deegee

Not an Arena, exactly...

But, is anybody interested in writing out some dogfighting? Ideally in the Star Wars universe... 18+ due to potential language

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

A little under forty minutes later, Fel was in his berth, door shut, gripping the edges of his bunk. Well, I guess the Kid was sharing his bunk with him now, in shifts. So was it really his anymore? It didn't matter. Better that way. As long as nobody opened the door for the next fifteen minutes. He breathed deep, trying to rid himself of the tension in his shoulders and back. His head swam. He did what he always did in this situation. He stripped and cleaned his blaster. There was something mindlessly therapeutic about it. Something purely mechanical, where he could divorce himself from his emotions and just do the job. Do it right. The void knows, there was enough in his life that would never run smooth, never be 'right.' But cleaning a blaster was one of those things that had been drilled into him at the academy which stuck. A blaster in good condition saved lives. He wanted to save lives. Not all the lives, just his people. He could never save them all. Not since...

The image entered his mind unbidden. The fire. His hands on the yoke. The voices of his wingman and squadron. He saw the buildings ablaze, the freighters. Saw his future. When he finally returned from that particular moment in history, he was sweating, his hands were balled into fists, and he wasn't exactly sure how long he had been 'gone.' That was usually the case. He threw the disassembled bits of his blaster on the floor, like clean-sweeping a tabletop. (though in this particular case, it was his lap.) He stood, momentarily unsure of himself, and where he was. When he was. He paced, kicking the bits he had just evicted, into corners. He was all nerves and frustration, and he didn't know exactly why. And for ten minutes, he had real trouble determining whether it was now, or whether it was ten years ago.

Finally, he calmed, laying his head in his arms, atop the shelving unit across from the bed. Was he leading them into certain death? Or all of them getting pinched? No... he wouldn't go that way. Never again. If it came to that, he'd rather go down that get taken. But were they up for this? Were they acutely aware of what taking this job on, meant? It meant all of them having a price on their heads from the Imperials. Life on the run. Had he made that clear enough? Did they know they had a choice? That they could all walk away right now, and he wouldn't hold it against any of them? Jet would stay. He didn't really know why. The man could do anything, but yet here he was. Loyal to the last. And Wrench would stay. The little trash-can didn't really have much of a choice. Fel had tried to tell the old R2 to leave on countless occasions, but the little droid had thrown his lot in with him, and he had no choice in it. He wasn't sure about Zane and Aellyn. They were smart enough to go. They had reason enough to go. And they had reasons outside of this sardine can to live. He wouldn't have given them a hard time over it. Well -- Aellyn, yeah. But mostly because she deserved it.

He needed to be clearer about their chances. And about the consequences. And he needed to give them all a chance to think it over and opt out if they chose to. He looked at the bit scattered on the floor, and retrieved them. Searched for five minutes on hands and knees to find one of the static pulse adaptors, but finally retrieved it, and reassembled the Power5. He could have done it with his eyes closed. Almost did. Feeling the familiar weight slide home in its holster, he chided himself for such a moment. Couldn't afford that, when there were folks counting on him. He splashed a little water on his face, and headed for the bridge...

✨Beyond The Veil✨

KESSLER

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Location: Wouldn't you like to know? • Time: Dark of Night

Interactions: None. Better that way. • Mentions: None, but acting on behalf of the Iron Fangs

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He knew a place. He wasted no time, as there was nothing further to say. He called a guy he knew. Human. A no-questions-asked sort. Courier driver under contract to a big carrier, but possessed of just a plain white van. One of ten thousand on the road. Kessler moved quickly, up an old, rusty set of metal stairs that rained rivulets of rusty metal and dirt, caught in a single shaft of light streaming in through a broken window, to what had previously been an office or operating control centre of sorts. Broken glass, and broken equipment littered the floor, along with a filthy old mattress, and fifteen years worth of bad decisions and broken dreams. He glanced for a long moment at dry condoms, empty whiskey bottles, blackened spoons and hypodermics full of death, before spotting what he was after: A row of lockers on one wall. And inside one of them, an ancient coverall, emblazoned with the logo of the former canning factory, long shuttered.

He stripped off the remnants of his clothes from the evening's mission and put on the coverall, tying it at the waist, and then donning his cut over his bare chest, pulling his combat boots back on, leaving them untied. Spying a ripped tarp in the corner, previously trying in vain to redirect rain from one of many holes in the roof, he grabbed that up and shook it out once before bunching it up under his arm and descending once more to Logan's body, wrapping him carefully, even lovingly in the tarp, careful to watch his head, lifting it gently.

