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 Pharoah Dynasty
An ancient sorceress is on a quest to bring her long-lost warrior-king to the modern era in a bid for global domination. Can the heroes of the modern world stop her before all is lost?
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.
With a name like desire, how could he refuse? He sat down.
This could be an interesting conversation. Could at least kill time.
“Been watching me, huh? Guess I should be flattered.” August said smoothly. There was no paranoid tinge to the words, no coldness at all! A perfectly passable comment.
“Nice to meet you, Des.” He was not saying the name Desire. Some people have limits, and that was a line he would not at present choose to cross. “My name is August. And you’re in luck. I had been late to practice, but they cancelled on me and now my afternoon is all wide open.”
That hasn’t sounded desperate, now had it? Because he was only being friendly. An open afternoon, for conversation. Obviously.
The bal was back in Des’s court. How would they respond?
He casually sipped his coffee, and extracted the muffin from its baggy. He should have grabbed a tiny plate. Things were about to get crumby.
“I would have said hippos, but good eye!” He said. Turned his head slightly to look in the direction of the source of the voice, and smiled.
He had only taken a tiny sip of his wine. It had tasted like normal wine. White wine. He held it and did not drink any more. Not for any reason, other than to not be drinking while speaking. Because that might be rude. Maybe a tiny sip was not enough to achieve whatever results someone had hoped for. Certainly, it was not enough to achieve the results he had hoped for (read: being drunk).
“That artist in particular has unique tastes. Personally, I thought it was kind of a Rorschach test.” August glanced around. “The statuary is pretty good though. Some real Adonis pieces.”
About fifteen feet away, a man with blonde hair and blue eyes opened his mouth to say something to one of his two dates. He utterly failed. Strange, August thought. Worthington was usually far more talkative than that. Guy could be positively flighty when he wanted.
How were his sports teams doing? His stocks? He perused his various apps, glancing up now and then as the line moves like clockwork, tick tick tick. Finally, he was up next. He chanced a glance up at the person ahead of him, right as they glanced back at him.
Their eyes locked for a split second. August returned the smile, charmingly. Then, he dropped his attention back down to his phone.
Sadly, he had been so self absorbed he had entirely missed overhearing what the man ahead of him had said, about the money and the buying him a drink. His smile, then, had not been one of gratitude, or even one of flirtation, but rather due to the awkwardness of happening to meet a stranger’s eyes when he had least expected it. And then been smiled at. And what are you going to do, when a stranger smiles at you? Stare? The smile made more sense to him when he finally reached the register, and made his order.
“That fine cat man over there said your drink was on him, and a muffin or whatever...” The young blonde barista smiled sunnily at him, and bounced her hair. “And that whatever else was left, I would get as a tip!”
August smiled thinly at her. Had she been calling the cat man fine like (foooooine), or had she been calling him a fine person? A rather upstanding citizen, pip pip, cheerio?
The thing here was, she wanted the tip more than she wanted him to be happy with the situation, or for ‘fine cat man’, whoever he was, to get his money’s worth. So she had blabbed about it with zero filter, and made him paranoid. Coming from a family like he had, becoming paranoid is hardly even a basic stretch. It’s like standing up in the morning, and sliding into a pair of warm fuzzy slippers. Comfortable.
He pressed down a ten, and made his order. Mocha. Blueberry muffin. Got it as quick as you can say ‘forced smile’, and let the woman pocket whatever differences there were for herself. He even let her keep the change. Because it is important to reward bad behavior. But to mess with her, as he told her to keep the change, he flickered his fingers in a rapid, yet stealthy, hand gesture, and said: “Don’t spend it all in one place, you hear~?”
There. Now, she was hexed. Cursed to have to find as many possible places to spend the money in as was inconvenient for her time... or something. Maybe he had just been feeling catty. Speaking of cats...
He turned, and scanned the area for sign or tail of the cat man. Found him. Raised the muffin bag in a little salute, and gingerly sipped his coffee as he started walking that way.
It would be rude to ignore the mutant who had attempted to buy his food. For his efforts, he had at least bought a moment of August’s time.
Might be interesting, he thought. The other mystics always turned their noses up at mutants, but they could at least be useful or entertaining. And they were people. So whatever. He didn’t really jive with their anti-mutant rhetoric (Felt kind of hateful.)
“Thanks,” August said. “For the coffee.” And because his brain could at times take pleasure in his discomfort, he felt the sudden compulsion to add: “I like your ears.”
I have to run, hello, good bye, I’m late I’m late I’m late!!
