Post by eclipse on Jan 6, 2006 23:55:47 GMT -5
“You’re insane, did you know that? We are talking about Frankie and at least fifty of his stooges. Did I mention FRANKIE?”
“Remi, you know I don’t like to repeat myself. For the millionth time, I’m doing this whether you like it or not. I don’t know what Frank wants with me and he got on my last straw. Join him, and you die with his rats.”
“HalfMoon get a hold of yourself! So he tried to kill you a few times in the past few days. Once with a car, twice with a truck, five times with a machine gun….wait I’m not helping….”
Abruptly turning, her face was filled with a childish-like anger which she never could be seen with, other then her old friends. She was obviously ticked and knew that entering the building was more or less Frankie’s decision if she was going to live. Remi couldn’t tell that she had a sliver bullet rampaging toward her heart. Sure she was immune to silver, something werewolves simply can’t do, yet with her darkness giving in she is becoming weaker. Remi finally saw how serious she was taking this and taken aback how much she changed over the past few years apart.
“I just…don’t want you killed. Most of the others have already gone you know. I wouldn’t be able to...”
He didn’t have to say anything. Sadness filled her eyes and finally after all the pressure she never let out, you could see the darkness under her eyes. She looked like she didn’t sleep all year, which was almost true. She would be lucky to have an hour of rest a day. They both just stood there staring at each other which seemed forever.
“Frankie might be head of the Mafia in these parts, but seriously the guy would have killed us by now if he wanted too. Believe it or not, he likes you like a nephew. And surprisingly, it feels like the closest place to home away from home.”
Both smirking, they started back toward the private nightclub in Downtown, New York City. Over the past few years, the place had gone down the drain. Most of the buildings were smashed or abandoned. The poor and the bad often made home here, though most of the bad were the smartest criminals you could find. Garbage was everywhere. Grease and tossed trash could be seen from building walls to the street. Public fires were made on the streets and sidewalks in the most random of areas. Children couldn’t be found, but enough rats took their place. These slums were indeed left untouched by the police and the wise. One step in there, they might as well have prepared a funeral home.
The time was night. Most of the lights were dead here, the stars and full-moon shone as bright as if it were the country side. In return, it was often colder and darker. The area was slowly rotting and going to hell. The pollution made the place home to rats, mice, and killer pigeons. The foul smells were horrible, even toxic. As vigilantes, everyone managed to find their way around. They knew how to survive these bad harsh conditions. They were a big bad family.
There it was the nightclub. The center of the Slums. The place all the baddies came to be, one night or another. Few know the Mafia is located there too. Glowing red in capital letters, the sign was put in tight, brand new. The building, a normal yet rather large two story is made of black bricks. Kept clean, the place smelled and looked great. Compared to the rest of the slums, this place is heaven. To the goodies, this place is living hell. Frankie is the Devil. Everyone is a demon you don’t want to be with. The flat roof had no exit, the only way in and out is through the front gate and the two buff guards with hidden machine guns. Most didn’t see their hidden bullet-proof vests, and it’s been a while since hey had to use any firepower.
The first floor is indeed where all the action is. The center provided with a huge black and red tiled dance floor was free to many drunk men and dangerous wives. It was clear enough that although everyone had at least ten beers, they were so used to it they were hardly effected. Many had a gothic look to them, though many also went low on style. Around the dance floor lay many couches were the tired and bored nuts lay, waiting for their turn in the spotlight. A bar stood in the back left, along with the staircase leading to the second floor. Every beer and wine you would ever dream of dwelled within these cursed walls. The two bartenders were preoccupied with at least five people per second. The case was rolling in, business was certainly great. No one was in the mood for an attempted robbery, so no one tried.
The second floor was so hard to gain entry to, you needed permission and a pass from Frankie himself. Beds and couches were put in random places, along with curtains. Like the floor below, black and red was the theme. A single red light was on in this hardly lit room. It was a giant maze. No windows lay here, but is was still pretty cold. Most dating people came here. Food and drinks were prohibited. Five guards lay at the staircase entrance. It was the perfect place to get “cozy”.
