I've been watching the OOC since I voiced my interested and pitched my character, so if a spot pops up, let me know.
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Choppers and the like were for tough and guys who liked to wear leather jackets and hang out with other tough guys enjoying the company of their other tough guy male companions. Makorai's bike was a different machine from the fashion over function variety you'd see on the street. It was a dual-sport, an off-road bike with tires to handle the hot pavement, and the grassy hills the sniper favoured when he was out of the city. Complete with enough trappings to make it street legal.
Not that it was street legal of course, he hadn't paid for it to be licensed in quite some years.
Makorai had torn out of the gate, his body was the balance, the ballast, thrown to the opposite side of the bike, white knuckling the handlebars as he threw the thing to the ground, forcing the bike left while hitting speeds that threatened critical injuries if he lost control.
He brought the machine back up, and accelerated, raking his along its frame as he bobbed and weaved through the vehicles heading toward the disaster. Luckily, but predictably, most of the traffic was heading away from the Jotun. Not towards it.
His hand felt into his jacket, and he withdrew his cell phone, he dialed without looking.
The conversation was brief. A friend of his said she, and the other masons were okay. Jotun had left, gone down Highlands Boulevard from what she had heard.
Rather than indicate he was turning left, he just increased spead and swung over into the other lane. That's when he saw her. Like an earth-borne comet he saw a streak of familiar color rush over his head, and into the general vicinity that he was traveling in.
Spirits, if she could do that..
Makorai's bike slowed to a cruising speed as he rounded off onto one of the poorer districts of the city. Minus the wanton destruction he expected, it was near impossible to gauge where the Jotun was exactly. Eye witness had placed the Jotun here but...
"HEY" He yelled.He was at below cruising speed now, yelling amidst the sirens.
"I don't know what the hell you want!, But I'll give it to you if you come out! Let's fucking talk! Have a drink! I know you Jotun can talk!"
His vocal chords strained as he raised his pitch above the background noise.
He steadied the bike with one hand, and retrieved his bottle from the folds of his jacket. He uncorked it, and took a generous gulp. "OR ARE CIVILIANS EASIER PREY FOR A COWARDLY GIANT?!"
He parked for a moment, and discharged his weapon into the air, it wasn't a rifle round, so there was neither stench nor sound of gunpowder. It was a flare round, sailing high into the sky, and exploding into a cascade of red.
Not that it was street legal of course, he hadn't paid for it to be licensed in quite some years.
Makorai had torn out of the gate, his body was the balance, the ballast, thrown to the opposite side of the bike, white knuckling the handlebars as he threw the thing to the ground, forcing the bike left while hitting speeds that threatened critical injuries if he lost control.
He brought the machine back up, and accelerated, raking his along its frame as he bobbed and weaved through the vehicles heading toward the disaster. Luckily, but predictably, most of the traffic was heading away from the Jotun. Not towards it.
His hand felt into his jacket, and he withdrew his cell phone, he dialed without looking.
The conversation was brief. A friend of his said she, and the other masons were okay. Jotun had left, gone down Highlands Boulevard from what she had heard.
Rather than indicate he was turning left, he just increased spead and swung over into the other lane. That's when he saw her. Like an earth-borne comet he saw a streak of familiar color rush over his head, and into the general vicinity that he was traveling in.
Spirits, if she could do that..
Makorai's bike slowed to a cruising speed as he rounded off onto one of the poorer districts of the city. Minus the wanton destruction he expected, it was near impossible to gauge where the Jotun was exactly. Eye witness had placed the Jotun here but...
"HEY" He yelled.He was at below cruising speed now, yelling amidst the sirens.
"I don't know what the hell you want!, But I'll give it to you if you come out! Let's fucking talk! Have a drink! I know you Jotun can talk!"
His vocal chords strained as he raised his pitch above the background noise.
He steadied the bike with one hand, and retrieved his bottle from the folds of his jacket. He uncorked it, and took a generous gulp. "OR ARE CIVILIANS EASIER PREY FOR A COWARDLY GIANT?!"
He parked for a moment, and discharged his weapon into the air, it wasn't a rifle round, so there was neither stench nor sound of gunpowder. It was a flare round, sailing high into the sky, and exploding into a cascade of red.
He didn't yell in surprise, and perhaps that was the strangest bit about his reaction. The effects of the sweetness were common indeed, the popularity of honey had done well to bring it, and its users into the familiarity of every day life in London. That did not however, detract from the fact that a person had materialized inches from Montana, and inevitably, onto his table. The couriers eyes had gone wide, pushing his eyebrows into a surprised expression that ended below the nose, where his mouth remained in its stoic line.
