The X-men run missions and work together with the NYPD, striving to maintain a peaceful balance between humans and mutants. When it comes to a fight, they won't back down from protecting those who need their help.
Haven presents itself as a humanitarian organization for activists, leaders, and high society, yet mutants are the secret leaders working to protect and serve their kind. Behind the scenes they bring their goals into reality.
From the time when mutants became known to the world, SUPER was founded as a black-ops division of the CIA in an attempt to classify, observe, and learn more about this new and rising threat.
The Syndicate works to help bring mutantkind to the forefront of the world. They work from the shadows, a beacon of hope for mutants, but a bane to mankind. With their guiding hand, humanity will finally find extinction.
Since the existence of mutants was first revealed in the nineties, the world has become a changed place. Whether they're genetic misfits or the next stage in humanity's evolution, there's no denying their growing numbers, especially in hubs like New York City. The NYPD has a division devoted to mutant related crimes. Super-powered vigilantes help to maintain the peace. Those who style themselves as Homo Superior work to tear society apart for rebuilding in their own image.
MRO is an intermediate to advanced writing level original character, original plot X-Men RPG. We've been open and active since October of 2005. You can play as a mutant, human, or Adapted— one of the rare humans who nullify mutant powers by their very existence. Goodies, baddies, and neutrals are all welcome.
Short Term Plots:Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
The Fountain of Youth
A chemical serum has been released that's shaving a few years off of the population. In some cases, found to be temporary, and in others...?
MRO MOVES WITH CURRENT TIME: What month and year it is now in real life, it's the same for MRO, too.
Fuegogrande: "Fuegogrande" player of The Ranger, Ion, Rhia, and Null
Neopolitan: "Aly" player of Rebecca Grey, Stephanie Graves, Marisol Cervantes, Vanessa Bookman, Chrysanthemum Van Hart, Sabine Sang, Eupraxia
Ongoing Plots
Magic and Mystics
After the events of the 2020 Harvest Moon and the following Winter Solstice, magic has started manifesting in the MROvere! With the efforts of the Welldrinker Cult, people are being converted into Mystics, a species of people genetically disposed to be great conduits for magical energy.
The Welldrinker Cult
A shadowy group is gaining power, drawing in people who are curious, vulnerable, or malicious, and turning them into Mystics. They are recruiting people into their ranks to spread the influence of magic in the world, but for what end goal?
Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
Adapteds
What if the human race began to adapt to the mutant threat? What if the human race changed ever so subtly... without the x-gene.
Atlanteans
The lost city of Atlantis has been found! Refugees from this undersea mutant dystopia have started to filter in to New York as citizens and businessfolk. You may make one as a player character of run into one on the street.
Got a plot in mind?
MRO plots are player-created the Mods facilitate and organize the big ones, but we get the ideas from you. Do you have a plot in mind, and want to know whether it needs Mod approval? Check out our plot guidelines.
Posted by Martin Stein on Jul 22, 2009 16:47:35 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
What does a man need after a crazy day of work? Whats a crazy workday for a mutant anyways? It was a distinction that the non average person was much less prone to apply to any given situation, so it was quite notable, that he did. Crazy had started at about 15:00 when he woke up and got ready to do some of the things he wanted done this day. Or rather failed miserably at doing so, for when he checked the clocks they had shown him nothing good, as apparently additional hours had vanished somewhere in between the shower and getting dressed, (The dress shirt buttons had really required an effort on his side of the mirror, while his reflection was quite intent on staring at him mockingly) so it had already been 17:00 when he arrived at his part time job for the first time. It was not so much that he was late, seeing that it was a bar he went to, a pub to be exact, but rather the fact, that he had not gotten anything else done during the day, which annoyed him.