At some point the others had continued about their business, leaving him to his task. Or Dom was watching from somewhere close by. It didn't matter. Kessler went about his every action as if the entire pack were judging him. (weren't they, always?) He moved reverently, making sure the mess, the site was clean of their movements, their presence. Whoever had done this to Logan didn't care to cover their tracks... he did. He used what was left of his clothing, made sure there were no viable tracks. Waited as patiently as he could for the courier to arrive, which he did, about ten minutes later, the big E250 rumbled to a halt at the corner of the building five hundred yards away, and Kessler waved him over.

Once he had confirmed the man's identity, the same Caribbean laconic nod, the same slouch hat set on a relaxed angle across his forehead. He had brought the supplies Kessler had asked for, and he retrieved these from the back doors. The driver merely sat in his van, hands visible, engine running, lights off, while Kessler worked. The bleach would destroy the blood samples. The gasoline would ensure there was nothing left. He moved Logan's body to the back of the van, rolled it up in one of the sheets of roofing plastic that had been supplied. Walked back to the scene of the murder, lit a cigarette, and lit the fire with the remnants of the match. He watched it burn until there was nothing left. The fire would burn itself out in another five minutes. Time to go.

He moved back toward the van, closing the back doors, and stepped to the passenger's door. "Let's go." The driver nodded, waiting while Kessler climbed in. He had been thinking it all along. He knew the perfect spot. And he gave the driver the briefest of directions, simply bluntly pointing him in the general direction using highway locators and exits, and then staring out the side window, making no smalltalk whatsoever. It was how they had navigated these waters before. The driver asks no questions, he gats paid well, for (usually) very little work. It would be another twenty minutes before they arrived at the spot Kessler was thinking of, and in those long minutes, he was lost in his own thoughts.

He was trying to recall how he knew this spot, how he knew it still existed, though he was certain he hadn't been there in this life. And when in the last? Not anytime recently, that was for sure. He vaguely recalled a swing. A chain-link fence. Rusty even then. And the lights of the city. He remembered the lights. Everything came back in short, lightning-quick blasts of memory, and he wasn't even sure how he knew to direct the driver. But he did. Even when the driver nearly made a wrong turn, Kessler was able to quietly, calmly correct him. "No, it's to the right." They arrived in the dead of night, and though he hadn't been there in who-knows-how-long, he knew instinctually when they were 'there.' Knew it was a five minute walk to the tree. He told the driver to wait there, while he walked up the slope with Logan's body over his shoulder, with the same level of exertion as if he were carrying his Telecaster to the gig.

When he arrived at the spot, he simply stood, with Logan over his shoulder, staring out at the city. The rusted remnant of the chain-link fencepost, the cinderblock foundations of a small structure poking out of the overgrown grass and thicket. It was the perfect place. He could smell the city, but it was all laid out beneath him like a dream. Far enough away that Logan would be sheltered from its vices and held away from its flame. For a time, he agonized over how he knew this place, but ultimately it didn't matter. Setting Logan down on the ground, he walked back down to the van, to have one more word with the driver. "Give me an hour. Come back to get me. Here--" he handed the driver a couple hundred bucks. "go get a coffee or something." He watched the courier go, and trudged back to the top of the hill, starting to dig with his bare hands. The ground was an odd mix of clay and shale, rocky gravel and he went through it with his claws, tears streaming down his face, bloody knuckles tearing at the earth, digging like the fucking dog he was. At some point he removed his cut, sweat and dirt glistening on his strapping frame. Alone with his memories of Logan, and the father-figure he was when Kessler needed one. The rage seethed under the surface, he was ready for the hunt, ready to make the ones that had stolen his father away from him —- or more a father than his own had ever been —- pay dearly. The rage focussed his energy, focussed his actions. When he finally stood from the grave, the blood ran freely from wounds that were already closing. Sometimes, just sometimes, Kessler wished the scars were easier to keep. He wanted to bleed for Logan.

He walked back down to the waiting van, around to the driver's side, sweat streaming down his face, breathing heavily. The driver had the window down, and the heavy scent of weed billowed from the front window. Kessler moved to the driver's window, raised an eyebrow at the joint hanging from the man's lips. He passed it to Kessler, who took a long drag. "Give me a hand for a minute?" The man nodded slowly, understanding. They walked up the hill together, and within sight of the tree, and the moon looking down on them from the heavens, Kessler tore the man's throat out. He buried them in the twin graves he had dug with his own sweat and blood. Logan was laid to rest in his kutte. He was a little sorry for what had become of the human man, who had dutifully helped him on several occasions... but there were things the man could not unsee. It was cleaner this way. No traces. He didn't say anything over Logan's grave. That would come later. He walked back down to the van, and drove himself back into the city, stopping at the border of Warden territory and nowhere, in a back alley, using the last of the gasoline supplied by the Courier to set the van alight. Disappearing into the nightwas an easy enough thing to do for a monster like him.

It was time to head to Church.

