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Annabelle Reed

"Now dear, the one thing I learned about life, if anything, is that folk are always changing. Changing their minds, changing their hearts, and changing their allegiences. Folks are destined to change but it sure don't mean I have to change with them.

0 · 789 views · located in More Phenomenal Earth

a character in “Good Evening, Monsters! Good Evening, Abe!”, as played by Deallo



Annabelle Reed "Why, you can just call me Mrs. Reed, Ana or Nana if you wish dear.”

Age: 63



Height and Weight: ”Young man, you try to ask that out on a younger lady and she’d twist your head to your back.”
Mrs. Reed’s weight is of 140 Lbs, ever so slightly fat, but you’d be surprised how many people don’t notice.
Her height is simply 5’2. That’s only if you count the extra half inch her hair adds.
”Pish! Ladies are short and lovely while men are tall and handsome.”

Body Type and Health: Annabelle is healthy for a 63 year old woman. Of course, that really doesn’t mean much. She doesn’t run in her old age nor jump. Don’t expect her to or else you’ll be greatly disappointed. Maybe she could jog. Arthritis hasn’t kicked in; so her fingers are still straight and pain-free but she has terrible stamina, bad enough to get winded by climbing a flight of stairs. She also has somewhat of a hearing problem in her right ear but she got a hearing aid for that.

Hair and eyes: If there’s one thing, only one thing you could ever know about Mrs. Reed, never mess up her hair. It takes time and effort to get her hair to curl at the ends and if you ever try to change it; nothing will stop her from giving you a verbal trashing while she waves around a pistol. Her eyes are a hazelnut colour.

Apparent Temperament: Mrs. Reed is just about one of the friendliest faces you’ve ever seen. It’s just about hard to see her not smiling in her spare time and she’s one of the kindest people you’ll ever talk to. She brings to mind the stigma of a typical grandmother who loves her grandkids, makes them delicious food, and tells them long-winded stories.

Facial features: As you can obviously see, her face is littered with the wrinkles of old age, and is slightly sunken down.

Distinguishing marks: ”Now, why would I have such a thing deary?” Right between her shoulder blades, there is a simple tattoo, a Spanish phrase written in cursive, which reads “plata o plumo”.

Casual wardrobe: This granny dresses for comfort and efficiency. Normally a pair of dress pants, one that’s got a waist larger then a perfect fit coupled with a belt, would give the perfect mix between comfort and functionality. A pair of white comfortable running shoes. As for shirts, she tosses on just about any old thing, but adores wearing those colourful Hawaiian shirts fat people and tourists wear. Lastly, Ana wears an overly large sunhat or any other large hat, to keep the sun from burning up her oh-so fair skin. The heat of Mexico doesn’t allow a working lady to dress up in her spare time. Nothing except a pair of pearl earrings and a thin-strap watch.

ACTION TIME wardrobe: The same thing except with a Kevlar jacket and her deceased husband’s grey trench coat.

Etc: She tends to wear an awesome pair of sunglasses, which can be seen in the picture, and a silver crucifix pendant around her neck.


Annabelle Reed is what you expect your typical southern grandmother to act like: Sweet, kind, and a tad racist. She’s the type of person that can go on and on about her family, grandkids, and experiences for hours on end.

Anyway, as I said before she’s sweet and flattering, often barraging men and women with compliments, and getting on their good side. Ana is the type of person to genuinely care about the health and well-being of others. She tends to strike up conversations with complete strangers for the sake of conversation.

While one may notice, she tends to speak about Jesus and the Lord, in the attempt to be a devout Christian. She was raised in a strict farm, taught to never hold the lord’s name in vain, and taught to always be grateful to the lord. She was raised like a Texan and adores the lifestyle she’s gotten used to. Fresh outdoor air, barbeques, testing a guns out on the range, and going to church.

Annabelle is slightly racist, it’s not direct, but rather a subconscious, subtle type that’s not meant to be insulting.

Despite her sweetness, she is quick to assume things, and slightly mischievous. In her old age, she does like to mess with people, sometimes friends. Telemarketers are the most fun to screw around with. Annabelle doesn’t appreciate rude behavior and disciplines that sort of behavior. A sharp twist of the ear ought to do the trick as well as a few choice words, which may or may not be swear words, ought to do it.

Oh, unlike her Texan, conservative brothers, she’s rather accepting of other beliefs.

tl;dr version: Nice old lady; not afraid to smack you upside the head.

Speech: Imagine a sweet but heavy southern accent. Ana’s voice is noticeably elderly and somewhat worn out through the years but it’s by no means raspy. ”Why dear, this is just the voice Jesus gave me.”

Pet Peeves: Kids who don’t eat their vegetables , because it’s not healthy or ethical to leave perfectly fine food on plates. Adults who don’t eat their vegetables because, well, they should damn know better than children. The undisciplined and spoiled really annoy her because 1) They’re the self-entitled bastard children who think the world revolves around them, annoying little pricks they are, and 2) Money tends to give birth to the inner snob in people.


Considering Mrs. Reed was recruited for her talents regarding her expertise in weapons, in gun-smithing, shooting, and supplies, she has quite the armory available.


The M1911A1 is recognized as one greatest semi-automatic pistols of all time due to its ergonomics, reliability, reliability, and stopping power of the .45 ACP rounds.

This particular model has been modified by Anabelle herself. It features a custom three dot sight giving it superior target capability, a feeding ramp that’s been polished to a mirror shine to eliminate feeding problems, the slide has been replaced with a reinforced version, meshing perfectly with the frame which has been iron-welded and scraped down multiple times for maximum precision, the front strap of the frame has been checkered to dig into the hand, preventing slippage. The regular hammer was then replaced with a ring hammer to enhance cocking control and hammer-down speed. The thumb safety and slide stop are extended to allow for more precise handling, the trigger itself has been exchanged for a long type for easy finger access while the trigger pull is 3.5 lbs, about a pound and a half lighter than the usual pull. The grip safety has also been permanently disengaged, making the gun one for pros, and not for amateurs if they try to wield it. The mainspring housing has been changed to a flat type to increase grip and it’s fitted with stepping so it doesn’t slip from the recoil when firing. On top of that, they added cocking serrations to the front part of the slide that lets you load and eject cartridges faster in an emergency, alongside with a threaded barrel to fit a suppressor. She has a suppressor. Comes with a holster.

”All you should know darling is that it’s a fancy gun.”


It’s the Texan in Anabelle that makes her adore revolvers. The Colt Anaconda is a heavy duty gun that has a six shot cylinder which loads .44 Magnum rounds. These double action revolvers have good stopping power at short distance but have a high muzzle flash and recoil as well. She keeps two of these.


A Remington 870, loads 12, 16, 20, 28 gauge shotgun shells as well as .410 bore. Has an internal feed magazine of six shells.


”I tell you, those Russians are smart folk, considering they made one of the best guns I’d ever seen.”

Ah, the AK-47. While most Americans are ignorant to its capabilities; dear Ana isn’t one of them. Matter of fact she added a 40mm grenade launcher to her AK.

Then she keeps a couple of actual frag grenades. Just in case. Normally it’s all packed in that big luggage bag that reaches up to your hip, has a handle that you pull with you and wheels.

”You don’t know what to expect of them vampires, witches and ghosts.”

Special Ammo

She normally keeps a couple of FMJ magazines for the AK, revolvers, and M1. Mrs. Reed also keeps hollow point bullets that she carved out for the M1.



Some old ladies knit sweaters, this one likes to keep her guns clean, and maintained.

Then she has a purse, she has about five grand American, and nothing else but lipstick. Oh, and a really fancy-looking pager.


Favorite color: Blue. It’s such a soothing colour.