Old fashioned as it was, he had found the address of the bar turning the pages of a newspaper full of ads a few days earlier. Not on some page of the Internet, but real paper. A marker had been laid aside for the purpose of marking interesting offers and a bright red circle was soon drawn around the very number as result of his assessment. An Irish Pub was looking for temporary workers and, as he had too much time and far too little work on his hands lately, he had applied for the job. Working only for a few nights as substitute barkeeper would not earn him no viable amounts of money, but it would keep his mind from wandering, keep his hands from becoming slow. And meeting people and listening to stories was a good way to acquire what some people called rumors. He called it intelligence. Minor differences. Some people simply knew how to use their assets, and those who did tended to survive. Like him. A call later he had had an appointment.
„So Mr. Schneider” The name was pronounced only after the speaker had taken a look on the clipboard in his hands to reassure himself. Learn articulation please. Please do. Martins friendly smile burned on his face, while he had to put an effort into keeping it up despite unfriendlier thoughts welling up. Nice melody in the language though. Was this Irish? “do you have any experience in keeping a bar?“ His possible employer had turned out to be a rather well rounded Irishman, short of his retirement going by the few strands of gray hair on his balding head. “I do. Managed a few back home.” His speech was accentuated in a way that did not give away his clear heritage right away, but made quite clear that he was foreign. “Wonderful. Why don't you fix me a drink then?” Ops. Well. Uhmmmmm. His thoughts wandered away into several directions at once. He had to put up a little show if he wanted the job, yes? What should I do? Oh no. What was that drink called again? Guinness? Concentrate Martin. What did those movie makers call it? Action? Action. He went straight for the empty space behind the bar and looked at his so called 'customer'. “What you'd you like to drink then?” He asked, still smiling at the man, while his eyes were slightly downcast and wandered over the sets of clean glasses that were stacked on both sides to the faucet. He had not lied when he said that he had experience. Only that that lay some time back. A few years to be exact. Whiskey tumbler. Thats what those smaller glasses were called. Oh and there were Guinness glasses, too. Slowly his memories returned. It still felt like staring at a pond of muddy water trying to find something below the surface though. “Lets start with a Guinness then.” His hands moved instinctively, taking hold of one of the bigger glasses and then starting to draft the beer. It looked like this brown syrup slushing lazily into the glass and produced surprisingly little, but -in an effort to compensate- surprisingly sturdy foam. Soon it was served, and was even able to get a flicker of a smile from the Irishman. Was that a good or bad thing. “Next Id like to recommend you a good Whiskey for me.” Now that man was really smiling. Smiling a dangerous smile. Whiskey was a difficult territory, where one could fall easily. He knew enough of it to know at least that. But nothing more. Therefore he turned around and let his eyes take a stroll over the bottles -it was a well stocked bar with many different ones. Most of those names he hadn't even heard of- before choosing one of the middle-priced segment -he had studied the menu while waiting for his examiner to finish something, which had turned out to be an Italian looking guy that had left looking disgruntled- that was not too heavily colored. That too seemed to gain some form of approval. “How much is it then?” He calculated in his head -his ability was really useful sometimes- the amount of charge. “Well boy. You're hired. I look forward to working with you.” That had been all of it.
So today was the beginning of his first day at Ó Coileáins Pub, the self proclaimed 'best' address for fine Whiskeys and other Irish beverages. The dark wood of the interior greeted him with the smell of cold smoke. The old man was already waiting behind the bar. “I'm going to show you around for tonight.” So it started.
Posted by Giant's Bane on Jul 28, 2009 15:16:35 GMT -6
Gamma Mutant
437
0
Feb 21, 2016 13:37:07 GMT -6
A skip in his step as he waved a small knap sack around on his back, the rattle of empty flasks and fifty dollars bill started to flutter around on his back as the giant trotted to the a recent bar Ulysses told him to visit. The sound of his IPod running in his ears canceling out all other noises the Irish tunes sure it didn’t leave the fantastic taste in his mouth but it cancelled out the constant headaches when there was no booze to be had. The reason he bought the music playing device was so Isabel wouldn’t be as angry with him unfortunately all it did was make it possible to drink to his favorite drinking music at all times, and when she would start ‘caring’ about him as she called he could always turn up the music.