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

The food was hot, and quite tasty. The best food the UA’s galley had seen in months. Surely since he and Jet had taken the time to make their own Scrimpi, that had been good eats, but this eclipsed that, by far. The smells of the meat and fresh veg mingling, and the fresh bread to accompany the meal, soon drew most of the crew from their bunks – except Jet, for the time being. For that, Fel was grateful. He thought for a moment about waiting until he had joined them, but he’d get caught up easily enough. A promise was a promise, and he had said he would tell them about the next gig, sooner than later.

He activated the display behind the dejarik table, and cast to it from his datapad, clinking his cup for those in attendance. “Aellyn, thank you for the eats. Damn good, and that’s no lie. I promised you all a discussion about our next job, once we got paid off from Abilene.” He drew out two cred chits and tossed them on the table. “One for you, kid… and one for Aellyn. Thirty-large, each – and that’s just from the Kolto we sold her. Jet and I gave up most of our cut. Wish it was more. But afore we stepped into this last job, I knew most of the take was in the promise of better work on the back end of taking from Vinoor Kara. And Abilene has come through on her end. Whatever she might think of me, she kept her word.” He clicked the datapad, and an image materialized on the screen. “This is the Helix.”

It was a uniquely circular space station, orbiting a planetoid so vibrant a swirl of colours it was almost not to be believed. There was a central hub, with a dozen or more spokes leading out to an outer ‘ring’ of docking bays and ports. It was too sleek, too clean to be very old. “Casino to the well-heeled, hotel to the high-rollers. We’re going to knock it over, shake out the coin.”

He looked from Aellyn to Zane, and back again, both wearing inscrutable faces. He would’ve paid good credits to know what the two of ‘em were thinking. If Jet had been there, the look on his face would have told him some of what he wanted to know. Jet was always better at reading folks than he was. Fel knew the plan was risky, but for him at least, it was worth the risk. “Any day of the week, this would be low-seven-figures for us. Once or twice a month, high-seven-figures. But I’m not interested in stealing from the Helix. Well… I am, but it wouldn’t be my first choice target normally. This particular day – two weeks from today, in case you were wondering – the take could be anywhere from fifteen, to thirty million.” Faces remained ‘quietly concerned.’ He continued on. “The reason this is a good target for us is that on that day, there will be a number of Imperial bigwigs at the Helix, presumably there to do some good old-fashioned gambling. But the reality is, they’re there to buy off the Prime Minister of Byllun-Prime. The Empire needs something that Byllun-Prime has, not sure what or why, but I’m told the pay-off is in cold, hard credits, and to the tune of near sixty million. We intercept the deal. We also take everything the casino has – as cover for the main course… or as insurance to make security look the other way… you be the judge. Either way, it’s long money. High stakes.”

He waited to see if there were immediate questions, but it seemed everyone was still swallowing this news. He smiled, and continued. “Way I see it, we need two ‘faces’ in the casino. ‘High Rollers’ there for a good time, but actually, to intercept codes and access passes for the casino, and to aid and distract from within. Aellyn, we’ll need to hire you an ace in the hole to be your partner on the inside. And unless you happen to be the very best of the best Sabaac shark in the ‘verse, we’ll also need to make a stop on ‘Shaddaa to hire Morrik Venn, so that he can whisper sweet nothings into your ear from the safety of the UA, and guide your hand in the Sabaac tournament.” The name would be familiar, but Fel cast the picture of the Zabrak, as well as the near-human guise of the Prime Minister of Byllun-Prime, Olis Aven, onto the screen. “Zane, I’m going to need you to go undercover in the hotel of the Helix, to get into the Imperial Commandant’s quarters and retrieve what I need in order to steal the Imperial Shuttle. Jet will run security and interference backstage. He and I will need to keep a pretty low-pro, as we’ve both got histories with both the Republic, and the Empire, to say nothing of Rap Sheets… which exclude us from being in the spotlight. ‘Sides… look at us. We’re way too ugly to look much like high-rollers. There’s only so much ugly that makeup can cover. I just want to make sure we get the best shot at success we can get here. ”

The door to the galley hissed open. Jet stepped through, moving slow but steady, the weight of the day still settling into his bones. His hair was slicked back from his face, water still dripping now and again down his jaw. A plain tank top clung damply to his frame, thrown on without much care after the struggle of one-handed dressing. The bare line of his shoulder was exposed where the prosthetic would normally hang, the skin still faintly red from the heat of the shower.

He hesitated just inside the doorway, breathing in the thick scent of stew, meat, and garlic. For a moment, the corner of his mouth tugged upward, a quiet smile breaking through the tired lines of his face. It was small, but it was real. His gaze found Fel, and Jet gave a small, deliberate nod as he crossed the room. No words. Just a quiet acknowledgment of something heavier than he had the energy to name.