Hobbies: Annabelle has got a few hobbies she likes to do in her spare time. One of her favorite ones is gun collecting. She does have a particular taste for old rifles, bolt-action rifles to be specific, as they remind her of her life back in the farm back in the 40s before her dad decided to sell it. She's got quite an extensive collection in the back of her gunshop, ranging from the 1900s to present times.

Her other hobby would be cleaning and maintaining guns because really; people are only as clean as their guns. It's sorta therapeutic now-a-days.

Then of course, her third hobby would be knitting, which she really used to like when she was younger but is easily bored by it nowadays. So of course, Grandma's skill is sub par, so you better feel an itch in those gloves she gave you for Christmas.

  • Guns
  • Getting to know folks
  • Cooking
  • Jesus
  • Being organized
  • Cinema

  • Gangs
  • Rude behavior
  • Lewdness
  • Misuse of guns
  • Being forced to do something
  • People who are spoiled

Fears: There isn’t much to fear really. The thought of dying and no-one having remembered her life. Getting shot in the face. Getting shot. Dying in general. The normal stuff.

Homeland: Despite being born and raised in the heart of Texas; she comes and goes down the border to Mexico, sometimes staying a few days or weeks, even months.

Day job: Legally, the only job she had was being the owner and gunsmith of “The silver bullet”, a small gunshop in Texas.

However, she worked for The Cartel in Mexico, establishing contacts and suppliers for munitions in other
countries. She handled the exporting of illegal guns and munitions; establishing and maintaining contacts in different parts of the world. Of course, these contacts weren’t legal gun companies (though some were) but other criminal organizations.

In her last years before she got out, she became a cocaine trafficker as well, and worked closely with Pablo Escobar in securing the anonymity and safety of the cocaine. They visited each other often, seeing how Annabelle worked in Mexico and how Pablo did his work in Brazil, and had become good friends. The tattoo on her back was Pablo’s famous words, and appeared after a night with too many tequila shots.

General Agenda: Ana wants to do something good for her life. She watched her mother just waste away her own, sitting in a rocking chair, a shriveled up corpse in the sun waiting for death to come on by and take her. Anabelle doesn't want to be stuck in a rut like her mother happily was but wants to see the world, experience, and live.

What keeps you a Monster?: It gave the precious opportunity to leave her previous job. Not the owner of "The Silver Bullet" but the gun runner of The Cartel.

You see, Annabelle got the job entirely by accident. At first, she knew it was wrong, but that’s just part of the thrill. Of course, she didn’t know how terrible The Cartel was, until the years started to pass by. Annabelle knew this one gentleman, who was her bodyguard, named Jesus. Tall, strong, young man, 21 or so, had a scar across his face, didn’t know he was named Jesus because everyone kept called him Hey-Zeus. They were expectantly good friends after a couple years, causing Annabelle to pick up Spanish, and him to understand English. She visited his family on more than one occasion and found out he had a wife, Elena, and a three year-old daughter, Vanessa. The girl even started to call her “Abuela”. One day, when she was making a trade with some Brazilians, the money we had came up a little short. After a few hours, the thugs found a few grand in Jesus’ jacket.

The next day, he was nowhere to be found. At first, Annabelle though he was going to just get a slap on the wrist, call it being hopeful. After a few weeks, she started to worry, and asked around. She was told he was on a long vacation but after visiting his wife; she found out he was missing all this time. After prying for some time, she found out he’s been killed, and laid with the “others” in the Valle de la Muerte . It’s when she found out if anyone tried to go against The Cartel, they were killed, liquefied in acid, and dumped in a valley. She was horrified.

After that, she’s been taking care of his family, and thinking of getting out. She mentioned the idea once and her superiors agreed; she should retire and have one of her sons take over for her. Annabelle didn’t speak of retiring again, even though she was pried many times to, there was no way she was willing to have any of her sons and daughters know about her secret life or become a part of it.

Annabelle was cornered. She didn’t want the money or be part of this monstrous organization any longer but if she left; she’d have to send one of her sons and daughters to replace her. If she even dared to do such a thing, her grandkids would have to step in the place of their parents, then the next generation and the next, creating a vicious cycle of criminals. Caught between a rock and a hard place; all she could do was pray for an answer.

On a business trip to Columbia, she had gotten her answer. Since Annabelle was a friend of Pablo Escobar; she confined in him for her wishes to leave The Cartel because even though he worked with The Cartel in Mexico, he was independent of their influences, control, because he was a drug lord himself in Columbia. He offered her a job for being a supplier for the Medellin Cartel, his own criminal organization. She politely refused; explaining the fact that she wanted her and her family out of everything and just go back home in peace. Pablo tried to convince her otherwise but Annabelle’s stubbornness won. Regrettably, he agreed to talk to The Cartel in Mexico, and call in a favor to find another gun runner.

The next day The Cartel told her they were going to kill Pablo Escobar. Apparently, he was of more use dead then he was alive, seeing as how they can take over from the source. They didn’t leave the killing for Annabelle, oh no, they just stressed her importance in making sure Pablo didn’t leave the estate. In a rebellious instant, she immediately told Pablo, and he went off with his bodyguard out of his estate into a more inconspicuous area. The next day he was killed, not be an assassin, but rather Columbian police.

The Medellin Cartel thought Annabelle set him up when in truth, she did no such thing. The Cartel in Mexico knew she moved Pablo when she was told to keep him place. Annabelle suddenly became a bulls-eye in South America; a 30,000 Peso bulls-eye. The Texan booked a room in a hotel under a false name, brought a few luggage bags filled with munitions, and locked herself in the penthouse suite. She sat in a chair, angled 45 degrees to the door with a shotgun in her hands, prayer on her lips, cross on her neck and phone positioned in a stand next to her, Kevlar vest pushing down on her shoulders, magazines clipped to a side, shells to another and old dreary caffeine-fueled eyes watching the door.

Then the phone rang. Ebenezer was on the line. That was the ending of her life as a criminal and the beginning of her life as a monster.

Notable experiences since then: "Well, I guess I do have a lot of 'notable' experiences under my belt. I remember the first time Pa bought back the farm he lost in the Depression. I was about eight or nine at the time when my dad suddenly got the money to buy back the family ranch, so me, my two sisters, and my five brothers, lived a farm life then. Little did I know he made that money smuggling in alcohol from Mexico during the ban.

Now of course, even though I was a lady, I still held guns and had to aim and shot ‘em to scare away wild animals from ruining the crops. My brother told me I was such a good shot, he entered a contest in my name. Believe it or not, I actually won and I went in more and more contests, making a name for myself, Deadeye Ana it was. Why, I became famous, entering and winning concerts all across Texas. At the same time, Pa sold the farm because some big-shot lawyer liked the view it had and offered him a lot of cash.

So then, he took it, left the country, and left us, his family, hung to dry.

Everyone managed; in their own way. I managed with the prize money I won and could have kept on going until my rifle broke. So then, one day, I go into this quaint little gun shop, “The Silver Bullet”, and I asked to get it fixed. That gentlemen there was one of them condescending folk; asking if it was my fiancé’s rifle. I done tell him no, it was my own rifle, and he just laughed and laughed, saying woman were too “delicate” to shoot guns. He riled me up and then a found myself challenging him. Why, he had an ego as large as the south, said if I can best him, he’d fix up the rifle free of charge and pitched in ten bucks. Ten minutes later, the face he made, made my day. Why, I’m still not tired of the disbelief he had on him, looking like his jaw hit the floor. So next day, my daddy’s rifle is fixed up, and he asked me to dinner. Of course, I said no, but then he said “It’d be ten dollars of Houston’s finest food”.