Approaching the Irish pub looking for not only some drinks but maybe even a fight or better yet a bouncing job Bacchus grinned as he approached the large wooden door and pulled it open “Hello, hello, hello, Sheila’s and bloke’s!” Bacchus always had been loud and always demanded attention but the fact that he was listening to music that could be hear to those that weren’t even near him didn’t help either. Walking over to the bar and spotting a runt of a man behind the bar Bacchus pulled both ear buds from his ears and said, “Ya’ll alright Mate?” reaching out his large hand Bacchus standing at seven foot extended his hand and said, “Bout to run you out of business with the amount I drink!”
Letting out a loud laugh and turned off his ipod and put it in his pocket as he sat down on the closet bar stool to him and watched his eight carefully hoping he wouldn’t owe the bar any more than he had to pay for the booze. He tapped his large construction boots once then twice as he lifted the knap sack from his back which seemed to be to small for the contents inside, “I’d like all these filled and thirteen pints of your best dark beer!” smiling Bacchus opened up the knapsack on the counter as twelve empty 8 oz flasks on the counter and well over two hundred dollars fresh from a bank vault the rest remained at home with Ulysses to be counted and sorted.
Bacchus knew that most bars or pubs didn’t fill up flasks for just any walk in but he preferred to give the business to the bars and pubs as a sign of good faith hoping that they could build a steady friendship, ‘a friend who is a bartender is a friend in deed’ thought Bacchus as he smiled and handed the man the cash an amount that was well over the amount of alcohol he had asked for. “Be figuring I’ll finish need more booze before the night is through. smiled Bacchus as he looked around to find a friendly pub atmosphere.
Profile Link Here Normal/Giant Form PS:8/25 AG:6/5 Men:5/5 Stl: 0 Sen: 15/8 MS:12/7 MC:14/10 color=E6E6FA
Posted by Martin Stein on Aug 2, 2009 12:12:38 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
As all Masters of the Filled Glasses, so did he wield a subtle power over the behavior in the establishment, for even the hardest and most eager drinker did not want the Masters to become angry with him, as such would most certainly stop the flow of precious liquids in their direction. Maybe for the evening, which was bad enough, maybe even forever, a death sentence which included the strong suggestion of searching for a new favorite place of overnights enjoyment. A true death sentence or anyone who cared about not only what they drank but where they drank it. As as the uncouthly large figure of a man entered the bar, fists of well muscled drinkers tightened, but after a look at the pleasant smile of the youth that served them , they visibly relaxed, only to tighten again again as the stranger opened his mouth to release a string of accent laden words, that provoked comments in a musical tongue that were intrinsically offensive in their pitch. Not only that this person dared to spoil their native tunes, but also that he opened his mouth in this sacred place without being able to speak properly aroused them quite visibly. Martins eyebrow rose with the murmur that buzzed around him. This was not good. He did not want a fight to happen, and even his newfound authority was only able to restrain people for a certain time. Damocles's sword had not yet passed judgment on the stray that had found its way -obviously from some far flung place of the world other than both Ireland and America- into their little refuge, but it swung dangerously above his head, as the smile turned into a frown at the suggestion that me might be out of beverages soon. “I do not think that even you will be able to accomplish what generations of these people have tried.” He therefore replied in a cold tone that carried the hint of a foreign accent of its own. An accent on his side was not minded much. He was the Master of the Glasses after all.