Fel smiled at his oldest friend. “We’re goin’ fishin’ for Imperial dollars, Jet. We’re hittin’ the Helix.” Nothing of what he had said, was said without the weight it was due. Fel knew how difficult this was, how much he was asking of them all, but he was also feeling positive, feeling good about their chances. (and why not? Nothing had a chance to go wrong – yet.)

Jet’s eyes drifted to the display, following the slow spin of the station, his expression largely unreadable. The corner of his mouth twitched, just a little, too dry to be a smile, but too wry to be anything else.

[colour=ff0000=“Of course it’s the Helix.. Why wouldn’t it be?”[/colour] Jet moved to the table, sliding into a chair with a careful, tired ease. The worn surface creaked faintly under his weight as he settled back, his arm resting along the edge. Jet looked at the bowls and the scattered remnants of the meal, then raised an eyebrow, voice low and rough with sleep. "Please tell me there’s still some left,” he said, his eyes flicking over the others at the table before landing on the screen.

It took a few moments to fully comprehend what Fel was laying out to them. She thought the star destroyer was risky but this was another level. Her thoughts broke as Jet joined them.. She watched as he scanned the table, it was obvious he was searching for food before he proclaimed it. “Yeah, of course.” Aellyn mentioned, sliding out of her own chair and stepping toward the stove. Grabbing a bowl, she fixed a large size portion. Leaving enough for a few more bowls if anyone else wanted another helping. She then set the bowl in front of Jet to enjoy. It didn’t take long for him to begin digging in, thanking Aellyn with a small nod and a warm smile.

Aellyn continued to look at the screen, displaying the casino. “ Do we have an idea on who the other guests might be, other than this Prime Minister you mentioned?” She only asked because of the high imperial officers that could be around. It’s risky enough to show her face plus right after the Basilisk heist, it would be worse.

Fel had been given scant little intel with their “payment” from Abilene. He knew what the average take at the Helix would be. He had a general groundplan (not even a terribly detailed one) of the facility. He knew when the buy would be going down with the Imperials and the delegation from Byllun-Prime, and what that would do to the bottom line of their take (within a few hundred thousand – part of it was guesswork on the part of whoever had sliced the intelligence.) All else was up to them to uncover. They had two weeks to dig up what they could. “Nope. No idea. I assume they’ll have a detachment of advisors or council-members, depending on their system of government, and a detachment of guards… but that’s just a guess. There are enough intel brokers on ‘Shaddaa that we should be able to turn over enough stones to get that information, and more.”

Aellyn rubbed the back of her neck. “That’s fair. I might know someone who could help get us intel but I’ll need the holonet. At least to help us get started on that front. “

Fel nodded. “Makes sense, Aellyn. I have a few contacts on ‘Shaddaa, can likely help with getting us some answers. Lorn Pellian, or Lillia Kale might be of help to us.”

Jet set his bowl aside, then leaned back slightly in his seat. He hadn’t motioned to make a sound again since sitting down, his eyes locked on the holodisplay while filling himself with the best food he’d had in a very long time.

While the others talked, he’d been watching the station continue to spin, tracking the likely rotation of the station, the angle of the docking arms, the spacing between support struts. He wasn’t thinking about the Sabacc tables or the credit vault just yet, he was thinking about power routes, ventilation systems, fallback paths. Where they likely could slip in, unseen. As well as where they might vanish to if things, more than likely, went to hell.

”It’s ambitious. Place like that? They shine so damn bright they cast their own shadows.” He cleared his throat, the food still settling in his stomach. ”I’ve not seen many worse gigs. If we’re doing this.. We gotta do it right, but we prep like it’s already gone wrong.”

Fel knew it was a serious statement, and needed to be treated as such…but he couldn’t help himself. “I mean…it’s us. Doesn’t that mean going wrong is a foregone conclusion?”

Jet gave Fel a long stare, one complemented with a smile. The look he’d likely given Fel a hundred times. The one that said ‘Don’t jinx it’ while also being humoured by his dry witticism.

Zane had been thoughtfully (and gratefully) chewing on his stew and turning his cred chit from the Abilene job over in his hands while soaking in all of the proposed situation. So much of what Fel and the others were talking about was over the boy’s head, and even his part in the plot seemed like something well outside of his wheelhouse. But, the kid had some experience in getting into places he shouldn’t. With the right tools and someone that could teach him, slipping into an Imp’s room shouldn’t be too much of a gamble. There were a few things rattling around in his mind, however, that he felt as though he would need some answers for.