The words ran through his mind like the white rabbit through the hole to wonder land. He checked his watch, confirmed it, uttered a low guttural obscenity, and entered the coffee house.
Yeah. He was late. He could be later. August was not about to endure scathing criticism about his lateness, or his soon to be lateness (read, deadness) without some sort of caffeinated beverage. Preferably with chocolate. So what if it went to his hips? It was worth every ounce.
The place was packed. A good gaggle of people. His eyes scanned over the crowd. Quite a line. Several humans, some notable mutants (this was New York), and at least one person who was a true freak. Because they were wearing denim jeans and a denim coat, and most assuredly, denim underwear. Of that, he had no doubt.
He cursed again, then stopped himself as his pocket started to vibrate. August had received a text message. His brow furrowed in irritation as he read the thing.
Practice cancelled. Conductor has bad stomach problems. Sorry, C U tomorrow!
It was from one of his friends in the group. Surely, the conductor himself would shoot off a cancellation text next to confirm this lifesaver of a friend’s audacious claim. And yup, sure enough.
The conductor’s text was far more professional. It did not allude to any of the messy business ‘stomach problems’ made August think of. It merely had details.
Part of him was a little mad. He had been late, dammit. But not absent. The guy had the audacity to cancel due to a little explosive— he shook that thought and cast it elsewhere. No, this was good. Sure, he would have to change his plans for the following day, which was a massive pain in his ass, but at least he was going to remain alive after 11:00AM on this lovely Wednesday.
‘It is Wednesday, dudes.’ He thought wryly. And, yeah, he was dressed for it. In black jeans, with a black belt that had an oversized gothic gargoyle on it. And a black button up with white buttons and a white collar, black leather jacket over the whole mess. He looked like what you would have gotten if you had tried too hard to emulate Christina Ricci’s famous character from the Addams Family, for a male. Although males can most certainly wear a short black dress and black tights, if they do so desire. But he had wanted to look professional enough for concert violinist work.
His posture loosened, and he shifted the strap on his shoulder. His violin case hung against his back. Part of why he had been late had been that he’d left it upstairs in his apartment, and had needed to go back after walking 100 feet, just to bring the thing he needed most in the world... up until coffee had reasserted its claim for the title.
Okay. Well. Now he had all the time in the world to just stand in line and wait. He settled in for the long haul, behind a man with pink and purple hair.
“No,” August said dully. “Never seen them before in my life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Ice Man.”
He glanced at the giant one more time, and waved his right hand dramatically... while he wiggled the fingers of his left hand surreptitiously at waist level to cast his spell.
“Help them however they need, as long as they ask nicely~ and have a wonderful day!”
Then, he embraced the notion that had been plaguing him all day, and started power walking away. Not running, but not walking at a leisurely pace. Just a little too fast.
He did not want the attention of Cold Steel. But here he was, leaving lasting impressions. Great, just great.
Hopefully, the man wouldn’t follow. Oh god, was he going to follow? He could move so much faster than him, and really, he didn’t want to start the whole relationship off with a spell to make Sam obey.
The corner of August’s mouth twitched as Zero L One started laughing. Then, it pulled into an outright grin.
He had been worried they might not think it was funny. They’d reacted so strongly when they thought it was a bomb. But now? They were good.
He chuckled as they adopted a Leia hairdo. Modeled it. Then moved on. To suggest he was a mutant.
He wasn’t. He wasn’t going to be rude about it though.
August smiled at them and said: “A master magician never reveals their secrets. That would ruin the illusion.”
Wink wink. Say no more.
He was a good liar. Now they would think he had illusion powers, when really, that was only a minor part of what they could do.
He could live with lying about the whole thing, and not having to explain magic. Even if it was totally cool and got peoples attention. Some reacted strongly to the suggestion that magic exists. Even stronger still, if you start calling yourself a wizard. Though going by dnd lore, mystics were more like sorcerers weren’t they? A special source, magic appearing rather than having to be trained...
“Dig the hair. You should totally update your avatar and make that a thing.” He said lightly. “People love Star Wars.”
He was getting chased he was getting chased he was getting— wait. No he wasn’t.
It had stopped. It was picking up... a hot dog cart.
August turned and watched with a bit of minor interest as the giant in the blinding outfit shook the cart, and... then got kicked in the head. The giant dropped the cart, and August decided the mutant had made things worse.
“That dent won’t buff out...” he muttered to himself.
The cart was pretty dinged up. His eyes rose to look at the kicker, and.
“Oh god.” He sighed, pressing a hand against his forehead. Was it really—?