I guess it was the first time I genuinely liked a man; unlike those times as a child where the only time I actually touched another boy was when I was kicking their ass for hurting my younger siblings. Anyway, that fellow from “The Silver Bullet” was named Sam Reed. He was a mighty tall, strong man, built like cattle he was, going on twenty-five when I was just eighteen. High cheekbones, soft brown hair, and a body like one those cardboard cutouts with no face that tourists like to shove their head through in Hawaii. Sam was one of the cheesy romantic types I never knew existed. He always had a bouquet of flowers for me, played a beautiful, soft tune on his fiddle, and danced like an angel, oh, I felt like every time I danced with him I was just stepping on toes. I never knew anything about love, my parents never expressed love with each other, so I felt as lost as a headless chicken. The first time he kissed me; I felt like my head was swimming in joy.

When he proposed, I distinctly remember fainting, hitting the ground like a rock, then shouting yes with blood pouring down the side of my head. Everyone in the restaurant was looking at me like I had a few screws loose maybe I did, I can’t really remember, but I was so much more rowdier in my youth.

Sam had NEVER let that one go.

With him, I co-owned “The Silver Bullet”, and he taught me how to repairs, improvements, and even add a personal flavor to guns. Despite the fact that I loved him, there was always two things I’ve hated about him: his gambling and smoking. He thinks can win every hand in poker, goes out of his way to put our savings on the line, and thinks the smell of cigarettes are “fine as the sunset”. Still, I loved the oaf and had four children with him. The first two were twins, not the identical kind, though, a boy and a girl. Ronnie’s technically the oldest by three seconds, the athletic one he is, captain of the football team he was but as dumb as a sack of hammers, he is. Couldn’t solve a puzzle to save his life but he plays running back for the Houston Texans, and play it very well I might add. Mary’s the other twin, a shy, meek girl she was. Why, she kept wetting the bed until she was twenty and didn’t speak a word around the house until she was ten. Me and Sam thought one of us dropped her when she was a baby, breaking something, until one day, out of nowhere she asked us if we could buy her a book. Mary now works as a librarian and an author of them science-fiction novels; although she changed her name to “Stephanie Leli” on the books for some reason. My next son, Zeke, was a pure troublemaker he was. Why, he had these parties with drugs in our basement and a meth lab if you can believe it, until the cops took him away for about fifteen years in jail. He’s sent only one letter since he’s been out, saying he’s going to Florida, and joining some biker gang. My next daughter, Julia, was born deaf. Beautiful blonde haired blue-eyed girl she was, quicker with numbers then any calculator. She’s an head accountant over at Bank of America now-a-days. I used to remember how she’d scare the neighbors since she learned how to read lips and spoke back to them when they thought they could say anything around her. My other son was named Kenny and he was a disciplined child he was. Kenny was smart, proper, and dedicated, even managing to get a scholarship to be a doctor. Of course, that there scholarship can’t even cover half the cost of education, and that’s when me and Sam needed to be good parents.

It was no wonder we started to lose money. We had to pay for Kenny’s education, Sam’s gambling debts, and a new home. Remember how I said Zeke had a meth lab in our house? The whole family including Zeke himself, were out celebrating Mary’s birthday, and I guess Zeke must’ve forgotten something with his “lab”. Sam parked the car in the driveway and all of a sudden, the house blew up in a fiery inferno, debris, and our lives scattered just about everywhere. If that didn’t make it worse, a 2x4 came through the windshield, and sorta stuck in. Zeke folded like a poker hand, told us everything, and waited in the car while the sirens hailed in.

It was the late 60’s at the time and the family had to live out at “The Silver Bullet”. We needed money and needed it fast. Despite the catastrophe, we still went out and watched movies, laughed and pretend nothing had gone wrong.

A screening of “Bonnie and Clyde” gave me and Sam the idea to rob banks. At the time, Julia was just a child, so she knew nothing, like my other sons and daughters but that was because they were older and out of our lives. The twins wanted to give me money but I kept sending it back to them; I didn’t want to burden them. So me and Sam pulled our first bank heist, cobbling up a couple of masks, and guns from the shop. Then we pulled another. And another. And another. We were quick and fast, in and out, in the flash of an eye before we got away. Nothing like getting in the vault; we just looted the main teller and just high-tailed it out of there. The press called us “Silver Cowboys” cause they thought the revolvers we used were silver (they’re actually steel but that’ll be our little secret). We went through the South of the the Good ol’ USA like a wildfire. We must’ve hit at least thirty-five banks across five states but those were dangerous times. I could actually feel the air from bullets passing by me.

Then, on the word of my beloved husband, who got shot in the shoulder on the second to last heist, we stopped. 1975 it was. When I asked him what about the money; he told me we’ll never have to worry about the money ever again. I assumed he won it big in one of his late night adventures to a casino. In 1982, our old house was now standing again and Julia was eighteen, off to good college for accounting.

I thought to myself, I had a good life…but what now? Then I received a phone call from my son Kenny. He was on his last year of medical school and I was proud of it; that I was. Kenny said he wanted to talk to his father, so I put him on the line, and they talked for a little while. When I went into the other room to prepare dinner for two, I heard a thump, and rushed back in to see Sam, passed out on the ground. My son Kenny, told him he was leaving medical school to go into acting.

Sam had a heart attack. He was rushed to the ER but didn’t make it.

It was 1984 and I was alone. I had Ronnie’s grandkids to keep me company some days but in the end of the day, when I went home, the Sam that slept next to me was gone and he’d never come back. For the first time in my life I truly felt lonely.

It didn’t take long for me to discover how Sam made enough money to halt our little bank shenanigans. I got a phone call a few months after his death, with some folk who couldn’t speak English too well, asking if Sam was around. I managed to explain to them that he was dead and I was his wife. They managed to explain to me, yet at the same time explain nothing, that they were Sam’s employer and were in dire need of a replacement.

So, like every woman who was either heartbroken or lonely, I plunged myself into work, and closed “The Silver Bullet” to go to Mexico.

That’s when I started to work with The Cartel.

Opinion of Others: Ebenezer - "Why he’s a miracle-worker! I practically owe him my life.”

Vampires - "Oh dear, don't be ridiculous. As long as there's sunlight, no Dracula would come after me, no siree. Especially when I have my 12 gauge. "

Witches - "Why, those are the folk who know voodoo and magic, right?"

Werewolves - "Wolfmen. Sure, I've had just about enough of your shenanigans for one day."

Criminal Record: Technically, she's as clean as a whistle.

Really, there's about twenty counts of robbery, thirty-two counts of assault with a weapon, seven counts of murder, and they probably have a word for supplying a criminal organization with weapons.

Etc:: She's fluent in Spanish, though it comes with the same terrible southern accent, and knows some Russian. Also, she's not very fond of pets and animals. I mean, she skinned animals in her younger days, stuffed them, and even have some hanging on her mantel of her old home in Texas.

Specialty: Anabelle has guns. Lots and lots of guns. Most importantly, she knows how to use them. Even in her old age she could still hit a squirrel in the eye with a rifle. Her skills as a gunsmith also promises the ability to make special ammo, such as silver bullets, should they become necessary, and to run maintenance with weaponry to prevent them from jamming in a vital situation. Not to mention, she can also vastly improve her allies guns, customizing them to run at optimal levels.

The supernatural: Really, this is all new to her. Ebenezer gave her the very basic rundown of things which was basically "vampires, witches, werewolves are real."

Social standing: Regular people treat her normally; I mean, she does look like a grandma afterall. In the south, they treat her with respect, especially if they know about her reputation as "Deadeye Ana".

In Mexico...the feeling is as you can guess for hanging around The Cartel; fear.