Her nickname was FullMoon. After destined time and many a challenge, it changed and forever remained HalfMoon. Throughout hundreds of years she has spread fear and wisdom at land and sea. In her human form, she had people run to the Secret Service for safety. They did not know she was a werewolf though she was dangerous enough to make first on the World’s Most Wanted list. In her werewolf form they knew her as the wolf forest guardian and hunted her for centuries. To other creatures of the day and night she was much more. Though they did not know her missions in life they did know those few rare facts. That her voice is so cold and threatening it would leave you shaking on your feet, looking for an exit. That she works for herself and herself only, showing you that she is not a werewolf to be messed with. That her whole family and closest relatives died around the time of her birth in a vicious war. Yet more they knew her sign, the medallion of the full moon she wears around her neck. That she was more forever changed when the moon took her, giving her well known rare seen silver werewolf form and her threatening cursed form, killing in a war at the age of six. She’s been hunted, shot, stabbed, hung, burned, chained, beaten, frozen, electrocuted, cut, bitten, poisoned, paralyzed, bleeding to death, her organs inside out,...everything under the moon. And yet here she is, hunting the hunters and hunted again throughout her life. She is a loner looking for her meaning and path in life. In a way, her path has only begun.
Lately her attire has tremendously changed. Instead of the usual white tanktop, her upper body is covered with a thin layer of body armor under a black tanktop, unnoticeable. The armor of a strange chemically changed group of rocks looks almost futuristic, ending at her waist. The small millimeter sized plates make there armor very flexible and fast to run in. How she crafted these rocks into identical shape and sewed it with rocks is but only to her knowledge. Her once light white pants were switched with long black baggy jeans containing many various pockets. In a layer within the pants is a skinnier armor of the same type yet with smaller pieces. The pockets, filled with scrolls, vials, and other things that can’t be identified. Her plain white shoes are switched with black ones, with spikes on the bottom for protection and easy grip. Like the pants, within is that slim plate of armor. To top it of is a heavy black trench coat that reaches a millimeter or so off the floor. The bottom is designed with three evenly spaced cut out triangles for easy maneuvering. The spaces are about five inches wide and reach up to her knees, getting thinner to the top.
Standing about five ten seven she has a well built figure, managing to stay one hundred one pounds. Appearing seventeen, her age and name are unknown though she acts like an adult. Her brown eyes match that of her frizzy hair that reaches her lower back. Having bought a black hair band made of many thick strands, she put her hair up high, well out of her face. From a previous visit to the Lekaya desert, her light skinned body is partially tanned.
Some scars can heal, others can’t. Some scars are still healing. War makes it almost inevitable to avoid these scars. A constant reminder of pain and suffering. It might explain why she wears a trench coat and long pants though she wouldn’t care what people would think in the first place. A deep one on her back a bit right of her spine stretches all the way from her neck to lower back. If she were to take her trench coat off, you could even see a small lump because of the skin being pushed out so hard. Three more just as big connected to make a triangular figure looks as if were pointing to the long one, as if a clue to something. One that appears like a large circular bruise as if she were stabbed in the stomach, and the blade twisted, yet how that healed is another mystery. Numerous tiny ones covered her back and arms, suggesting she blocked blades with her arms instead of using shields. Spiraling down her left foot is a cut as deep as the long one on her back. Other various ones are on her legs too. Perhaps the strangest ones of all are the ones were at her shoulders, circling around her armpits back to her shoulders.
Only two things seemed to remain from her old set, her medallion and ring. They are the two things she never takes off, be she in battle, sleeping or eating. A pure silver ring of the half-moon rests on her right hand. It was one of her mother’s, a noble werewolf warrior most precious jewel. Her medallion hangs on a medium thick silver chain and can be seen clearly on her chest. A token from her past, it alone is the only other thing that knows of her bloody past. With a 1 ¾ inch diameter, the silver full moon has its own secrets and power. The medallion keeps changing it’s dents to match those of the side of the moon facing her.
Little is known about Remi. He just popped up one day with HalfMoon, yet was easily accepted. His attitude can be caring although it he can often be found joking around or randomly becoming serious. Most people from the “outside” didn’t cross his path, thinking he was a bum.
Remi has a simple ordinary outfit. His expensive brown leather jacket could be found unbuttoned above his lain black tanktop. Like HalfMoon, he too wears a thin bulletproof vest. His long pants are black and baggy, covering in many empty pockets. Black shoes and a thick silver chain necklace, he was the perfect guy.
About five foot eleven, he has a bit of a muscular figure. Most of his weight comes from his muscle, though he weighs a small hundred thirty pounds. He looks about twenty-seven. His big brown eyes help bring out his short spiky blond hair. He is light-skinned.