He had successfully avoided seeing That guy in This city for years and years. Ever since he had found out That Person was obsessed with them. Yet, for every thing, there is a season. A time to weep, and a time to accept a broken streak. Or something... he thought that was how the Bible verse went. He wouldn’t know. He was not real big into bible humping.
Sluuuuurp. He watched to see how the giant would respond.
The giant stared at the crashed hot dog cart, eyed cold steel, then pointed from one to the other. As if to say, “You. Fix what you did.” Then, he noticed August standing there, flaunting his iced mocha. He stomped his foot, and pointed at the man.
August arched an eyebrow.
“Not a chance.”
“Grrr!”
So far, the giant with the shoulder pads had not gotten violent... Up until that point. He turned and drew back his hand to try and swat cold steel.
Oy vey. Well, he wasn’t about to let that slide. Surreptitiously, August did a quick gesticulation with his hand. Just a little finger waggling, at waist level, sort of out of sight of everyone. Sort of.
“Stop.” He said, in a commanding tone. The giant stopped, mid-strike. In an exhausted tone, august added. “Be nice...”
The giant got the sudden urge to be nice.
Sluuuurp. He sucked on his straw, and waited to see what happened next. He felt like an asshole. Stepping out of his way to help someone, anyone, Cold Steel, out. But it wasn’t as if he’d just let the ice guy get slugged. That would have been exactly what a Certain Someone would have wanted. And we cannot have that.
He did have the sudden urge to aggressively power walk away again, though. Now that the giant was playing nice. He embraced it, and started to leave.
The call went out to any x-man in the area. There was an aggressive mutant causing trouble downtown and the police needed backup.
They didn’t say what kind of mutant. The didn’t say who it was. All they said was you’d be able to see them from a mile away. You would be able to tell.
August saw them. He paused in his walk, and stopped to look. Up, up, up.
“You are so totally not Giant’s Bane.” He muttered.
For one thing, the coloring was off. Which is to say, giants bane never wore a yellow and black jumpsuit over his entire body. He never had discus-shaped shoulder guards. And he certainly never wore a mask like nacho libre. Whoever he was, the person who’d shouted had been wrong.
“Welp.” August turned and started walking away. After about ten steps, he heard a big boom. He glanced over his shoulder, dead certain what he would see.
Yep. There macho nacho was, following him. Like a puppy. He pointed at the mocha, like a child that wanted something he could not have.
“No. My iced mocha,” August said petulantly. Then he turned and started aggressively power walking away.
Boom boom boom. Guy was loud and had a big stride, but he was not fast.
Why had the police been called about him, anyways? Oh right. Probably because he’d been stealing everyone’s food.
With one hand, he maneuvered the Nokia so it was open. Turned the whole thing horizontally, and triggered the minor illusion he had set up. The beeps and blinking ceased.
An image appeared above the horizontal flip phone. It was small. Probably a hands height. Was dressed in a white robe with a black belt. Had red hair done up in twin buns. And was approximately Oli-shaped. Its voice was straight out of a new hope, with some minor edits. Because it said:
“Help me, Zero-L-One Kenobi. You are my only hope.”
If he’d been majoring in the illusion school, the message might have gone on or been better than the grainy, pixelated, slightly blue hologram he had given them. Instead, it maintained cohesion for a second, then fizzled out in a burst of static. He felt a little drained. For his skill levels, getting sound and picture had been pushing it.
“Huh,” August drawled. “Guess you actually can teach old tech new tricks.”
A bomb. They thought it was a bomb! The look of amusement rapidly vanished as Oli said they’d call the police.
Voice dead, listless, August said: “No. stop. Don’t. It’s not a bomb, just.”
He was moving, towards the backpack. He reached in, and while his hand was hidden, did a quick gesture and palmed the Nokia. He pulled it out and showed them. It was the source of the light and sound.
His smile was a little sickly, but they couldn’t see it. Their camera was focused on the Nokia phone.
“Don’t call the police. I think someone... just left you a message?” He said weakly.
Okay, so technically, technically, there were mystics out there that hated mutants. The cult itself, the well drinkers, had maybe sorta kinda been founded on it. Predicated on it? They had a predilection, a predetermined penchant for hate. Problematic? Probably. If August had not been someone who had fallen ass backwards into the order.
August was not into the cult or its views, not religiously. He was decidedly atheist, somewhere between neutral and ambivalent regarding mutants. Maybe even altruistic. He has mutant friends. He had mutant enemies, or at least folks who didn’t like him for him, which was their right. He didn’t care too much, either way. Mutants were like everyone else. They could be good people, they could be bad people, and they could be a fine upstanding mix of both worlds. They made choices. Like he’d said before, everyone makes choices. You choose to be awful. Just as you choose to be outstanding.