The fact that the odd visitor made odd requests was somehow... befitting him, that unusual appearance. Even though he was here the first night he was quite sure that filling all these bottles would be unconventional to say the least. The Irish disapproved, the murmurs growing even more hostile and Martin flinched. He was new to this after all. Another unwritten rule that he had walked over it seemed. He had to take note of those, as not to arouse his customers even further. Also the money he tossed around so calmly was a concern to him, because it seemed to him as if it created a sparkle of greed here and there in the corner of an eye. He therefore stored in a separate part of the register. Just to be sure. Just to be able to count it. Or the police maybe. He gave the customer an amiable business smile and continued his task. Just keep them all happy. People with such an appearance and such amounts of money. It just did not make sense, yet most of the stories he was told here, did not make sense either. Therefore he started filling the bottles with thick almost black liquid. It almost looked too sluggish to be a fluid any more. After the first two bottles were done with, he set a glass of amber liquid in front of his up to day most unusual acquaintance, as he was possibly a mutant and certainly a drinker. All on his first day. And there still was one rule he remembered. The prime rule it was beside the one to keep secret all the stories that were told to him -not that he understood most of them, but still...
The barkeeper never talks until spoken to. That did not apply to the other customers though. And it was only a question of time, before something would happen. He could feel it in the air. A quick grip and a tune started to play that he thought might soothe his cilentele.
Posted by Giant's Bane on Aug 18, 2009 12:31:16 GMT -6
Gamma Mutant
437
0
Feb 21, 2016 13:37:07 GMT -6
Laughing as the bartender made his comment about it being nigh impossible to drink the stores of alcohol in the bar, ”Don’t know about previous generations mate, but me I am one in a million and I dare anyone in here to challenge me to a drinking contest, it will be over before you could say, “OH Johnny I hardly knew ya!” letting out a hoarse laugh and slamming his hand on the bar counter top that caused it to shake slightly forcing the closest man’s drink to spill on his lap.
Looking to the man Bacchus grinned slightly and pointed to the man, ”Barkeep if it’s all the same to you, could you give him whatever he just had on me…” the seasoned man looked irritated through his bushy gray beard as he wiped his jeans and muttered a round of curses. If it were Bacchus’s choice tonight he would have preferred to avoid fights or murders for reasons unknown, that being said he waved his hand to the older man and apologized, ”Don’t know my own strength sometimes, something I need to work on…”
Turning his attention back to the barkeeper Bacchus eyed him curiously and asked, ”What kind of accent is that?” he asked his own accent thick and making some of the words cut off early, ”Not to often you get to meet someone like you, I happen to be Australian my self, moved here about a year ago.” taking a sip of the black liquid Bacchus let out a loud sigh as it hit his lips, ”This is some good shit mate, just what I need after a hard day at work.”
Profile Link Here Normal/Giant Form PS:8/25 AG:6/5 Men:5/5 Stl: 0 Sen: 15/8 MS:12/7 MC:14/10 color=E6E6FA
Silly, strung up policemen yielding their tazers (sp?) and their badges as if everyone should melt in a pile of guilt instead of run. Well, Ahorta had never been a traditionalist and she chose to run. Information had leaked about her and her dear psychologist informed the police department about all of her fears, hoping to narrow down the search. Thinking quick on her toes, it seemed a good idea to go somewhere that held everything that she feared, they would not even think to look in the reptile section of the zoo, but it was closed. Nor would they look in a whorehouse, but those skanks made her vomit. They would not look in a lab, but that was too risky if there were dangerous elements within the lab. Still, they would never check in a bar, especially not a bar that held a record for intense drinking: an Irish Pub.
Staying on the 'down low' had been working perfectly for the masked woman and she stayed away from major streets and worked on her breathing techniques instead of killing every time she had a panic attack. But tonight she blew it. There was a particularly fat human that had made the mistake of trying to rob her in the alleys she grew fond of staying hidden within. His breath reeked of pondwater and the corners of his mouth had some slime growing. There were warts all over his face and he had a long disgusting tongue. When he blinked, his eyelids seemed to close sideways before closing properly.