Something had slipped into his hand when she appeared. It was reflex more than anything else. Within second plus a beat he had studied her person. Her clothes, as brash as they were together, were well tailored, with the material boasting a thread count that exceeded what the average person could, or would care to afford. A noble of some measure or kind. This was deduced rather quickly, which lead to the something being put away.
Her sudden appearance had done more than startle him, she had gotten the attention of the entire room, which had, much to his displeasure, put him as the side act to her attention.
Montana placed his finger on the puddle of drink left behind by her descent, and lifted it slowly. He brought the finger to his lips, where he briefly tasted the small bit that had collected on his digit.
The woman who discerned the boys intention had come around to, her eyes offered an apology, and in response, he gave a small. slightly askew head nod.
"It seems you overshot into my, and my potential employees food." His voice was evenly toned.
"and the dinner choice you've given us afterward is hardly sufficient." He concluded, referencing her proximity to his plate.
Something had slipped into his hand when she appeared. It was reflex more than anything else. Within second plus a beat he had studied her person. Her clothes, as brash as they were together, were well tailored, with the material boasting a thread count that exceeded what the average person could, or would care to afford. A noble of some measure or kind. This was deduced rather quickly, which lead to the something being put away.
Her sudden appearance had done more than startle him, she had gotten the attention of the entire room, which had, much to his displeasure, put him as the side act to her attention.
Montana placed his finger on the puddle of drink left behind by her descent, and lifted it slowly. He brought the finger to his lips, where he briefly tasted the small bit that had collected on his digit.
The woman who discerned the boys intention had come around to, her eyes offered an apology, and in response, he gave a small. slightly askew head nod.
"It seems you overshot into my, and my potential employees food." His voice was evenly toned.
"and the dinner choice you've given us afterward is hardly sufficient." He concluded, referencing her proximity to his plate.
Montana had simply nodded and raised his glass a little higher in response to Jeffery's promise of aid in the future. While some people were filled with empty promise, this lad had a rather genuine quality to his personality, one that Montana appreciated, but also understood might land him into some trouble on London's streets. He doubted the young mercenary was unaware of the trouble such principles could bring, as it was a trait that had likely followed him since birth. Principles weren't things one had for convenience after all.
Just after Montana held this thought in his mind, he saw Jeffery notice the situation he had been watching with some interest for the past few minutes, and those same principles no doubt dictated that he get involved.
If his face wasn't such a mask of serenity, he might have blinked a few times at his request. 'Just go along with it', well, Montana had no one to blame but himself in his mind. He chose this table for it's proximity to the woman in red, who was without a doubt the most powerful creature within this room, and likely the surrounding area. That would mean should the person opposite turn around, he too would share the same view he did. Ah well.
Plausible deniability was the name of the game, but that allowed him to offer some help to the young merc, for one, he'd continue watching the situation, as that seemed like what a client would do, but as a client, it would be against character to get directly involved.
The woman however, with the soft grey eyes was the one to be wary during this little bit of theater. She was perceptive enough to notice the woman's bag had been looted, and he doubted her perception ended with catching skilled street urchins. Ultimately, the boy leaving peacefully would be decided with her. She would figure the story out for unlikely, but choose if she wished to take it further, or settle with returning the stolen goods.
However the third, and most dangerous player in this little game was that crimson woman. If the perspective one let them go, she still had the ability to act.
The courier idly sipped his drink, his dark eyes seemed more focused than before.
Just after Montana held this thought in his mind, he saw Jeffery notice the situation he had been watching with some interest for the past few minutes, and those same principles no doubt dictated that he get involved.
If his face wasn't such a mask of serenity, he might have blinked a few times at his request. 'Just go along with it', well, Montana had no one to blame but himself in his mind. He chose this table for it's proximity to the woman in red, who was without a doubt the most powerful creature within this room, and likely the surrounding area. That would mean should the person opposite turn around, he too would share the same view he did. Ah well.
Plausible deniability was the name of the game, but that allowed him to offer some help to the young merc, for one, he'd continue watching the situation, as that seemed like what a client would do, but as a client, it would be against character to get directly involved.
The woman however, with the soft grey eyes was the one to be wary during this little bit of theater. She was perceptive enough to notice the woman's bag had been looted, and he doubted her perception ended with catching skilled street urchins. Ultimately, the boy leaving peacefully would be decided with her. She would figure the story out for unlikely, but choose if she wished to take it further, or settle with returning the stolen goods.
However the third, and most dangerous player in this little game was that crimson woman. If the perspective one let them go, she still had the ability to act.
The courier idly sipped his drink, his dark eyes seemed more focused than before.