He didn’t get the hatred thing. Bigots. Against mutants, against races, against people who loved someone somebody objected to, or felt some way someone else did not understand. He didn’t understand that. If he disliked a person, it wasn’t on account of any defining trait. Other than maybe being an asshole.
Maybe he had mixed or contradictory feelings regarding mutants. He was mortal. Some mortals can be bad. Some good. With Mutants, it was the same. He did not have a prevailing wind, either way. Nothing that pushed him entirely in one direction. When it got down to it, he supposed he was selfish about the whole thing. Me-centered. What can this do for me? How do they treat me? Are they going to harm me? Was he flawed? Yeah sure, you betcha. Bit of a narcissist. Totally! Did he avoid the hateful people he knew in life? As much as he could. Would he stop them, if they wanted to do something that made him feel uncomfortable. Look. Not everyone is wired to be a hero. You’d have to ask August in the moment what he was feeling. What he was thinking. Would he do a counter protest against, say, the Westboro Baptist church? Or the church of humanity? Maybe. Or maybe he would turn a blind eye. Would he have strong feelings? Of course. But actions and how one feels don’t always line up. It would be a constantly shifting maze of cause and effect, for his morality. Thing, and response. Because he was chaotic neutral.
Good ol Chaotic neutral, if he were using dnd terms. Not operating on a code of laws and morals that is entirely lawful, or good. In the moment, living on a case-by-case basis. Focused on what makes them tick. But able to be swayed. He’d been swayed to help when the creep had been bad, after all.
The creep had shown poor content of character. Negative content. And so August had responded with negativity. Our actions are important. August’s response to the phone doing glowy things was— nonchalant. It didn’t really define him at all. Or maybe it did. He was neutral. He did not make a big deal about it. Didn’t even say “already knew that.”
He followed the Tao of Wheaton. “Don’t be a dick.” He thought he was chaotic neutral, but maybe he was selling himself short.
—
He saw the phone’s glow, saw the glow flow. Saw the show, ‘fo sho’. And didn’t applaud or squeal with joy.
It was very cool, the phone thing. The awakening. Even the avatar, which appeared, then stretched. A nice touch. Red hair. Youngish. Hoodie. Sweat pants. ‘Still androgynous, he thought. ‘Still a CELLPHONE’, he corrected himself. Who was he kidding? To say anything else would just be silly.
>> "Golly! It's nice to be back in a modern phone! Old tech puts such an ache in my back!"
“Gives me hives,” he agreed. “It is the worst!”
They thanked him, and introduced themselves. He watched the screen, watched them smile up at him, and decided now that they had a camera, they had a visual on him. Which meant if he wanted, they could probably see a pretty fun gag. First things first, though.
“Nice to meet you, Zero-L-One.” He said easily. “My name is August.”
He would have waved, but he still had the Nokia in hand. So, he said “Excuse me,” and bent to set it in their bag. As he did, the better phone, Oli’s phone, sort of got swinging casually as he unconsciously lowered his arm in the motion of putting away the Nokia.
Before he brought the phone back up to eye level, to right things, he did a quick series of gestures and finger swivels with his now free hand. He looked at the phone, and turned away from the bag, smiling.
Behind him, a red column of light started blinking in the darkness of the garage. Directly above the bag. He acted like he hadn’t seen it. But the cellphone had a clear visual.
“Sorry about the shaky cam. You’re probably used to it though. Do you— wait.” He stopped. “Do you hear a beeping?”
He wiggled his fingers out of sight of the camera, and cast another minor illusion. It beeped in time with the red columns flash.
“I’m a pro,” he said with pride. “Music major in college and everything.”
He had gone through the hoops you go through to be able to market yourself. Got the certificate of authenticity and all of that. Not to toot his own horn or anything.
... why did he like that phrase.
—
He unzipped the bag. Or started to, then realized it was not zipped. Felt foolish. Got into the bag. Found a phone. A good phone. In an adorable phone case. Like something a teenage girl might adore. Or a teenage boy, who liked rotund anime-eyed animals. Or whatever.
Hey, boys can like cute things too. He had gone through a phase in college, involving lace. Because, turns out back in the old old days, fine lace on men’s clothing was a sign of fashionability. At least, according to those friends who’d been way into fantasy and gotten him RPIng dungeons and dragons and don’t ask.
He did not wear lace much these days. But. Yes. People can enjoy whatever the hell they want. He would not judge a book by its cover. The cutesy cellphone could have belonged to Al Gore for all he knew. Just as easily as Hillary Clinton or Cardi B.