Slipping his hand up in the air sheepishly, he waited until Fel’s eyes were on him - giving the kid the most incredulous look he could muster - before finally asking his questions, ”Okay, so…I don’t know much of nothin’ about casinos. Just what I’ve heard from some o’the Junkers on Lotho. But, uh…don’t these places usually have some pretty hefty security? With that many creds floatin’ around, I would think they’d have a whole slew o’fellas–” He caught a glimpse of Aellyn, and added, ”– a-and ladies - who’ll be watchin’ everything like a hungry grek, right? Not to mention tech out the choobs that’ll make our lives miserable…”

Fel was impressed. Kid was asking the right questions. He wished he could answer him, without sounding like a wise-ass. “Yep. They sure will, Kid. You’re right on every count. That’s why we got two weeks to figure as much as we can, before we even set foot on that spinning wheel.”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

KESSLER

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Location: Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Nightfall

Interactions: @Oso @Infinite Cosmos • Mentions: @Oso, @Infinite Cosmos

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He stood there, in the dank, rotten abattoir that reeked of death and Logan in equal measure. He could smell his struggle, his torture, the bitter scent of defeat and loss. He stood there in his tattered clothes, ripped and ruined from his earlier endeavours, and for the first time in a long time felt ill-at-ease with how dishevelled he must have looked. One of his pant-legs was ripped off at the thigh. His shirt was little more than a rag, all of it bloody. Only his kutte was spared the destruction of the past hour. Small mercies. He never would have come before Logan this way. Dom, yeah. There was little to no judgement from Dom. Not for doing the job, at least. But Logan had expected them all to be better than they were. To rise above, if not in station, in action. He stood there with the girl's blood on him, and his own, adding to the stench of the place, and wished it hadn't been this way. After but a moment, he realized he couldn't move. Couldn't act, as he was transfixed by the sight, his senses. To have moved from where he was rooted, would have been to give in to the blood lust. To act on instinct, and tear limb from limb. To find the root of this evil, and dig it up with his bare hands.

What was before him, was no way for any of their pack to die. It was undignified. It wasn't a warrior's death, and Logan had most certainly been that, and so much more. Images and memories came rushing to him of the kind, fatherly mentor and guide Logan had been for him in his early years. If Dom had been a companion, an older brother and a yardstick to measure his own accomplishments against, Logan had been the wise sensei, a father on occasion, a calm centre to a place that could be wild and unpredictable, but also a fearless hunter, a ruthless tactician, and a damn good friend.

He found his emotions overtaking him, and fought to maintain control. His claws were out, and Kessler kept his hands balled into massive, powerful, dangerous fists until the claws dug into flesh, nearly protruding from the other side of his hands, and blood ran freely from his clenched meat. His digits swelled around the rings he wore, adding to the pain. He could feel the change in his jaw and shoulders, teeth extending, jaw cracking, reforming. He held it in check, allowing just enough of the change to envelope him that it hurt. Hurt badly. The pain was amplified when you fought it. He wanted it to hurt. He needed the pain. The pain informed many of his reactions, allowed the tears to fall.

Tilting his head back, he howled. An ungodly thing to hear, all barrel chest and unbridled power, pushing from diaphragm to throat, the howl was likewise centred in the current duality of his form, equal parts his human bass, and partly the beast within. It spoke plainly of anguish, pain, loss and betrayal. And rage. So much seething rage, he hoped the perpetrators of this crime were stupid enough to be nearby to shit their collective pants when his cry pierced their eardrums and told them that death was coming to collect.

The howl spoke all the things that Kessler might've said if he were prone to speaking his mind. Though it would be only dimly understood by non-Lycans -- intent more than direct translation, to those that mattered to him -- namely Dominic, and Lucian, it would be as clear a treatise as any human dialogue. When he was finished, the howl lasting far longer than the capacity of his lungs would seem to allow, he reverted fully to his human form, taking a deep breath to centre himself, before looking to his palms, seeing the wounds there receding already, and wiped the blood, his own, across his forehead and under his eyes like war-paint. Marking himself for the hunt to come.

He received the bottle from Lucian, and took a short swig. He squeezed, breaking the bottle into long shards, and pocketed one of the pieces, tossing the rest of the mess against the far wall, over a hundred paces distant, adding to the rest of the debris strewn through the old warehouse. He finally spoke, and though it wasn't to anyone in particular, there was no mistaking whose ears it was meant for. Together they would devise a way to unleash hell on those who had done this, and together they would see it out. His voice was mostly growl, tainted with disgust and anger at the horrible deed that lay before them.

"The motherfuckers... An eye for an eye won't cleanse this. This is a declaration of war. This ends any notion of peace." He was calculated, calm, though the rage was bubbling under the surface. Held at bay by the need to do right by his pack, and his dead friend. He stooped, getting close to the body, letting his razor-sharp senses do their job, equal parts forensic lab-rat and savage bloodletter. "No scent of vamp here. Faint human traces, but that could be circumstantial. There's a lot of wolf here, too. Maybe too much to be all from Logan." He paused, letting that settle in, or rather - unsettle. Didn't mean nothin'. Vamps could have covered their trail. Or bought off others to do their bidding. It seemed too big a hit for Wardens, but they'd been getting bolder. The idea that rival Lycans could have had anything to do with this nearly made his gorge rise. But the play to be made was Dom's choice. He stood, and turned to the two pack-members in silent question. The question was obvious: What now? "Word of this will be all over the Gutter by morning. If we're going to move, it has to be soon." He caught Lucian's eye, before stepping closer to Dominic. "At your word, Dom... anything."