  • Grandma Knows Best - She's got the image of a sweet old grandmother. Annabelle is naturally approachable and always gets on people's good side. With all the freaks unnerving creepy looking guys and gals for teammates; it helps to have someone who looks, acts, and is normal. She can also spot a liar as well; having four monstrosities kids will do that to you.
  • Deadeye Ana - Annabelle still got a damned good aim, even in her 60’s, and trust me when I say after 40 years of holding up rifles, you get enough granny muscles to hold a gun and a right shoulder with a cemetery of dead nerves.
  • Gunsmith Granny - Her expertise in weapons would prove to be as invaluable as her abilities to customize guns and make special bullets.
  • Psychotic Driving – I’m not going to be an ageist here but her driving is damn near psychotic. Pedal to the metal driving that’ll scare the shit outta regular people and think the driver of whatever vehicle just passed them is either crazy, old, or in a street race. Plus, she can drive a stick shift. Annabelle drives hard and fast.

  • Grandma gonna knock you OUT! - ...Not really. I mean, she’s no Mohammed Ali. Sure, she can hold up a rifle to shoot, load and reload but she’s still by far the weakest of the Monsters in terms of strength. Really, don't expect her to carry some boxes because that's a gentlemen's job! What sort of a man makes a lady do all the work?
  • Endurance like a middle school girl - Again, her endurance sucks. She is an old lady after all.
  • Pathetic human abilities - Her inability to do anything extraordinary like vampires or witches. Just sorta walk around. Maybe jog.
  • Psychotic Driving – I’m not going to be an ageist here but her driving is damn near psychotic. Annabelle’s driving is not discreet by any standard. If anything, she draws too much attention, and is liable to crash, flip, burn or a combination of all three. Definitely not desirable for missions with a need for discretion.

So begins...

Annabelle Reed's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris
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Your employer, kindly benefactor, and all-around fatherly figure. You've never seen his face, unless you count the Benjamins (or Queen Elizabeths or whoever mars your currency with their sagely visage).

Folks openly professed to be in cahoots with old Abe, most notably mission guides. The guides grade performance, all in all acting as a pair of eyes away from home. The helpfulness and openness of allies range, however--not all of them will like being useful. You very probably can't kill them without a severe cut in the salary.

Folks openly against Ebenezer or his friends, and likely wanted dead for the effort. Poor jerks. You can try to talk to them, because they will have more to say than regular enemies, but ultimately you cannot go home and do your laundry until you've killed them.

Alliance unknown for these NPCs! They could be smallfry enemies, or they could vaguely want to further your cause.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris Character Portrait: Balthazar Eskandar Shirazi
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#, as written by Deallo
The windows were let down a bit to let the night air rush into the speeding car. Loud salsa music escaped the radio and blared outside of the confines of the powder blue Ford sedan, going 90km/h with no signs of slowing down in sight. Observers who might've caught a glimpse at the speeding vehicle would've thought it belonged to some young reckless driver who just got their license or a thief who might've stolen the car. Of course, they were wrong.

It was the driving of an elderly woman who was all the more glad to be alive and free.

Not the "I'm glad I woke up today" alive either, like some spry elderly gentlemen, but the "I'm glad I didn't get in the shot in the face" alive that criminals often face in a day to day basis. It was because of Ebenezer, even if by accident, that she's managed to get behind the wheel of a car instead of shot, liquified, dumped, and forgotten. Driving was also a joy she enjoyed too much. Back in Mexico, everything needed discretion, driving was off-limits unless the police were a little too close for comfort and an operation needed to be evacuated. Now, she drive free and fast, the way driving was meant to be. Annabelle couldn't understand how people drove so slowly like they were scared. Excruciatingly painful is what it must feel like to drive slow. There was no rush, no excitement, from being able to take control of a strong speed machine, and just using it to trot along the roads. It needed to gallop, speed down the roads, as cars were meant to.

If only it wasn't so dangerous; everyone would've been doing it. Police would've chased her if there were more patrols that night but as luck would behold there wasn't any that had met her. She swerved around cars and turned, nearly running over a young man who was running across the street to get to a bank, cutting off a taxi, scratching it's side, the blue paint scratching off the bumper. As Annabelle was driving away, she noticed the taxi was either following her trail, or going the same direction as her. Obscenities were shouted from the drivers side of the taxi but she was going too fast and was too far to listen in. She eyed the taxi in the rear view mirror, seemingly speeding up behind her, pupils flashing back and forth to the front of the road then to the yellow car.

Seconds were passing away before beads of sweat started forming on her aged forehead and her teeth started to lightly bite her lower lip. Suddenly a loud screeching pierced the air, the smell of burnt rubber crinkling any nearby nose, powder blue Ford sedan ducking into an alley and out the other side. Annabelle turned off the radio and made a few more turns to make sure the taxi didn't follow her. The paranoia instilled in her from years of working with The Cartel were satiated as the taxi was nowhere in sight.

The docks were now in sight but the car was in no speed near stopping. Headlights illuminated the three figures and for a brief moment; seemed like it was destined to run them over at top speeds until the brakes were slammed. The screeching was enough to pain the ears and the smell of burnt rubber filled the air. The engine hummed for a moment, headlights illuminating everyone on the docks before the ignition key was turned and pulled. Annabelle took a deep breath and checked herself, padding the Kevlar jacket, and her husbands black trench coat she had on. There were four pockets inside the coat, two on each side, and each had a revolver. Her prized M1 was in a shoulder holster, seeing as how much work she put into it, it was worth it to at least buy a proper holster for it. She brought her white purse along and had it hang in her right hand; not for stylish purposes but just in case anything happened, she could make a quick grab for the M1, which would take one solid movement.

Despite Ebenezer's kindness; paranoia was still creeping up. Rightfully so, at that.

She exited the car door and slammed it behind her before she opened up the back door, the cold bite of the wind rushing over her. "Darn it." Ana silently cursed herself, spotting the luggage bag containing the rest of her equipment trapped under the back seat, where she'd have to force it out.

Her head twisted, spotting the solitary individual on the dock, and moved towards him. Annabelle did look rather odd, suiting black dress pants, a blue Hawaiian shirt with a Kevlar jacket underneath and a trenchcoat. Almost as odd as the man, who at this distance, could see he was sitting on a crate.

In any regular circumstances, she would've tried to pull out the bag herself had it not been filled with munitions and weighed heavily. The Texan didn't see it fit to bother the couple either; as it would've been very rude. She smiled sweetly at the strange man before she spoke to him.

"Excuse me dear but can you help me? One of my bags is stuck in the backseat of the car and I can't seem to get it out. If only a strong man could help me..." Annabelle said, waiting for either him to help her, or wave her away...but right arm was precariously up, holding the purse by the forearm, and across the M1 in case she was speaking to some crazy man.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris Character Portrait: Balthazar Eskandar Shirazi
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The more time passed, the more his mind began to drift. The currents must have been to blame, cascading and crashing rhythmically as a ticking clock or a heartbeat. His thoughts delved into darker depths, around where the fish had antennae that glowed like fireflies. Why do people drive on parkways and park on driveways? he wondered as a vehicle slid into view. And why, pray tell, is it that transporting something by car is called a shipment, whilst items transported by ship is called cargo? Such inexplicable phenomena had never occurred to him before, and he found it distressing. So distressing, in fact, that he didn't note the shadow of a silhouette until the shadow began to consume him.

"D'AH!" he hollered when she neared, jolting in a manner similarly to those blow-up car dealer nylon dolls. "Who are you!" His hands, so resembling roots used in premodern medicine, hovered protectively near his head. When he saw it was merely a woman who proceeded to sit like a tail-wagging dog, he reeled forward, slapping his chest as he exhaled a long held breath. His lips felt sewn up, undulating with every sharp, flaking bit of skin, and still he retained a deep-set uncertainty in his shuddering eyes. They prickled at her presence, likely due to the prevalent smell of smog. He was no stranger to the cigarettes himself, as there were many back in Italy who would lean precariously from their balconies, puffing and spewing swirling masses toward unfortunates who dwelled in the narrow streets below. But before the woman could answer him, another figure appeared on the scene, rendering Micah even more speechless. Why, that... what... That was a pick-up line, wasn't it? How... daring? If not unexpected. Perhaps he succeeded more often with the element of surprise? Micah nodded to himself, mulling over bringing it into play as soon as he mustered up the courage (which would be 'never,' he dimly realized). More gentlemen appeared, the first with darker skin than the former (causing him to cross out the idea of their being brothers), and he grew increasingly anxious. He'd not been aware that he would be traveling with such a large group of people. One of the newcomers--Micah sniffed the air, brows furrowing for a moment--arrived in time to hear the first man's words, and saw fit to respond. Oh, Dio. Conflict. Micah began to panic, hastily glancing left and right to find an escape route lest he be caught in the middle of a brawl.