"TOAD!" She screamed, kicking and spitting to get away from him. The rest all happened so suddenly, she could not really remember what happened. First there was a toad, then his toady face began to dissolve. Had she touched him?! Next thing she knew, he was on the ground, unable to move, unable to speak, pieces of his body were missing, compliments of her acidic properties. The police had rushed to the scene as Ahorta began to black out and scream at them, throwing everything she could possibly get her hands on at the police. Soon there were sirens and police were looking for her in all nooks and crannies of town.
The cops that had seen her up close and personal had been knocked unconscious and the masked woman was on the run.
Once she reached the bar, she double checked her face mask, ensuring that it was on tightly before opening the doors. Since there was no dress code at a bar, she found herself completely comfortable in a long black trenchcoat and her black combat boots. Violently, the colors changed to white in her gloves and her face mask, creating a strong contrast of colors on her body. Her hair was pulled back tightly and she stalked over to the bar. There were two foreigners, one was a bartender and the other was a bardrinker who had all of his poisons lined up in front of him. Ahorta opened her mouth but closed it again, staring at the television which was showing one of those Geico commercials.
Posted by Martin Stein on Aug 25, 2009 15:32:36 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
The door falls shut, before the barman can answer any of the questions posed by his up to date best customer. In some way he felt obliged to keep him happy, for not only did he owe that to the spectacular amount of money which he had just spent, but also to the fact that the Irish would undoubtedly appreciate his timely removal from these almost sacred grounds. Especially after he had just confirmed their suspicions that he was indeed blasphemous. Not that they would expect anything less of a foreigner. Because his mind was busied, his eyes only brushed by the new customer, which came in a set of protective attire, it even contained facial protection- wonderful bargain indeed- and instead gave the appropriate amount of alcohol to the freshly stained customer to whom he also offered some paper towels he snatched from somewhere under his workplace.
The comment that the self proclaimed bane of all beverage did not know how to handle his own strength was met with an approving nod. At least he knew of his own faults. Otherwise the confession was placed amongst the many other ones and quickly sealed away. But going by the grudging face of the victimized patron, he went forward with a suggestion of his own, going instead for one of the bottles of finer beverage that were also somewhere below the counter and filled two glasses with an amber liquid that held the pungent smell of medicine mixed with something earthy. He hoped it would remedy the offense, but first things first: “Might I suggest you try this one instead?” His word carried a hint of asking. He hoped his hand was in luck with the chosen beverage as it was a 10 year old Talisker. Good stuff? From the smell it would fell any tropic beast. He hurriedly closed the lid of the container.
With a smile he listened to the next words and replied. “It is a German accent.” He saw no sense in hiding the fact that he was not Irish – it was obvious after all- but still spoke quietly. Unlike his acquaintance, who now had unintelligible blubber coming from his mouth. “Pardon me? I moved here a few months ago. If that is what you wanted to ask.” He was quite unsure about both statements. The language and the factual one. Well if moved as the right word for it. Was moved maybe. Maybe he moved a little since then. He hoped so. And he hoped that he would not be pressed for dates. But that would not make sense right? No one would ask a barkeep for the date right? And for the final statement another smile flashed about his face as he just pointed to the glass he had just presented his customer with. Speaking of customers. Did not a lady with a face mask just enter? His eyes scanned the now calmer room to find her staring at the TV screen. “Good evening Madam. Might I help you?” He asked in a moderate voice from behind the counter. The calmness of his voice could not hide the fact that he was slightly unsettled by her appearance. Slightly.
Posted by Giant's Bane on Sept 1, 2009 22:42:05 GMT -6
Gamma Mutant
437
0
Feb 21, 2016 13:37:07 GMT -6
Nodding his head slightly to the barkeep before sipping from his chosen poison Bacchus’s head turned around to spot a woman wearing a facemask and some gloves on her person, ”You look like you need a drink…” Bacchus said calmly as he looked to the bartender and said, ”What ever she wants on me as well, in fact….” Bacchus turned his bar stool around and looked at everyone else in the bar and called out, ”Next Round is on me!” looking to the bartender Bacchus pulled out a large wad of bills from his pocket and removed the money clip.