A lad such as this, he expected no less than brass tacks to measure what their conversation was about. The truth was complicated, and not easily explained without perhaps, baring a small part of himself to Jefferey, which wasn't something the older male was quite willing to do. His intentions weren't nefarious, but the wariness the traveling mercenary expressed, however lighthearted, was more than expected. Any person with a season under their belt would ask the same from his perspective. One group aside, from what he understood. The religious had a culture of simply accepting succor as divinely inspired, which mattered little to Montana either way. It was a simple observation.
"By virtue of you sitting across from me." He responded. An air of good humor surrounded him, but was kept somewhat at bay by his serious demeanor. "It would be unbecoming of me to order food and drink, and enjoy them in front of a road weary traveler."
He took another long drink from his glass, finally finishing it.
"Such is my nature. Conversation is perhaps all I want, To answer your question? No, I do not have any business with you at this time Jeffery."
"Unless you have anything you'd like to ask."
"By virtue of you sitting across from me." He responded. An air of good humor surrounded him, but was kept somewhat at bay by his serious demeanor. "It would be unbecoming of me to order food and drink, and enjoy them in front of a road weary traveler."
He took another long drink from his glass, finally finishing it.
"Such is my nature. Conversation is perhaps all I want, To answer your question? No, I do not have any business with you at this time Jeffery."
"Unless you have anything you'd like to ask."
Montana's eyebrows lifted sightly as he watched the younger man across from him inhale his drink. He didn't seem off put by his actions, rather, a glimmer of humor seemed to dance on his face for a few moments. In contrast to Jeffery's first gulp, Montana raised the glass to his lips, and took a slower, smaller drink from his own. His story painted a firmer picture of his past. Generational sword meant fighting at the very least was in his family, with an heirloom that likely predated the use of modern firearms.
"They abased themselves the moment they drew steel against a more hardened weapon. I've found that the inexperienced noble often conflates expensive with practical."
His eyes moved back toward the woman in crimson, her companion had left her seat, and was moving to intercept the pickpocket. She was a perceptive one. Perhaps she'd be able to spare the urchin an unpleasant possible fate.
"I go by Enoch currently. I'm a courier, so switching names every so often comes with the business. Better I reach out to a client if I need work, than for clients to pursue me so easily."
"The regulars are as you say, fine, but I imagine you've encountered unsavoury characters that, working for once is an experience best not replicated."
Montana raised his hand, and ordered two more drinks. "Are you hungry Jeffery? I'm more fond of my own cooking, but the mushrooms prepared here aren't terrible." A second motion indicated some food for the table. A small helping between them.
"They abased themselves the moment they drew steel against a more hardened weapon. I've found that the inexperienced noble often conflates expensive with practical."
His eyes moved back toward the woman in crimson, her companion had left her seat, and was moving to intercept the pickpocket. She was a perceptive one. Perhaps she'd be able to spare the urchin an unpleasant possible fate.
"I go by Enoch currently. I'm a courier, so switching names every so often comes with the business. Better I reach out to a client if I need work, than for clients to pursue me so easily."
"The regulars are as you say, fine, but I imagine you've encountered unsavoury characters that, working for once is an experience best not replicated."
Montana raised his hand, and ordered two more drinks. "Are you hungry Jeffery? I'm more fond of my own cooking, but the mushrooms prepared here aren't terrible." A second motion indicated some food for the table. A small helping between them.
Montana briefly stood, and thanked their server for bringing them their drinks. He left his payment on the tray, along with a small bit of foreign currency, a few pounds by the looks of it, as a tip. He placed Jeffery's drink in front of him first, and his second. The other males surprise perhaps said a bit more than expected. It at the very least said kindness was not something he expected in London, or at least from a stranger, at least to Montana. Along with his weather marked look, he had obviously experienced the unkinder aspects of humanity during whatever journey he was on. It spoke of experience.
"My pleasure, and not at all, would be a bit presumptuous of me to be off-put by the wear and tear of travel."
Montana wiped the rim off his glass slowly, and gave his drink a small sip.
"I'm hesitant to potentially spoil a relaxing drink with talk of work, but I must say your choice of weapons leave me curious." In regards to the short sword he wore at his hip.
"Certainly more function than fashion."
His dark eyes settled on the boy who had undoubtedly been caught by the glamour of the woman in crimson. To him, the urchin was like a magpie who had spotted a pearl in the mouth of a great beast. Perhaps disdain or flippancy would work in his favour.
"My pleasure, and not at all, would be a bit presumptuous of me to be off-put by the wear and tear of travel."
Montana wiped the rim off his glass slowly, and gave his drink a small sip.