His savior came in the form of a little old lady, and the skinny Mr. Ames heaved another breath, this time of relief. "Excuse me dear but can you help me?" she had rambled sweetly, "One of my bags is stuck in the backseat of the car and I can't seem to get it out. If only a strong man could help me..."

This, this was familiar. Campania did not receive as many tourists as the bigger cities, but he had his fair share of strangers ambling over, requesting directions with language booklets and travel pamphlets clutched like lifelines, smiling meekly and handing him a fragile photographic device with so many buttons. He supposed being often seen in a uniform did him favors in appearing approachable. He remembered this one time, a young woman and her pessimistically bored boyfriend came up to him just after he'd finished burying a body in a hedge maze. He had to tell them he was the gardener's cousin, helping out... Snuffed out as quickly as it lit up in his mind, Micah pushed the memory aside to tend to the matter at hand. She wished for help with her bags. "Yes." He replied, but in then recognizing her fluent American English, tried to blend in with less awkward vocabulary: "Sure."
He straightened, taking care not to touch or bump into anyone during his retreat, and made for the old woman's car like a terrified water skeeter scuttling across ripples. He'd noticed the black shining barrel of a gun only recently. Was he just coerced into helping an old woman unload her things at gunpoint....? He didn't know what to think of this, not at all. It was easy to tell which vehicle belonged to her--it was the only one untended, and the only one with its trunk flaring open like the enticing legs of a prostitute. Oh... that was a discomforting thought... Carefully gripping the bag and lightly jolting it from side to side, he managed to dislodge the thing (momentarily losing his balance--it was heavier than he'd expected), and closed the trunk behind him for good measure. "Er," he said then, looking meekly at the elderly lady as a means of inquiring where she wished him to put it. She couldn't be one of those people that suddenly expected him to carry her things everywhere for her... right...?

The dismayed thought lingered for a moment, but he'd caught sight of someone else meandering over. Another woman, with thinly braided hair. What were they called... corn fields--no, cornrows. They were longer than any he'd ever seen, hanging over her small shoulders past her ribs, and beaded with something that shined in the light. Seashells? How quaint. Contrary to his expectations, she was blonde, and quite lacking in hints of Southeast Asian descent. She was wearing a cropped denim jacket and slimming pants, which was probably what made her limbs seem so skinny. Yet despite that, there was a bulge protruding from her center. Ah... Pregnant...?

Oh, no no, it was merely some sort of large parcel wrapped in a dark fabric or paper. A rounded thing, perhaps a ball or a pot. She grinned in greeting when she was close enough to see them. "Hi there, mister and granny." She paused to appraise them coming to a halt in front of Micah. There was that funny smell again. "This isn't your mother, is it?" teased the girl, before laughing like a sprightly thing at his expense. Micah couldn't recount a time he was more flustered, and though he blubbered silently, he said nothing comprehensible.

Besides, she was already moving on, balancing the object with one hand at the pit of her stomach, and the other hand waving in a wide arc. "Yooo, guys!" she called. "Ylaine here! That Ebenezer guy told you about me, right?"

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris Character Portrait: Balthazar Eskandar Shirazi
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“If I threw something in the water, would you jump in, slick?”

Sallie's only regret about the present turn of events was that she hadn't gotten to make the statement herself—it was clever, and sounded like the sort of thing she might have come up with if she hadn't been so busy staring in reproachful confusion at the man who'd approached her. She'd never particularly been one to waste words on a disrespectful stranger, but now that she was going to be forced to work with this one, she wondered if this was perhaps a less than ideal course of action. Sallie rested her hand protectively on the gun at her hip, sincerely hopeful that she wouldn't have to use it this early in the game. With any luck, however, this newcomer would distract the would-be Casanova.

"You'd better take your business elsewhere, pal, or the stick you'll be fetching from God-knows-where will be your own," she thought to herself, but at the moment the urge to have the attention directed anywhere but herself overwhelmed her urge to be smug (which was a rare enough occurrence in and of itself), so she kept her mouth shut.

The newcomers were an interesting pair to say the least, both well-dressed and well-groomed. Dandies, Sallie wagered, though whether she meant in the innocuous traditional sense or the more accusatory modern presumption, she wasn't sure. Not that she was one to judge. The little one was only marginally taller than herself, and in total mass, might have been smaller (at least if Sallie wasn't taking a reality check on her own slight frame).

Conflict among their ill-matched group seemed inevitable, but she supposed someone had to step in to play the role of peacekeeper. Or at least handy distraction. She clutched the case awkwardly to her stomach and pulled herself up using one of the crates. "No need to get testy, boys. I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks. Sallie Harris, former FBI. This charming gentleman," the sarcasm in her voice was heavy, "has already introduced himself, but we could start the round all over again if you'd like."

The man (who had turned out not to be a statue at all, though she was surprised to find that out) she'd sat down beneath had taken his leave of matters, which she supposed she envied him for; if it weren't for the case in her arms, Sallie might have offered to help the little old woman herself. Now she had to interact with these upstanding gentlemen (and Wolfgang, but she supposed he was an "upstanding" gentleman of a different sort, as long as the term "gentleman" was used sarcastically), and she hadn't had a smoke in over an hour.

Fumbling with her pocket, Sallie produced a lighter and an open pack of Marlboro red. "You boys mind if I smoke?" The cigarette was already drooping from the corner of her mouth as she spoke; it was more a warning than a courtesy, and if the gentlemen in question minded, well—there was a perfectly good body of water they could douse themselves in, she supposed. Right behind them, even.

Before she had a chance to light up, yet another new voice was added the conversation, this one calling out over the already-abandoned docks. "Yooo, guys! Ylaine here! That Ebenezer guy told you about me, right?" Sallie squinted in the direction of this new addition, a small woman who reminded her of the sorts of young women she went to college with, sans the slouching hat. Assuming Dorian Gray over there was joining their party as well, the rag-tag bunch appeared to be quite the crowd.

The realization that she would be spending a considerable amount of time in close quarters with this bunch didn't bring Sallie much joy. She lit the cigarette in her mouth and took a long, calming drag, replacing the lighter as she did so. She was even polite enough to aim away from the faces of the men surrounding her—one of them in particular might have taken the gesture as undue flirtation, and that was the last thing she wanted to encourage before what already promised to be a long and uncomfortable boat ride. "Ylaine," she said thoughtfully, giving a wave with her cigarette in hand. The tip brightened and flaked along with the gesture. "Name sounds familiar, but I'm drawing a blank."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris
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#, as written by Ezarael
Wolfgang „Wolf“ von Krieger

“If I threw something in the water, would you jump in, slick?”

Why did this sort of thing always occur when he was preoccupied with a woman? For some reason he was never able to pay attention to whatever else was going on around him if women were involved. In all actuality it would have been better had he not take his focus off of his intended target, but as they say, "The best laid plans of mice and men.” The woman seemed like a cold-fish anyway, so there probably wasn’t much ground lost to be honest.