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Kessler

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Location: 'The Eclipse' • Time: Dusk + 5 min

Interactions: None that matter • Mentions: @Oso Dom

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He fucking hated this shithole. The people, the "music," the watered-down drinks. Nightlife was a blur around him, as revellers shuffled, danced, gyrated, swayed, undulated to the rhythms of another nameless, faceless, soulless EDM track. He was the still centre to this drug-induced psychosis set to pounding bass. His back to the bar, the man downed another whiskey, calmly watching his mark move with friends (or were they simply casual acquaintances, or better yet, complete strangers?) on the dancefloor, a shock of black hair and a set of killer abs, bound to hips that knew they were the centre of any red-blooded male (and more than a few females') attention. In his mind's eye, he leaned, still, ready to make his attack, while everyone around him seemed to move at 2.5X speed. One more whiskey, while his mark seemed to favour vodka-soda's and bumps of the fine white. All this, he took in. More than a few women approached his impossibly broad, lean mass. More than a few were quietly turned away. No, he only had eyes for her. And when he made his move, she was swept off her feet.

His hand, seemingly the size of her ribcage, snaking around her waist. Her hips pulled tight against his midsection. A purr of unabashed arousal from her, unheard by the meat-sacks of the crowd, but easily picked up by his keen senses. Her heartrate. Her body temperature. Moving together now, coming apart and back together where it mattered most. Her hand now, touching his thigh, reaching for his chest, his waist, his abs, that place where their bodies met. She was tiny next to his frame, and while others might have craved her attention, his mass was like a shield to their advances, simultaneously blotting out their clumsy, drunken desires, while allowing the mark to feast on sensation from his thighs his hands, his lips, his need for her.

She was captured by his presence, the scent of her desire and the glaze of her eyes telling him everything he needed to know. The way she gyrated and moved against him, if she could have mounted him right there on the dance floor, she would have. And that was exactly how he wanted her. He lost himself to the beat, moving with her for song after song, until one beat blended smoothly into another, and another.

Some time later, he moved fluidly out from the back door of the Eclipse, into the rainy night air, the mark stuck to the front of his imposing figure, inhaling his tongue, her hands traversing his features, running over the front of his jeans, over his chest. "I want it..." she cooed into his ear, teeth pulling on his lobe, hands hanging around his neck. "And you're going to get it..." the deep, rumbling voice promised, seductively, darkly. They kissed for a few moments, before the man parted from her, sitting astride the black bike that waited there. She straddled the seat, facing him and sliding her ass half-up onto the tank, sitting backward to get closer and wrapping her legs around him, feeling the heat from his core, reaching for what she wanted most. "My place isn't far..." he growled as she unbuckled his belt, letting herself into his pants. She kissed him, sucking on his lower lip as he kicked the big bike to life, the throaty roar of the V-twin drowning out the oaths she swore to him as she sucked on his neck, his ear, her small hands finding what they sought out.

They rocketed off, roaring into the night, the headlight cutting a swath of clarity through the gloom. Her shirt was soaked, as was his dark satin button-down, clinging to his vast, broad musculature. Faster. She was lost to her inebriation, and the need coursing through her veins. Faster. This bike wasn't his usual steed. Some version of the new 'Low Rider.' But being well-versed in bikes for most of his life had made this one easy enough to steal. It was new, in all the ways that was both good, and bad. It didn't shake as badly as his Pan, but it also didn't give as much feedback. Faster. It was easier to maneuver, and was much lighter, but to someone with the strength that Kessler possessed, that was of minimal importance. Ultimately, it was well-suited to his purposes.

The mark was mostly holding on with her legs around his waist, while alternately laying back against the tank to grind against him, and then sitting up to get her hands in his hair, and press the pert, youthful meat of her chest against his while throwing her head back to feel the rush of wind in her face, while enjoying every second of the vibration of the thundering motorcycle against her core. Faster. He knew exactly where they were going. There was forever construction going on near the 'Shroud.' And if not actually construction, hoarding up around condemned buildings and slums, to keep trespassers out. He knew of a place. The perfect place. A scaffolding had gone up around Gideon's Pawn Broker's because the brickwork on the near ninety-year-old structure was in danger of falling apart, and apparently, someone, somewhere was half-heartedly willing to do some work to it. But not tonight.

Faster.