"I'm hesitant to potentially spoil a relaxing drink with talk of work, but I must say your choice of weapons leave me curious." In regards to the short sword he wore at his hip.
"Certainly more function than fashion."
His dark eyes settled on the boy who had undoubtedly been caught by the glamour of the woman in crimson. To him, the urchin was like a magpie who had spotted a pearl in the mouth of a great beast. Perhaps disdain or flippancy would work in his favour.
"My thanks." Montana lightly dusted himself off, and removed his overcoat. He was loath to fold it, creases and all, so he opted to hang it from a small piece of wood extending just beyond the top off the booth. While largely unspectacular save for the top notch tailoring, the corner of a piece of paper could be seen jutting from the left ticket pocket.
There was a shoulder holster over his waistcoat, but it was curiously void of any weaponry. He was, at least at face value, completely unarmed.
That flash of colour was the true reason he had decided to take this familiar seat. Along with it's view of the door and behind the bar. All points of entry and exit. There were some deliveries he had yet to make, and one could never be certain of where hard to find people might pop up from.
As he sat, he made eye contact with the barkeep, and held up his pointer and thumb, signaling he wanted two drinks for the table.
"If you don't mind, I've taken the liberty to order you a beverage."
The hooded man across from him had been marked as a mercenary in his mind due to the variety of his gear. Long and short range weapons, plus a short sword. Which was a deadly weapon in it's own right, and quite different some the sabers and rapiers members of the military tended to use.
There was a shoulder holster over his waistcoat, but it was curiously void of any weaponry. He was, at least at face value, completely unarmed.
That flash of colour was the true reason he had decided to take this familiar seat. Along with it's view of the door and behind the bar. All points of entry and exit. There were some deliveries he had yet to make, and one could never be certain of where hard to find people might pop up from.
As he sat, he made eye contact with the barkeep, and held up his pointer and thumb, signaling he wanted two drinks for the table.
"If you don't mind, I've taken the liberty to order you a beverage."
The hooded man across from him had been marked as a mercenary in his mind due to the variety of his gear. Long and short range weapons, plus a short sword. Which was a deadly weapon in it's own right, and quite different some the sabers and rapiers members of the military tended to use.
It was dangerous to move about in the fog without a Lantern. Though the light could be viewed as near useless to the user, save for some measure of comfort, it was more a sign of goodwill for ones fellows on the streets. A lantern signified that some soul was there behind the fog, holding it, and trying to find their way to their destination. This avoided the unpleasant, and undoubtedly uncouth action of bumping into someone in the darker places of the Fallen London streets.
Montana, quite against his outward appearance as a well kept gentleman, had no such lantern. Which meant his eventual collision into someone that did was quite intentional.
As he rounded off of a particularly dark alleyway, his body met with another. He quickly made his apology, and left with a quick pat of the other persons breast-pocket. The slight out of paper giving way under weight could be heard. A message delivered, a message received. This person would be momentarily confused, obviously the kind of person who's first reaction wasn't one of immediate retribution, hence the lack of knife in Roderic's ribcage. By the time they realized that a message had been left, the courier was long gone lighting the lantern he had stowed to blend in with the other responsible, self concerned citizens of the Fifth City.
The Singing Mandrake was his final destination, somewhere to idle for a few hours while he decided what his next job was going to be for the day.
He crossed the threshold, quickly shaking whatever droplets had gathered on the brim of his hat, off. There was little do be done about his overcoat, he had no choice but to wait for the room temperature to dry it out.
The man took a quick run of the room, a dash of colour caught his eye, which inspired him to take a seat in the immediate area. The only available booth seemed to be manned by a heavily armed gentleman sporting a rather obsessed look.
Roderic removed his hat, and strode towards the booth, before he spoke, he gave a short, but courteous bow.
"Good Day, It's not my wish to impose so boldly, but would you mind if I took a seat here? I'm quite fond of it's proximity to the bar."
Montana, quite against his outward appearance as a well kept gentleman, had no such lantern. Which meant his eventual collision into someone that did was quite intentional.
As he rounded off of a particularly dark alleyway, his body met with another. He quickly made his apology, and left with a quick pat of the other persons breast-pocket. The slight out of paper giving way under weight could be heard. A message delivered, a message received. This person would be momentarily confused, obviously the kind of person who's first reaction wasn't one of immediate retribution, hence the lack of knife in Roderic's ribcage. By the time they realized that a message had been left, the courier was long gone lighting the lantern he had stowed to blend in with the other responsible, self concerned citizens of the Fifth City.
The Singing Mandrake was his final destination, somewhere to idle for a few hours while he decided what his next job was going to be for the day.