The werewolf almost wished he had kept focused on anything else though, because as soon as he let the outside world back into his realm of attention his superior senses were assailed by a cacophony of sensations. The acrid smell of burning rubber, brake fluid, and dead flesh slammed into his nostrils like a brick whilst squealing brakes, chattering women, and obscenities from none too far off battered his ear drums. An old woman with a strange accent was inquiring for some assistance from the dangerous-smelling man, just another reason Wolfgang never wanted to live to a ripe old age, if he couldn’t take care of himself it was time to go.

There was too much to respond to, but first things first. The flowery one with the comments was first up on the list. He reeked of death as the rail-thin woman from earlier, which was simply awful. The German uneasily lifted himself from his seated position, using his right hand to lean against the crate for a few moments until he could regain his composure amidst the overpower stench in the air. The other man smelled of death as well, just great this was going to be an awful boat trip, he would definitely need to pay attention to which way the wind blew whilst on the ocean, and of course he was going to Captain the ship and whatever Abe said be damned.

After settling his knees enough to walk again Wolfgang waltzed his not so merry self towards the one who spoke up, pale and short like all but the one with the dark complexion. When he came within two feet of the tiny man he laid his left hand gingerly upon the other’s shoulder and bent forward to speak in his ear, not much of an easy feat given the putrid stench emanating from him. He spoke very quietly, barely louder than a whisper, he imagined this one might have extraordinary hearing such as his self and if the others did he did not necessarily want to start any trouble right off the bat. He did need to work with these people after all. “There’s a pair of large balls in my pants if you care to find out friend, otherwise let us keep the wise-cracking to a minimum, ja?”

With a hearty laugh and slap on the shoulder Wolfgang straightened himself and gazed upon the others gathering around so far. A strange bunch to be certain, and it seemed the rail-thin woman had something to say, or at least she looked like she did what with the standing up and what have you with a “keep the peace” kind of look plastered on her face. If only she knew he detested violence then she might not have wasted the precious air reminding them of the fact. "No need to get testy, boys. I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks. Sallie Harris, former FBI. This charming gentleman," the sarcasm in her voice was heavy, "has already introduced himself, but we could start the round all over again if you'd like.”

“Ah, why ja definitely. How could I have forgotten my manners at a time like this? Wilkommen gentlemen! My name is Wolfgang von Krieger, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance!”

Before he could even being his splendid self-introduction the toxic smell of a cigarette assaulted his delicate nose quickly after the FBI woman asked them quickly, "You boys mind if I smoke?" Wolfgang coughed lightly to clear his throat as the smoke coated his lungs without permission, sure she didn’t blow it straight at his face but that hardly mattered when you were dealing with senses as acute as his own. Two new figures caught his attention though, one in a good way and the other in a bad way.

"Yooo, guys! Ylaine here! That Ebenezer guy told you about me, right?"

Now THIS was right up his alley of expertise, or however the Americans put it. She was small, in all the right ways, blonde, and fairly attractive, plus she didn’t smell of death like three others he need not mention, which was definitely a plus in his book right now. The other man though, he seemed like a pretty boy and cocky as well, probably the man who was swearing earlier, he would definitely need to divert this Ylaine’s attention from this man’s general proximity. Not that he was competition or any nonsense like that, no one was competition for Wolfgang’s stunning combination of beauty and brains, but it was always a good idea to hedge your bets.

“Ylaine you said? What a beautiful name you have Liebschen!” As he started with his moves Wolfgang quickly walked up next to the pretty young Ylaine and draped his right arm around her shoulders, holding his left hand out towards the package grasped in her arms. “Are you in need of any assistance my dear? Ach mein Gott, I am so sorry, but proper etiquette slipped my mind after seeing you. My name is Wolfgang my dear, and I am both ashamed for Ebenezer and insulted by the fact he told me nothing of your coming here!”

While continuing on with his small speech, or whatever you might call it, the werewolf began slowing urging the woman away from the pretty boy newcomer and closer to the docks. “So my dear what are we gathered here for? I am eager to start with my first assignment, when do we leave?”

Looking back at the others in their motley crew Wolfgang put an earnest and somewhat stern look upon his face before speaking. “So are we ready, ja? Is this everyone or is it time to go? I’ll be piloting the boat, ja, so you should hurry before both Ylaine and I leave you behind!”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris
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Sable saw fit to open their acquaintance with this group by leveling a quip at the… werewolf. Yes, that certainly had to be what he was, if the large frame and scent of wet dog that lingered about his rather comparatively disheveled self were anything to go by. Of course, the last werewolf he’d met had informed him in no uncertain terms that while he was the cleanest vampire she’d ever met, he still smelled worse than that. Having grown up with it himself, he was bound to disagree.

He noted but did not specifically acknowledge the human man and the older lady he went to help, though he swore there was something just a touch familiar about that vehicle, which was of course impossible, since he had never in all of his extensive travel been to Myanmar before.

All was put from his mind anyway when the werewolf, who’d predictably taken machismo-laden offense to Sable’s commentary, placed a hand on his flatmate’s shoulder and loomed over him, his retort crude as Balthazar would have guessed, had anyone asked him to hazard an opinion. The annoyed hiss that escaped the Persian man’s teeth was barely-audible to human senses, but of course humans were a minority here, weren’t they? One side of his upper lip lifted, an almost involuntary sneer that flashed a pearlescent fang.

How entirely reprehensible, to use your size and physique to intimidate when you had been challenged on another level entirely. Perhaps his mind was inadequate to the task, but this in itself was no excuse.

Perhaps fortunately, the situation was dissolved a good deal more civilly with the intervention of the group’s third vampire, and Balthazar relaxed, smoothing his face out again before his display, subtle as it was when compared to the main event, became too obvious. He was not an emotive man as a rule, but certainly, those he kept closer than arms’ length, while few in number, were his most obvious triggers. He made it a point to give the woman a courteous half-bow. “FBI?” he repeated with some faint trace of amusement nearly imperceptible beneath his usual accented lilt. “I do some work with Interpol, myself. Balthazar Shirazi, at your service.”

This last was directed at the group, which by now seemed to contain all of its members, including three humans (though the more youthful of the two males seemed a tad…off somehow, but Balthazar was no expert in humanity, so he might well have been imagining it), the werewolf, and the three vampires. Interesting; he’d almost been expecting a witch or two, but then perhaps one of them was. No herb smells, though, but… a faint hint of metal? From the elderly woman, no less. If he was surprised by this, Balthazar chose not to show it.

He certainly did not mind the scent of cigarettes, as his father had been quite fond of Cuban cigars for much of Balthazar’s life, and those were considerably worse than their slimmer cousins. He noted Wolfgang (ah, but the irony of such an appellation- was it his birth one?) seemed uncomfortable, and supposed that was the trade-off for a nose better even than a vampire’s.

By the time that anyone else who wanted to make introductions had done so, there was a shout from not too far off, and Balthazar turned to see a young female approaching. This, already predictably, set the German hound to baying like a fool puppy, and he introduced himself for what must have been the third time.


His hastiness was even more problematic. “Only a fool runs headlong into a situation without understanding it,” Balthazar cut in with cool tones. “Miss Ylaine, Ebenezer was rather sparing with the details of our task. All we were told is that we were to escort someone or something somewhere, and that doing so involved travelling by boat. If there is any other information you would be willing to part with before we begin, I’m sure it would be most helpful.” He might have mentioned that Ebenezer hadn’t even mentioned her, but every species he'd ever encountered were alike enough in their desire to be important that he supposed this notion might be mildly offensive, so he tactfully omitted it.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris
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It's the little things that always counted. The irrelevant quips that sloughed from his flapping tongue before his fangs could rattle them to a close, and so Sable's mouth twitched into a slight smirk before trembling back into it's usual frown – clearly worried that this hulking menace would grab him by the throat and throttle him like a restless turkey, ringing his neck until he plopped across his feet like a broken marionette. He wasn't going to end up one of the man's dirty barbie dolls, if that was what he was thinking. It was never the big things that threw him off – always and only the little ones. The collar of his leather coat was pulled up to hug his slender neck and chin, and the dark circles under his eyes only revealed a fraction of how exhausted he actually was after such a long day. One his innards aren't panicky and his heart isn't thumping hollowly in his chest and spurred about so restlessly. His pulse ran sluggishly, as always.