Her tongue was in his mouth, the rain slicking both their faces, while her hand moved salaciously against him, in his pants. It was fast enough. He couldn't see the gauge, but they must have been doing near sixty-five. He let his hands slide from the bars, steering with his body weight, before finally looking up to see that they had reached their destination. He gripped her hair, wrenching her head back, and off his mouth, before sliding off the back of the low seat, rolling into the street, sending the bike careening toward the scaffolding. Hitting the ground hard, he felt bones break, pavement eat his skin, joints dislocate. In the distance there was a sickening, twisting noise as metal sheared off, tore, and groaned as the scaffolding structure bent and sagged after the horrifyingly brutal collision.

He lay there a moment, until he felt strong enough to begin the process. Muscles flexed, bones popping and reforming, and he even groaned aloud as his spine took its former place, holding his structure secure and stable. Standing, he looked around to see there were no witnesses, or at least none stupid enough to stay around. His shirt was ruined, his pants torn. Walking back to the bike, he looked around for a moment before finding his saddlebag, flung off into the street. He retrieved it, and pulled his kutte free, putting its familiar skin against his own.

He stepped toward the crash site once more, watching as the mark breathed her last, her twisted, broken form impaled by no fewer than three scaffolding beams, her skull crushed and back badly broken, left leg severed at mid-thigh. There was a lot of blood, and for just a moment, Kessler wondered if the punishment had fit the crime. Don't sell information to the Wardens. Pretty simple.

Throwing his saddlebags over his shoulder, he felt the shock-proofed, armoured pocket within vibrate, and he reached in to withdraw his phone. Dom. He turned his back on the "accident" and made directly for the abandoned warehouse.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Kessler

Basic Information

Name: Damon Kessler
Nickname(s): 'The Jackal'
Age: 88 (51 years as a Lycan)
Gender: Male
Birthday: January 6th
Race: Lycan. In human form, he is Caucasian (looks maybe a little Turkish, or Greek, or Eastern European... )
Rank/Status Title (if any): Not the Alpha, but a trusted and capable (and intelligent) soldier, and a (thus far) loyal ally to the Iron Fangs. (Maybe one day, Beta.)

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Appearance

Height: 6'5" in Human form, a little over 7' in hybrid wolf / human form.
Build: heavily muscled, broad-shouldered, rugged.
Eye Color: pale blue in Human form
Hair Color & Style: dark brown, militaristic cut, full beard
Skin Tone: olive-complexioned
Notable Marks: GSW scarring on shoulder blades, abs and back, scarring from fights on arms, keeps ritual scarring (some would call it 'cutting') on his chest to count those kills made for the pack.
Typical Clothing Style: functional, easy to move in. Favours the informal, worn in, familiar.
Aura/First Impression: strong, silent type. If he speaks, the pack tends to listen though. Ever the good soldier.
Voice: Mads Mikkelsen

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Psychology

Hobbies/Interests
✦ scrimshaw. He often makes time for carving from his victims' bones (if retrieving a bone shard is feasible.)
✦ Blues guitar. He has a semi-regular gig at a joint called 'Suds,' a forgotten little bar on Shroud Ave.
✦ He's actually a pretty good cook, though few would know it.
Likes
✦ Good music, badly played. Or Bad music, well-played.
✦ The occasional cigar.
✦ Ensuring his Pack's place in the world, via whatever means are necessary.
Dislikes
✦ Cowardice.
✦ Dancehall music.
✦ Unfortunately, most of the females in the Pack. Not their fault. Just never really hit it off with them. Good warriors, skilled, valuable pack members. Just never found he was very compatible with them.
Fears
✦ Drowning. (it was how his sister died. He has been irrationally fearful ever since.)
✦ Letting the Fangs down.
✦ Dying alone, without a mate.
Habits
✦ Seeks out items from his childhood, specifically coins from his birth (and 'rebirth') years, 1937 and 1975.
✦ always keeps a 1937 British George VI half crown coin in his pocket, worn almost flat and devoid of detail after so many years.
Vices
✦ visiting the whorehouses of the Gutterdark. Maybe not for exactly the reasons you might imagine.
✦ 'enjoying' his powers, and his job for the pack a little too much. He is aware of it, of his bloodlust, and is attempting to be mindful of his zeal.

Core Motivation: Find a love. Support the Pack. Find his place in Halcyon, whatever that means. (secretly: Find meaning, a purpose in life bigger than the pack, or something other than the pack he'd gladly trade his life for. )

Personality Overview: Kessler is the good soldier. He is there whenever the pack needs him. He is dedicated, loyal to a fault, nearly fearless, driven / determined, and gets results. It is not typically Kessler's job to speak. He prefers it that way. Privately, he speaks with a few members of the pack, but he prefers to keep quiet. The problem with the good soldier is, sometimes there isn't much more in their lives. He's a bit lonely, though he's rarely alone. He struggles with his Human past, and the memories that occasionally invade. He has a troubled range of emotions when it comes to Humans, even Wardens.