Setting a few hundreds on the counter Bacchus smiled, ”Think that should cover you for a nice tip as well.” Giving the bartender a small wink Bacchus turned his attention back to the woman who just entered the pub, she was thin and short but then again mostly everyone is short to someone his size another reason he hated America, if they weren’t fat they were short made hiding in the public damn near impossible unless he slouched slightly which made him on occasion look like a gorilla.
”I didn’t want to ask when you moved here, just making small talk is all, you know it is sort of a bartenders thing to converse with those on the bar stool.” grinning slightly Bacchus continued raising his hands up apologetically, ”Though I meant nothing by it, small talk is all, not everyday you meet an alien such as yourself.”
Profile Link Here Normal/Giant Form PS:8/25 AG:6/5 Men:5/5 Stl: 0 Sen: 15/8 MS:12/7 MC:14/10 color=E6E6FA
Why was it that when you came to a bar, everyone asked what you wanted to drink? She did not want to poison herself, not today, no sirree. A small shiver began in her hands and she had to bit her lip to keep herself from breaking out in a panic attack. It was just as bad for Ahorta to be in a bar than it was for her to be in a pit of tarantulas, it was terrifying, but she had lived around it with her father and knew the smell all too well.
Memories of the times he would beat her flooded her mind, but it seemed very apparent that no one else in this bar, especially not this rich drinker, had problems with their father breaking their bones when they were under the influence of alcohol. It was not exactly a good bar conversation, but then again, Ahorta was no conversationalist. "Um, I'll have a coke," she said, remembering the joke from The Boondock Saints. It was tempting to say the rest, but if she was trying to not get arrested today, that was probably not the best approach.
She remained quiet, but she would have to remove her mask to drink the coke, but only momentarily. Some people thought she had some kind of deformed face under that mask that she was trying to hide from all of the public eye, but she had a perfectly normal face underneath it all, she had a perfectly normal body, it was her bones that were weird... Everyone seemed to surge up in a riot for free drinks. "You wouldn't rather save that for some protection or testing kits?" she asked, unaware that most people were not that worried about the contents of their drinks and food and whether they have been poisoned by the waiter or bartender.
Posted by Martin Stein on Sept 18, 2009 8:58:56 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
The general public accepted the mans generosity without question. That was not only without question, but a quite intimidating result. Never had he seen hateful glances turn into friendly smiles so quickly. Sure a few of the people glanced at the stack of money, a had twist around their mouths, but ass patron after patron yelled new orders, laughed, were full of joy, those hard edges were smoothed over by soothing, numbing concoctions. Or maybe they were hidden behind laughing faces, friendly smiles. Crafty illusions of sociability? Some even came over to clap their sponsor on the back. And of course grab glasses from the bar that vanished more quickly then Martin could refill them. It was -seemingly- only himself, who was quite intimidated by the amount of bills this man seemed to both posses and give away. How he managed to pay for his living might be a thing worth finding out. But first came -after a perplexed stare that was just a few seconds too long- a friendly smile of his own. This was a mask, he knew. "Thank you very much, Sir." Just offer the right amount and everyone becomes a knight, right? Not you say?
In all the hectic that erupted about him, he then made a fateful mistake. He offered the masked lady not a simple Cola, that is a mix of Water, Sugar, Phosphorous Acid and Aroma with a spike of Caffeine, but one doped with another ingredient. Ethanol. Or rather a very fine distillate. Perhaps not so fine, as it was one used only for the purpose of filling up drinks with. It was a crafty mix, not revealing its special content, but on the closest of inspections. And tasting maybe. She was served with a short nod and a smile in her direction. In all the chaos Martin still was able to retain his aura of dignified calm, but most of the words she spoke after her order were lost to him. Luckily?