He crossed the threshold, quickly shaking whatever droplets had gathered on the brim of his hat, off. There was little do be done about his overcoat, he had no choice but to wait for the room temperature to dry it out.
The man took a quick run of the room, a dash of colour caught his eye, which inspired him to take a seat in the immediate area. The only available booth seemed to be manned by a heavily armed gentleman sporting a rather obsessed look.
Roderic removed his hat, and strode towards the booth, before he spoke, he gave a short, but courteous bow.
"Good Day, It's not my wish to impose so boldly, but would you mind if I took a seat here? I'm quite fond of it's proximity to the bar."
Full Name: Roderic Alder Mayburry Montana
Nicknames/Aliases: The Asp, Will Of the Wisp, The Fourth Man, and aliases too numerous to mention, but most often a William Evargrant.
Age: Over the age of 30
Gender: Male, most certainly, though though use of makeup and other assorted items can take the appearance of a woman with sharp cheekbones.
Occupation: A liaison for various interests? Or perhaps a courier, one that worked the odd twilight in the sorts of places frequented by the unsavoury and the high born, delivering all sorts of things, promises, and things both real and conceptual. Or perhaps he is a thief and bearer of false witness.
Description: Montana has a face who's expression are subtle, and rarely extravagant when responding to the stimuli Fallen London provides. Shoulder length, pitch dark hair is often swept back, tucked behind the ear. This dark colour is mirrored in his eyes, where the darkness of the pupil is matched, and swallowed by the darkness of his iris.
His most recognizable article of clothing is a wide brimmed hat. What one needs a hat for in a sunless land is mystery itself.
Personality: A gentleman in the traditional sense of the word, but perhaps only in word, as what is his true personality is likely hidden behind the mask of gentlemanly conduct. There is a touch of idle fancy within his person, or perhaps it's just an abstract world view that influences the way he moves. Sometimes he can be anything. Would that make his personality a series of well rehearsed roles? Who can tell.
Skills: A hand to hand specialist, with a variety of obscure, and at times, depending on how his body moves, obtuse movements. An excellent duelist. A linguist. A crack shot. Perceptive, with a head perfect for the art of deduction. Making things disappear or reappear Finding lost things, and losing found things. Not being in the wrong place, and being in the right place. Understanding the difference between being in the right place at the wrong place, and the wrong place at the right time. Replacing things. Not being noticed for long periods of time, and being noticed when he needs to be.
Weaknesses:
Brief History: A British native, but no native of London, Roderic Montana has been in a military campaign or two, spent time traveling and training in the Orient. Has done work for Britain outside of military service, along with a few other nations. Emigrated to fallen London for work.
Other: Doesn't work with the Royal Navy
Nicknames/Aliases: The Asp, Will Of the Wisp, The Fourth Man, and aliases too numerous to mention, but most often a William Evargrant.
Age: Over the age of 30
Gender: Male, most certainly, though though use of makeup and other assorted items can take the appearance of a woman with sharp cheekbones.
Occupation: A liaison for various interests? Or perhaps a courier, one that worked the odd twilight in the sorts of places frequented by the unsavoury and the high born, delivering all sorts of things, promises, and things both real and conceptual. Or perhaps he is a thief and bearer of false witness.
Description: Montana has a face who's expression are subtle, and rarely extravagant when responding to the stimuli Fallen London provides. Shoulder length, pitch dark hair is often swept back, tucked behind the ear. This dark colour is mirrored in his eyes, where the darkness of the pupil is matched, and swallowed by the darkness of his iris.
His most recognizable article of clothing is a wide brimmed hat. What one needs a hat for in a sunless land is mystery itself.
Personality: A gentleman in the traditional sense of the word, but perhaps only in word, as what is his true personality is likely hidden behind the mask of gentlemanly conduct. There is a touch of idle fancy within his person, or perhaps it's just an abstract world view that influences the way he moves. Sometimes he can be anything. Would that make his personality a series of well rehearsed roles? Who can tell.
Skills: A hand to hand specialist, with a variety of obscure, and at times, depending on how his body moves, obtuse movements. An excellent duelist. A linguist. A crack shot. Perceptive, with a head perfect for the art of deduction. Making things disappear or reappear Finding lost things, and losing found things. Not being in the wrong place, and being in the right place. Understanding the difference between being in the right place at the wrong place, and the wrong place at the right time. Replacing things. Not being noticed for long periods of time, and being noticed when he needs to be.
Weaknesses:
Brief History: A British native, but no native of London, Roderic Montana has been in a military campaign or two, spent time traveling and training in the Orient. Has done work for Britain outside of military service, along with a few other nations. Emigrated to fallen London for work.
Other: Doesn't work with the Royal Navy
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