He does what he does, because he is very good at it, and because it is expected of him, and because he loves Dominic like a brother, and his pack are his family. Does he believe in 'the cause?' Maybe. Does he see right and wrong in the Pack's actions, or his own? Maybe. Maybe not. He wants change, and sometimes, just sometimes, sees himself as an agent of change -- but for better, or worse? These are the thoughts that he thinks on, long after the lights are out, and the claws are away.

---

Relationships and Reputation

Openness to Friendship (1-5): 2
Openness to Romance (1-5): 3
Romantic Preferences: (casual/flirty or serious/trusting, none at all,etc.) Casual, open, trusting, but with zero strings. The pack comes first (so far.)
Current Romantic Interests (if any): None.
View on Forbidden Relationships: (Officially) against. (Privately) open.
Biggest Turn-ons:
✦ Someone powerful. Someone who can match him, physically and sexually.
✦ Someone who could challenge him intellectually.
✦ Loyalty.
Biggest Turn-offs:
✦ Frivolity, or displays of excess.
✦ A lack of principles.
✦ Vanilla.
How They Handle Love: It has been a long time... he barely remembers. The last time didn't exactly... end well.
Reputation Among Their Race/Faction: Rock-solid. Trusted. An ally you want beside you. But not necessarily the guy you go for a beer with after work.
Relationship with the Glamour: A luxury for those who can't control their urges, or clean up their messes.
Known Enemies: TBD
Known Friends TBD (the pack, Dominic.)
Known Family Members: His human family? Dead, as far as he knows.

---

Background

Current Occupation: Enforcer.
Level of Schooling(if any): As a human -- community college, studied to be a history teacher, post-secondary level. As a Lycan? A keen student of their own history.
Past Occupations (if any): Motorcycle mechanic, teacher.
Socioeconomic Status: The pack will provide. (The better end of low-class. Keeps a room in a lodging house in the Gutter.)
History Summary: Turned sometime in his 38th year (he recalls very little of the events leading up to the turning, and his Human life before is muddled and indistinct. Memories are disjointed and unclear. Like dreams. (Open to determining who turned him, and whether they are still alive, or not.) He was nursed back to health by a pack that no longer exists, and never truly found acceptance by that pack, due to his non-pureblood background. Even the Iron Claws (the few who know,) see him as less than, because he wasn't born, he was turned. It is subtle, and he has more than proved his worth, time and again.

Kess has known Dom for nearly 50 years. Has fought and bled with him since the dawn of his new life, has seen him grow to be a fine Alpha, most certainly someone who can stir people’s spirit, engender a willingness to sacrifice, to go the extra mile. Kess loves his Alpha like a brother, would literally do anything for him. (Note: Kessler does not really recall how or why he was turned. Dom knows the truth of it, but it has never come out.) Kess has no interest in being an alpha. Especially if it meant stepping over Dom. Dominic is the leader the people of the Gutter —- his people — need.

Race-Specific Questions

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▸ Lycans:
✦Born or Turned? Turned. By a former Alpha.
✦Reaction to Full Moon: Revels in his power. (So far) sees no downside or limits to his abilities and waning, minimal remorse for his actions.
✦Pack Loyalty Level: 100% (but questions the notion of the 'forbidden' love, and would alter his loyalty for a mate, or for an undeserving Alpha...)
✦Views on Mortals: Tries to recall his life as a mortal. Struggles with his past, and reconciling his current status vs. his former self. Pities them, even the Wardens, to a degree.
✦Views on Vampires: Kill 'em all.
✦Views on Fae: Distrusts, avoids.

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Miscellaneous

Theme Song: 'Lenny.'
Favorite Food: Steak. Bloody.
Favorite Animal(s): Kessler isn't really an 'animal' person, but oddly, there are a host of stray cats in his neighbourhood, and he puts food out for all of them. They all hiss at him, distrustful of his Lycan scent, but he cares for them just the same.
Favorite Music Genre: Delta Blues.
Favorite Haunt (location): The Sundown, Blood Market Row, Suds.
Signature Weapon (if any): twin reverse-curved blades, like Kukri.
Preferred Vices: Redheads.
Guilty Pleasure: see 'preferred vices.'

Beyond The Veil Interest Check

Link to the main thread?

Beyond The Veil Interest Check

Please join the discord

@Helo @Sadie @JJ Doe @ShiningSector @ReusableSword@Infinite Cosmos@deegee@Ithradine@Manzanilla@Mole@Passable Writer@Ctenoid Soul @enmuni@TokyoPewPew

@princess

Done!! (Can’t see anything though… no channels, no members…)

Beyond The Veil Interest Check

Colour me very interested... But in which faction... remains to be seen...