He held up the phone, and just took a moment to admire it. That was a nice phone. Probably even better than his own. And he didn’t even have a cute case.
>> "Alright! We made it! If you'd be so kind as to set the Nokia in the bag that would be lovely!"
He got ready to fulfill their request to the letter, but their next comment caused him to pause, mid-motion.
Cool? Was he cool? Was this phone going to try and sell him drugs? Because if they were a cop and he asked them, they would totally have to tell him. That was the law.
... ha. What to say, what to say?
“Suuuure?” August said. More seriously, he stated: “I can keep a secret, yes.”
I didn’t tell you I was a wizard, did I? Oh? I did. Well at least I didn’t talk to you at length about my cult...
... Yet.
“Why?” He asked innocently. Was there some dramatic secret you wanted to share?
Apparently, his hobbies made them excited. They’d taken the bait.
Not that he had been baiting or anything...
Their comment actually made him laugh out loud.
“Oh. That’s funny. Me, a dead end job with my violin.”
Though technically the only place up from second chair was first, and first chair was REALLY good! But he was not telling Nokia person that.
“I am a concert violinist with the New York orchestra.” August explained. “I make a lot of people happy when I play. As opposed to my violin playing being bad and trapping me in woe.”
He looked around the parking garage.
Hope this isn’t a setup~~~~~ His heart practically sang.
There was the backpack.
Ugly ax murderer steps out of the shadows in 3 2 1
The sound quality on the old phone was terrible. Like 50% muffled, 50% static. The cadence of the voice was higher, sure, but the voice was still androgynous. The only thing he could be fairly certain of, was that the voice was not robotic like Siri or Alexa. This was no skynet. It was human-ish. Though not humanoid. Aside from that, he was making no assumptions.
Until further notice, he was referring to the cellular person as they and them. Unless they gave him an actual name or an update. And they could have their privacy if they wanted it. He wouldn’t dig... though their backstory intrigued him. Were they really a cellphone, like he thought? Inquiring minds wanna know. How would that have happened? He knew mutants could become many things. For instance, his biological father was... is... a mass murdering, mind controlling, psychopath. But they weren’t talking about his... ick... family tree just then.
Still felt gross that his snap spell, and his fathers power, were in the same ballpark. That was between him and his therapist, though. And his dad was not a cellphone... man.
She finished and he frowned.
“Yeah. People... they could be anything. But they choose to be like that. I’m always sorry for their poor decisions. Sorry I have to be around them.”
He shook his head, but smiled a little. “No need to thank me, but you’re welcome.”
“I suppose we both have things we’re good at.” August said. After a moment, he said: “I’m good with people, and with music. And you’re good at IT.”
“Real talk? Me and my violin was kind of about feeling trapped.” The topic was deep, but his tone was wistful. “We’re almost there, by the way.” He added, as an afterthought.
”I know I misbehaved And you made your mistakes And we both still got room left to grow And though love sometimes hurts I still put you first And we'll make this thing work But I think we should take it slow~!
We're just ordinary people We don't know which way to go 'Cause we're ordinary people Maybe we should take it slow Take it slow, oh-oh This time we'll take it slow Take it slow, oh-oh This time we'll take it slow~”
The pianist had been reluctant at first to give up his seat to August, but after a few cited credentials and a surreptitious hex, he had been convinced. August had seated himself gingerly, and proceeded to play beautifully. He had sung with the playing, less beautifully, perhaps. But quite serviceable, really. If he had to toot his own horn, so to speak, he would have given it an 8/10. Maybe even a 9, if he were being NPD. Maybe if the pianist liked his presentation enough, he wouldn’t have to toot his own horn at all. Someone else could compliment him and do that. The party was quite droll. A little escape would do wonders for his mood.
It was a cocktail party at a gallery opening. He’d come to support a friend. They had a vested interest in the gallery’s success. Their partner also had art on display. August had seen the art. He’d thought it looked like two hippopotamuses mating. But it was abstract enough to almost be a Rorschach test. What did that say about the state of his mind? Perhaps that he thought the artist had shown talent and would go far. ‘Good chops, kid.’ And all that.
He finished up the John legend song. Ordinary people. Stepped away from the piano, to a few scattered applause. Not resounding. Maybe it had been closer to a solid 7.5, after all? The Violin was more his speed. That was why they pay him the big bucks for it, after all.
The pianist did not approach him.
He needed a drink. Dressed in black slacks, blue shirt, and charcoal grey silk vest, he strolled across the floor to a man holding a tray.
“Thank you,” he took the offered glass of white. Took a take sip.