Certainly, this werewolf was going to chase off all the women or earn himself a sharpened heel straight into his pelvic area, crushing all the important bits – if he pushed enough, if he spat enough slime at them like a tweed-suit wearing creep in A Night at the Roxbury. It wasn't difficult to picture him thrusting his hips, arms flailing fruitlessly as he crunched himself against several other bodies in an attempt to rid himself of whatever rapid hormones that ailed him. Thankfully, there weren't any appalling stenches that assailed his nose. It might've been because he, himself, smelled like death. The awkwardly soft smells of an open coffin or a room belonging solely to cleaned cadavers: grey flesh, dying molecules and a smattering of flavoured hand sanitizer. These were the scents that made up Sable's caricature: a dying fruit bowl, albeit without any swarms of fruit flies.

The muscles in Sable's arms immediately tensed, sending tendrils of dismay through his shoulder blades and biceps. It felt like pebbles had crept under his skin, pushing uncomfortably against his flesh and making them, quite, impossible to move. The larger German's fingers twitched, then he was suddenly moving away from the amalgamation of crates surrounding the woman he'd been smoothly attempting to accost. His eyes widened, quickly, then narrowed into sharp corners and angles. Had he ever had any altercations with the other group? Surely not. They'd treated him little more than a silly pup who hadn't learned his place but now – this creature, this mass of muscles, was stomping towards him as if he'd pulled his earlobes between pinched fingers. There wasn't anywhere to retreat to unless he wasn't to back in the ocean and plummet to it's depths, drowning in it's noticeably murky waters. It certainly looked dirty from where he was standing. The man's hand clamped down on his shoulder. He swore that if he'd wanted to crush his collarbone, he could've. It was in the subtle tension of the man's probing fingers, so gingerly, so softly depicting what could possibly happen.

Inadvertently leaning backwards, trying to disentangle the man's fingers from his person, Sable's mouth curled distastefully from the threatening whisper. “N-No need to get your panties in a bunch, I don't play fetch.” He threw his hands up, finally, defeated. He didn't want his head bashed in before the mission was complete – or really, at all. The vampire's composure shifted. It wasn't quite like a dog's whipping tail tucking between his legs, pressed against his abdomen, but it sure was close. This guy was the embodiment of flexing, muscle-pumping body builders. He could snap him like a twig if he so wished to, but more or less, Ebenezer would take the proper precautions, wouldn't he? He wouldn't let his only loving nephew be fed to the sharks, would he? “Wise-cracking. Minimum, got it.” His fingers, like thin harp strings, wiggled in front of his face as if he were making a solemn promise.

He'd already decided that Wolfgang was frightening even if he wasn't tearing his limbs into a mess of beef jerky. Sable laughed awkwardly when the werewolf slapped him across the shoulder, carrying himself as if nothing had truly occurred. “We will – be living side by side, that is.” Wolfgang von Krieger? If Ebenezer hadn't strictly told them that a werewolf was involved, then he wouldn't have noticed the faint smell of wet dog wafting from the man before him. He wasn't very perceptive to smells unless he was pressing his face into said article, which did not seem like a promising thing to do given Wolfgang's alternating moods. He took note of those who'd already introduced themselves and shuffled the names away with conventional, insatiably silly, words so that he'd remember them later. Nicknames were useful enough, so long as no one was testy enough to correct him. Sallie was all cigarettes and lipstick stains and something else that reminded him solely of business and piles of work sheets haphazardly strewn across the floor. Wolfgang – as he'd described before – reminded him of a large shaggy hound who'd mistakenly eaten steroids for the majority of his life. The older woman, who he'd been squinting at moments before, reminded him of that crazy coot who nearly drove them off the road. He didn't have experience for older lasses. He didn't have any dotting nannies cooking him blood cookies as a youngster, nor was he allowed to speak to any of his older ancestors unless he was spoken to: which, was clearly, not very often. The oddly grinning fellow had already bumbled forward with his offer to take the older woman's luggage, shuffling uncomfortably, while regarding the nannie's flashing gun barrel.

Another man entered the unusual scene, dressed purposefully well. If it hadn't been for the fact that this man had been invited by Ebenezer himself, then Sable would've guessed that he was a wayward model who'd lost his way and stumbled onto them, coincidentally. There was something off about him. He discarded his neurotic thoughts and shrugged his shoulders, offering a slight nod that seemed jerky, mechanical. He was still rattled. His plexiglass eye itched, so he knuckled it thoughtfully, glancing upwards until he caught sight, from the corner of his functional eye, of another woman who looked as if she'd missed the bus headed for a roller rink. Her optimism spilled over the brim of her cup. Sable couldn't help but flash a smile, waving a little more chipperly. Ebenezer hadn't mentioned who'd be guiding them, but he'd slipped out that, this time, it was a woman. She looked as if she sang off tune and didn't particularly care what she sounded like – it put him at ease. Optimism, optimism, optimism. Balthazar and Sable had little use of such things.

He shrugged, nonchalantly, when Sallie asked if anyone cared whether or not she smoked. Inevitably, even if anyone had any qualms, Sable doubted that she'd stub it out and respect their wishes. He didn't care either way. His lungs were feverish with poison and rot – what would a little tar and chemicals do to them? Absolutely nothing. After Balthazar had introduced himself with a quick, courteous bow, then Sable bobbed his head forward and added: “Sable Valante, or Mink.” Clearly, if anyone knew the mysterious phone-caller's last name, they'd know he was related to Ebenezer. Sadly, this fact never worked in his advantage. He was never treated any differently, anyway. His eyebrows flashed up, then sidled down when Wolfgang's eagerness to introduce himself to another woman, equipped with bouncing breasts, introduced herself. Honestly. Were all werewolves like this? Perhaps, there were reasons why Ebenezer hadn't told Wolfgang that there'd be women involved. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and promptly clinched it closed.

When hadn't Ebenezer left out all of the important details, allowing them to stumble forward and figure out things for themselves even if it meant attempting to scale rooftops and smashing your face, unpleasantly, against rotten shingles. Junctures of skin and bones and tepid memories. It was enough to say that ridicule did not spill from his pores, anymore. His attention turned back towards Balthazar – the one who'd always known just what to say, just how to press the wrinkles out of their conjunctive missions. There was nothing to add, so Sable merely slipped his hands into his pockets and waited for a better explanation.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Sallie Harris Character Portrait: Balthazar Eskandar Shirazi
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#, as written by Deallo
The gentlemen had an accent, one that Annabelle couldn't quite place, but agreed to help her out none the less. She mentally remarked how fast the foreigner ran to her car; like someone lit his bottom on fire. It was suspicious, even more since there was a hint of...fear? Was it fear in his steps? Or hesitation? The old lady took a deep breath, reminding herself to be mindful of her surroundings.

On that note, she finally noticed the commotion that was occurring beside her and finally understood what he was running away from. He was just like my daughter Mary, never liked confrontation, running with her tail between her legs at the first sight of it. Of course, Annabelle knew it wasn't kind to compare a fully grown man to her daughter when she was sixteen. The fight that was brewing seemed to be an almost stereotypical challenge the old lady saw too much of back in Texas. Two men fighting over a girl. The idea was something only men can think of: if a guy beats up a lady's boyfriend, she'll leave him, and go to the man who's stupid enough to throw punches in the first place.

The really stupid girls are the ones who actually go along with it.

It brought her back thirty-five years ago sitting in a bar, sipping on some beer, when two gentlemen she didn't know tried to court her. Neither had the eye to see the ring of a married woman placed ever so precariously on her left hand.