“Remi, you know I don’t like to repeat myself. For the millionth time, I’m doing this whether you like it or not. I don’t know what Frank wants with me and he got on my last straw. Join him, and you die with his rats.”
“HalfMoon get a hold of yourself! So he tried to kill you a few times in the past few days. Once with a car, twice with a truck, five times with a machine gun….wait I’m not helping….”
Abruptly turning, her face was filled with a childish-like anger which she never could be seen with, other then her old friends. She was obviously ticked and knew that entering the building was more or less Frankie’s decision if she was going to live. Remi couldn’t tell that she had a sliver bullet rampaging toward her heart. Sure she was immune to silver, something werewolves simply can’t do, yet with her darkness giving in she is becoming weaker. Remi finally saw how serious she was taking this and taken aback how much she changed over the past few years apart.
“I just…don’t want you killed. Most of the others have already gone you know. I wouldn’t be able to...”
He didn’t have to say anything. Sadness filled her eyes and finally after all the pressure she never let out, you could see the darkness under her eyes. She looked like she didn’t sleep all year, which was almost true. She would be lucky to have an hour of rest a day. They both just stood there staring at each other which seemed forever.
“Frankie might be head of the Mafia in these parts, but seriously the guy would have killed us by now if he wanted too. Believe it or not, he likes you like a nephew. And surprisingly, it feels like the closest place to home away from home.”
Both smirking, they started back toward the private nightclub in Downtown, New York City. Over the past few years, the place had gone down the drain. Most of the buildings were smashed or abandoned. The poor and the bad often made home here, though most of the bad were the smartest criminals you could find. Garbage was everywhere. Grease and tossed trash could be seen from building walls to the street. Public fires were made on the streets and sidewalks in the most random of areas. Children couldn’t be found, but enough rats took their place. These slums were indeed left untouched by the police and the wise. One step in there, they might as well have prepared a funeral home.
The time was night. Most of the lights were dead here, the stars and full-moon shone as bright as if it were the country side. In return, it was often colder and darker. The area was slowly rotting and going to hell. The pollution made the place home to rats, mice, and killer pigeons. The foul smells were horrible, even toxic. As vigilantes, everyone managed to find their way around. They knew how to survive these bad harsh conditions. They were a big bad family.
There it was the nightclub. The center of the Slums. The place all the baddies came to be, one night or another. Few know the Mafia is located there too. Glowing red in capital letters, the sign was put in tight, brand new. The building, a normal yet rather large two story is made of black bricks. Kept clean, the place smelled and looked great. Compared to the rest of the slums, this place is heaven. To the goodies, this place is living hell. Frankie is the Devil. Everyone is a demon you don’t want to be with. The flat roof had no exit, the only way in and out is through the front gate and the two buff guards with hidden machine guns. Most didn’t see their hidden bullet-proof vests, and it’s been a while since hey had to use any firepower.
The first floor is indeed where all the action is. The center provided with a huge black and red tiled dance floor was free to many drunk men and dangerous wives. It was clear enough that although everyone had at least ten beers, they were so used to it they were hardly effected. Many had a gothic look to them, though many also went low on style. Around the dance floor lay many couches were the tired and bored nuts lay, waiting for their turn in the spotlight. A bar stood in the back left, along with the staircase leading to the second floor. Every beer and wine you would ever dream of dwelled within these cursed walls. The two bartenders were preoccupied with at least five people per second. The case was rolling in, business was certainly great. No one was in the mood for an attempted robbery, so no one tried.
The second floor was so hard to gain entry to, you needed permission and a pass from Frankie himself. Beds and couches were put in random places, along with curtains. Like the floor below, black and red was the theme. A single red light was on in this hardly lit room. It was a giant maze. No windows lay here, but is was still pretty cold. Most dating people came here. Food and drinks were prohibited. Five guards lay at the staircase entrance. It was the perfect place to get “cozy”.
