts are still in Summerhall? Could just be a few pointless conversations, to keep the IC flowing.

You haven't added a biography to your last character still, hence why I have held off telling you to move it.

X-men Noir: Let The Good Times Roll

Hillan said
Bwahaha. Sorry for making all of ya'lls lives a little bit harder. <3I'll have a post up later today.

Look at my CS >.<

Ye swab.

What's your "type" physically?

I'm going to sound super fake when I say I really struggle deciding on a physical type. Sure when looking at celebrities or people I don't know I favor curvy women, I generally hold the bar of fitness (as in sportswise) fairly low beneath myself, although if you can't dance crazily with me for hours, or 'go' crazy with me for an extended time, that would probably be an issue.

That said, when it comes to actual attraction, to the people I've met or know and find the most attractive out there, it's all about the person. Even if lets say, I generally prefer green eyes, but a girl has brown eyes, but she's really endeared herself to me and has a super-attractive personality, than those eyes will become my favorite in the world. To be more crass, a girl's figure can be more petite than my generic ideal, but become my ideal, simply because she's wow'd me with who she is. It's this reason I tend to really flirt with people only after I get to know them, unless I'm feeling a bit risky, because so much of that attraction is in who they are, even when I'm trying to be an objectifying pig. Maybe waiting often gets me friendzoned, but then I've made a cool friend anyway, so it's not exactly the huge loss the internet makes it out to be.

X-men Noir: Let The Good Times Roll

Hillan said
Oh right. It was in the intchk.Fair enough. I'll edit the OP.

Don't worry, I actually remembered it.

Then the IC 'taught' me I was wrong.

I should have always believed.

X-men Noir: Let The Good Times Roll

Blackthorn said
Awwww, but I promise I won't scratch up the furniture again!One more chance?Pleeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaseeeeeee????? *big sad eyes*

Alright.

But no dessert.