One of them was a tall, strong fellow, who dressed like he was going on vacation, wearing a ridiculous captain's hat. He reminded her of her son Ronnie, the running-back for the Houston Texans, and she was going to assume he was just as dumb until he started to laugh the situation off. Annabelle managed to crack a smile; surprised he saw a man who's muscles didn't crush his brain. The other two men had an air of professionalism about them, one who was as white as the ghost and had been the one issuing the challenge while the other one, which Annabelle was quick enough to assume, was Indian. Both of them were rather scrawny at first sight. It was rather odd how they came out of the same car, and both dressed alike in suits. For a moment, the old lady could have sworn she saw the white one of the two before...but she couldn't place her finger on it. Her mind was a bit busy trying to decipher the relationship between those two...were they..? Naaah.

Tossing aside the ridiculous notion, the gentlemen with her bag cam back, and just as she was going to think him, the final stranger appeared. A young looking lady who had her hair all bunched up like some of the black woman she saw in New York when she went on a "business" trip. On the other hand, she looked like one of the free-spirited hippies who'd protest in the front of the white house with those seashells stuck to her head. "Ylaine" her name was; an awkward name to say if Annabelle dared to read it from a list. Still, it was nice to see an enthusiastic face in here. The rest of the group started to introduce themselves, making it easier for Annabelle to distinguish people rather then using "he" "she" or possibly "the brown one". Everyone had relatively simple names, slightly relieved the Indian one had a name that was easy to say, arching an eyebrow at Wolfgang's too enthusiastic behavior.

She perked up as the small woman introduced herself as Sallie Harris; freaking FBI. Sallie...Sallie...

The name was too familiar. Annabelle knew she heard it before but where? Working with the cartel? FBI were a problem in her line of work but was it somewhere else? It only took a moment to realize she wasn't breathing; somehow forgetting to exhale. Former FBI. Former FBI she kept thinking to herself, steadily taking breaths. There was also another character, one who hadn't introduced himself yet, just looking at everyone. It was safe to say he was letting out creepy vibes. Annabelle turned to her attention to Ylaine; for her turn to introduce herself.

"Oh, it so nice to meet you dear. Ebenezer told me all about you-" He hadn't. "-oh, how rude of me, name's Annabelle, darling. I own a gun shop called 'The Silver Bullet' back in Texas." The old lady said cheerfully, omitting her illegal occupation and last name. Trust was something that needed to be earned; not given after all. Amongst all of the introductions, Annabelle completely forgot about the awkward gentlemen who went to grab her bags, leaving him holding about 30 lbs of metal.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Constantine Augustus Meyac Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Sable Gossamer Valante Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Sallie Harris Character Portrait: Balthazar Eskandar Shirazi
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The notion of the large man in front of them having any semblance of manners might have, in another setting, caused Sallie to lose her metaphorical soup in uproarious laughter, or at least given her a decent snicker. Presently, she wasn't feeling so much like laughing—there was a time and a place for jokes, and this wasn't it. She did, however, get a good smirk out of the matter, which was more than she could say for the rest of the day's events. The somewhat hostile introductions (and Sallie knew that "hostile" was probably too strong a word, but it was the best she could think of at the moment) didn't bode well for the rest of this endeavor.

And all at once, a vague sense of dread at being the voice of reason for this group of less-than-conventional individuals washed over her. Even vampires weren't immortal, per se, and she'd rather like to keep her head where it sat on her shoulders. Standing around sulking was probably not conducive to that, she decided, perching her already impressively shortened cigarette on her lips and taking the old white case in her off hand. "Maybe the big lug has a point," she said, largely good-naturedly. "We certainly won't get much done standing around with our teeth in our mouth."

Sallie had a few questions she wanted to ask Ylaine. As a matter of fact, she had a few questions she wanted to ask everyone present. Who, exactly, was she dealing with? She knew that the answer as far as their employer would likely come to a dead-end; she'd been 'round the track a few times, and had made a point to glean as much out of their phone conversation as she could manage (which was about enough to fill one of the little divots in a golf-ball, truth be told). He didn't seem like the sort of man to leave information lying around, and those who knew anything about him probably wouldn't divulge that information to a stranger in cordial conversation. But the rest of the myriad of Monsters—now that was another story. Face-to-face, she had a much better chance of getting a feel for who she was working with, and already she was starting to get some small indication as to who would prove to be bearable and whom she would want to keep a good distance from on their venture.

The two vampires who had arrived earlier (she assumed they were vampires, at least, from the smell) seemed congenial enough, at least for given values thereof, and though Wolfgang made her somewhat uncomfortable and smelled a mite like wet dog, he seemed, when his wits were about him, like he was willing enough to cooperate. She'd dealt with big guys before—it was rare that she felt threatened by them nowadays. The old woman, now she looked familiar, although Sallie couldn't place her face off the top of her head. This was what filing systems were for, and she hadn't had access to one of those in over a year. The man who'd been sitting on the crates when she'd arrived reminded her of a small dog, not necessarily meek, but—well, alright, meek was probably the best word.

She had the sneaking suspicion that the was more than he seemed—otherwise, why would Abe have hired him? After all, each of them seemed to have something nasty lurking just under the surface of their humanity. He sat near the top of her list, along with the long-haired chap who hadn't said a word since he'd arrived.

Flicking the butt of her cigarette unceremoniously off the dock and into the water, Sallie decided that the best course of action was to move herself along, and made towards the end of the dock herself. "Your bag's unzipped, just so you know, big guy," she added politely as she approached. "I didn't think it was legal for women to bend that way."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Wolfgang Wolf von Krieger Character Portrait: Annabelle Reed Character Portrait: Micah Colby Ames Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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#, as written by Deallo
Annabelle was oddly surprised to look at the poster in Ylaine's hands, meeting their escort, a pot. Yes, a pot of some sort wrapped around a cheap advertisement from some magazine. The elderly woman wasn't an expert in these sort of things but somehow she had a different mindset of when "escort" came to mind, someone who was an important figure in politics or witness to a large conspiracy, not a...pot. Perhaps she watched too many spy movies. Maybe there's something inside it she thought, before turning her attention elsewhere. It was the gentleman who'd lifted her bag of munitions from the trunk of her car, obviously struggling, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Oh dear, just drop it right here alright?" Anna said to her helper, who did so right at the end of her sentence, all tired and worn out. She went to the bag, grabbed the handle and with the push of a button, extended it upwards. "Thank you very much, dear." She said to Micah. The really large fellow, the one who feigned over woman so easily, suggested they walk, which she did while pulling the luggage with the help of two black rubber wheels on the bottom. Although when something dropped from his bag, the elderly woman motioned to pick it up, and just as quickly reversed that action as soon as she caught sight of the naked woman splayed across the page. She pretended that she couldn't hear a word of what Wolfgang said. Denial is a skill, a skill that only improved with age, especially with awkward situations like this one.

Having found the boat at the end of the docks; Annabelle was rather glad that the ship was inconspicuous enough. The thought of going on one of those large cruise ships just packed with old people going on vacation was something she abhorred. The only thing that can possibly be any worse were one of those dilapidated retirement homes that kids would drop their elderly parents in. The cargo ship even had a crew of it's own, filled with foreigners, mumbling something to each other. This was Mexico all over again; everyone talking but she couldn't understand a damn thing. It was the only reason she learned the language in the first place. Well, it wasn't, but it was one of the more important ones. Paranoia slowly crept on Anna, who turned back to stare into the faces of the ship-mates, in an attempt to assess the situation. They seemed confused to see them going on board.

"Does anyone happen to know what they're saying?" The elderly weapon called out to her fellow 'monsters', having her free hand close to the handgun under her trench-coat in case this was going to get out of control, the white purse hanging on the nook of her elbow in the same fashion that she approached Micah with.