Her nickname was FullMoon. After destined time and many a challenge, it changed and forever remained HalfMoon. Throughout hundreds of years she has spread fear and wisdom at land and sea. In her human form, she had people run to the Secret Service for safety. They did not know she was a werewolf though she was dangerous enough to make first on the World’s Most Wanted list. In her werewolf form they knew her as the wolf forest guardian and hunted her for centuries. To other creatures of the day and night she was much more. Though they did not know her missions in life they did know those few rare facts. That her voice is so cold and threatening it would leave you shaking on your feet, looking for an exit. That she works for herself and herself only, showing you that she is not a werewolf to be messed with. That her whole family and closest relatives died around the time of her birth in a vicious war. Yet more they knew her sign, the medallion of the full moon she wears around her neck. That she was more forever changed when the moon took her, giving her well known rare seen silver werewolf form and her threatening cursed form, killing in a war at the age of six. She’s been hunted, shot, stabbed, hung, burned, chained, beaten, frozen, electrocuted, cut, bitten, poisoned, paralyzed, bleeding to death, her organs inside out,...everything under the moon. And yet here she is, hunting the hunters and hunted again throughout her life. She is a loner looking for her meaning and path in life. In a way, her path has only begun.
Lately her attire has tremendously changed. Instead of the usual white tanktop, her upper body is covered with a thin layer of body armor under a black tanktop, unnoticeable. The armor of a strange chemically changed group of rocks looks almost futuristic, ending at her waist. The small millimeter sized plates make there armor very flexible and fast to run in. How she crafted these rocks into identical shape and sewed it with rocks is but only to her knowledge. Her once light white pants were switched with long black baggy jeans containing many various pockets. In a layer within the pants is a skinnier armor of the same type yet with smaller pieces. The pockets, filled with scrolls, vials, and other things that can’t be identified. Her plain white shoes are switched with black ones, with spikes on the bottom for protection and easy grip. Like the pants, within is that slim plate of armor. To top it of is a heavy black trench coat that reaches a millimeter or so off the floor. The bottom is designed with three evenly spaced cut out triangles for easy maneuvering. The spaces are about five inches wide and reach up to her knees, getting thinner to the top.
Standing about five ten seven she has a well built figure, managing to stay one hundred one pounds. Appearing seventeen, her age and name are unknown though she acts like an adult. Her brown eyes match that of her frizzy hair that reaches her lower back. Having bought a black hair band made of many thick strands, she put her hair up high, well out of her face. From a previous visit to the Lekaya desert, her light skinned body is partially tanned.
Some scars can heal, others can’t. Some scars are still healing. War makes it almost inevitable to avoid these scars. A constant reminder of pain and suffering. It might explain why she wears a trench coat and long pants though she wouldn’t care what people would think in the first place. A deep one on her back a bit right of her spine stretches all the way from her neck to lower back. If she were to take her trench coat off, you could even see a small lump because of the skin being pushed out so hard. Three more just as big connected to make a triangular figure looks as if were pointing to the long one, as if a clue to something. One that appears like a large circular bruise as if she were stabbed in the stomach, and the blade twisted, yet how that healed is another mystery. Numerous tiny ones covered her back and arms, suggesting she blocked blades with her arms instead of using shields. Spiraling down her left foot is a cut as deep as the long one on her back. Other various ones are on her legs too. Perhaps the strangest ones of all are the ones were at her shoulders, circling around her armpits back to her shoulders.
Only two things seemed to remain from her old set, her medallion and ring. They are the two things she never takes off, be she in battle, sleeping or eating. A pure silver ring of the half-moon rests on her right hand. It was one of her mother’s, a noble werewolf warrior most precious jewel. Her medallion hangs on a medium thick silver chain and can be seen clearly on her chest. A token from her past, it alone is the only other thing that knows of her bloody past. With a 1 ¾ inch diameter, the silver full moon has its own secrets and power. The medallion keeps changing it’s dents to match those of the side of the moon facing her.
Little is known about Remi. He just popped up one day with HalfMoon, yet was easily accepted. His attitude can be caring although it he can often be found joking around or randomly becoming serious. Most people from the “outside” didn’t cross his path, thinking he was a bum.
Remi has a simple ordinary outfit. His expensive brown leather jacket could be found unbuttoned above his lain black tanktop. Like HalfMoon, he too wears a thin bulletproof vest. His long pants are black and baggy, covering in many empty pockets. Black shoes and a thick silver chain necklace, he was the perfect guy.
About five foot eleven, he has a bit of a muscular figure. Most of his weight comes from his muscle, though he weighs a small hundred thirty pounds. He looks about twenty-seven. His big brown eyes help bring out his short spiky blond hair. He is light-skinned.