He then returned his gaze upon the broad-shouldered man with deep pockets. The chaos was somewhat subsiding, as most people now had their free drinks and were happily conversing in the melodic language of their home. He instead gave his apologies to the sponsor with unblinking eyes. "I'm sorry, it is my first day at this job. I am still somewhat new to the subtleties of Bar etiquette." Which he had just breached another time. He still was trying hard though. Understanding two cultures at once, was a little bit of a challenge sometimes. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir? Or should I just go on with making conversation?" Unsure. That was the word for the emotion that sparkled in the youths blue eyes. Somewhere in the background another of the Irish patrons began singing a song that breathed melancholy in the audiences faces and smelled of green fields. He had a nice voice and soon all people were gathered around him, cheering him on. All except three. Martin, Bacchus and Ahorta were left alone around the bar. In relative silence and seclusion.
Posted by Giant's Bane on Sept 20, 2009 16:03:31 GMT -6
Gamma Mutant
437
0
Feb 21, 2016 13:37:07 GMT -6
The members of the pub shot up and lined up around the bar grabbing freshly poured brews or mixed concoctions some smiling adding a thank you or some patting him on the back, one or two eyed the money he had set on the bar and then continued to eye him reaching into their pocket pulling out a smoke never taking their eyes off him. He knew this was a universal sign for, “I’ll be getting some of that money soon…” instinctively Bacchus’s skin hardened the clothes on his back filled in as his muscles grew a little his size growing a few more inches.
His attention turned to the woman who ordered a coke at a pub and he asked, ”Test what? And protection from what?” he shrugged slightly as he turned back to the Bar tender and nodded his head, ”First day or not you passed those drinks out like a pro.” Bacchus gave him a large smile as a woman walked over and patted Bacchus on the shoulder handing him a slip of paper with her number on it.
”Uhhhh thanks…” Bacchus said as he watched her walk away, once she was out of ear shot Bacchus handed the paper to the Bar tender and asked, ”Pitch that for me will ya? Lil’Misses would kill me or her if she saw what just happened.” Bacchus let out a loud laugh as he took a sip from his large mug and then continued talking to the bartender, ”You can drop the Sir and call me Bacchus, then you can pour yourself a drink and then continue on the conversation, been to enough bars and pubs, Bartenders are the best conversationalist I have ever met, they always got a story of some kind.”
As the Irish all gathered around to start singing and cheering Bacchus leaned forward and sniffed his brew before drinking it, ”So Mate, any stories?”
Profile Link Here Normal/Giant Form PS:8/25 AG:6/5 Men:5/5 Stl: 0 Sen: 15/8 MS:12/7 MC:14/10 color=E6E6FA
Before she received her coke, everyone was rushing for free drinks. A fit of alcohol driven idiots came crashing to the bar, grabbing shot after shot, patting the boys and all around being complete idiots. And of course, Ahorta was stuck right in the middle of it. Well, wasn't that just la-dee-da? She would have rather taken the mental ward rather than be bombarded by all of this. When all seemed bleak, a coke appeared in front of her and the bartender smiled. She did not return the smile, but he would not have seen it because of her mask, so who cared?
"You must test. People are out to kill us without our knowledge," she simply replied to the man who had the loads of money. She pulled out her testing kit and began to work, listening to the men the whole time. Apparently the man with lots of money was married, fool. If he were happily married then why was he buying drinks for the whole bar? You know what? Nevermind, why was he buying drinking for the whole bar in the first place?
As she tested everything, even for pH levels and such, she found a slight inconsistency. Perhaps he was so busy that it was not a clean cup. Perhaps he made an honest mistake. Perhaps he was trying to kill her!? The glass began to morph into something else, a snake, and as it slithered to life, Ahorta's eyes grew larger and larger and her heart rate increased. Without warning, she slapped her hand across the glass, sending it flying into the wall, shattering in different pieces. Since it was a glass, she grabbed her hand in pain from the contact, she had a piece of glass stuck inside and her own blood made her panic while she clawed at the napkins.
Breathing heavily, she tried to calm down and finally just looked away. So much for a good cover.
Posted by Martin Stein on Oct 2, 2009 9:15:16 GMT -6
Alpha Mutant
760
0
Jul 2, 2013 5:22:49 GMT -6
It was only now -when the male customer at the bar repeated her words confoundedly- that he was alerted to the irate behavior of the woman that was standing with them at the bar. Not only was she handling a strange array of different tubes and strips, but also intently stared at them. How strange this behavior was. Whatever she anticipated to find out about the thing she had been served by him, he hoped it would be positive. It was a good drink he had handed her after all and he sincerely doubted that there was anything to be found at all. But there was a shadow of doubt on his mind, as she was so anxiously doing her work. That behavior was devoid of any logic. Why would she even start testing a drink for....whatever? None of the Irish had done it. Noone at home had ever done this. His thoughts went the usual way that peoples perceptions went when they had encountered something strange and crazy. Probably because he was a bartender now. He ignored her and busied himself with his other customer. "Thank you very much, Sir." He responded curtly to the given praise. He doubted it was factual, but rather based on the continuing process of imbibing neurotoxins on the part of his customer, but it felt good nonetheless. And speaking of neurotoxins: had his customer not been a little smaller when he had entered the room? It was another thing to take note of. He needed to verify that observation. And maybe visit a doctor.
When he asked him to quickly dispose of the incriminating paper, all he got as a flourishing movement of the bartenders hand. And then the snippet of numbers was gone. Quietly vanished down the rabbit hole of things that were not supposed to be seen. On the notion of stopping the respectful address another nod of understanding passed into his direction. Customer was King after all. So when he asked for a story his mouth opened. And closed. What stories did he know. What tales were there to tell. Tales of war? Probably unsuited for this environment. Tales of people? If he could recall them now, it might be a nice diversion, but no... there were none. Instead what he came up with was a little different. Not of the green grasses that the Irish sung. An old legend perhaps? Like theirs, but so unlike theirs. Might that... do the trick?
His voice changed to a more quiet note. A cutting tone, that had no problems with the songs that were played around them. “In my home there was a girl once, who was of such beauty that she entranced people that watched her.” His first words were reminiscent of a song. An old song, long unheard. Poetry. The song of legends. “On the shores of the river Rhine she lived, came out to climb the stones when the evening sun touched the ground below the sky. And there under the setting sun, she would sit and comb her hair and sing songs.” He fell silent as a movement caught his eye. The irrational woman had beaten her glass against the wall with swift hands, or rather for him: Slow movements, as the surprise of the moment made him slow down his vision. He saw how she cut herself on her hand -a deep slash that started bleeding profoundly immediately. Had she really just done that? How strange. How confusing. How irrational. How mad? “Please excuse me.” He muttered to the man for whom he had recited and dived under the bar to grad a small bag of medical supplies. He could no longer ignore her -She was bleeding on his bar now after all- and her strange mutterings. He was forced to take care of her. And from the looks of it she very much disliked blood. Stepping out behind the bar, Martin started humming a strange tune, strange against the noises the Irish made, that were so full of life and joy, with only underlying sorrows. It was a tune of sorrows, going along the lines of the poem that he had just translated. Strange words were coming from his lips now. Foreign words.
Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen And /I believe the waves will claim Am Ende Schiffer und Kahn; /Finally steerer and boat Und das hat mit ihrem Singen/ Such was done through her song Die Lore-Ley getan./ By Lore-Ley
(from the Song of Loreley by Heinrich Heine; Crude translation by me)
He raised one (gloved) hand with a surgical dressing in it. “Please calm down Miss.” He stated while making the last advancing steps toward her. He was about to patch her up.
