Dylious's Story

Dylious sat there, steaming in his booth, feeling oh so intently isolated from the real world. This place, Gambit's, Wing City... this place to him was like nothing more than a psychotic purgatory, there must have been over a dozen incidents at this point that he should of perused, but just quite frankly couldn't.

Dylious wasn't one to normally do things by the book so to speak either, he was a bit of a loose cannon at best; an ex. War Hero from the Oil Wars with a deadly touch of combat skills and intuitive wit...
That's what made him the perfect U.S. Marshal.

Dylious sat there, starting to calm down as a methodical melody began enchanting his ear. Hi cigarette dangling from his lip he looked up at the girl playing the piano, Briena Skysong.

Her strokes on the keys were so precise and dexterous, a warm smile began to glow over his face as he took back the rest of his drink, grabbed his whiskey bottle and coat, then made his way to a table closer to the stage...

Dylious
slowly strolls in a steady fashion up the sidewalk toward Gambit's. A cigarette dangling dauntlessly from his light lips, Dylious, with his hands in his pockets made it out front of the bar; throwing the cigarette down and stepping on it with his left foot.

The sweltering sky was so endlessly enchanted by a muggy moistness, the young detective stood outside for a moment, lifting his hat up and wiping the sizzling sweat from his forehead.

Under his khaki trench coat was a white dress shirt, accompanied by a tacky tie, his brown slacks were being hoisted up by the black suspenders that reached over his strong shoulders, the slacks meeting almost perfectly with the cusp of his dark dress shoes. On the front of his waistline a small badge could be seen, even by a naked eye, as it glimmered with the streetlight.

With his hands resting so presumptuously in his pockets, his nose gave a slight twitch with a sickly sniff. Normally, Dylious was not the nervous type, but there was something so off about this place, he could feel it in his gut. Something was indeed wrong, but then again, anyone would get just at tad bit timid while investigating the paranormal.

[url=http://c0728502.cdn.cloudfiles.rackspacecloud.com/leonardo-dicaprio-as-teddy-daniels-in--shutter-island--6.jpg]Dylious[/url] lifted his tan fedora from his head as he leaned into the doorway, and casually stepped in, placing the hat back on his head and pulling the lip of it down just above his eyes.

With harmless haste, he made his way over to the first open booth he found, taking his trench coat off and sitting down, with it resting next to him.
"Excuse me? Bartenda'? I'll have a bottle of Ol' Grand Dad..." he said, lifting his right index finger in the air. The bartender fetched his drink, smiling at the charming New Yorker detective.

Dylious poured a glass just before lighting a cigarette and taking a glance around the barroom.

Dylious sat there, persistently puffing away at his cigarette, his eyes deeply darting around the barroom from one person to the next.

Suddenly a very distinctive doll like lady had pranced into the barroom. Dylious began twisting around a bit, almost nervously in his seat as he struggled to pull a note pad from his pocket.

He looked on at the girl curiously as his eyes seemed to squint at her situation. He began jotting down information into his note pad:
'Female, late 20's.
Maybe a missing person, and maybe a mute.'

His hand shook it's way back over to his whiskey, pouring another glass with his fetching eyes locked tight on this new intern of his investigative wit...
She seemed so...
So... alone.

Dylious slowly strolls in a steady fashion up the sidewalk toward Gambit's. A cigarette dangling dauntlessly from his light lips, Dylious, with his hands in his pockets made it out front of the bar; throwing the cigarette down and stepping on it with his left foot.

The sweltering sky was so endlessly enchanted by a muggy moistness, the young detective stood outside for a moment, lifting his hat up and wiping the sizzling sweat from his forehead.

Under his khaki trench coat was a white dress shirt, accompanied by a tacky tie, his brown slacks were being hoisted up by the black suspenders that reached over his strong shoulders, the slacks meeting almost perfectly with the cusp of his dark dress shoes. On the front of his waistline a small badge could be seen, even by a naked eye, as it glimmered with the streetlight.

With his hands resting so presumptuously in his pockets, his nose gave a slight twitch with a sickly sniff. Normally, Dylious was not the nervous type, but there was something so off about this place, he could feel it in his gut. Something was indeed wrong, but then again, anyone would get just at tad bit timid while investigating the paranormal.

[url=http://c0728502.cdn.cloudfiles.rackspacecloud.com/leonardo-dicaprio-as-teddy-daniels-in--shutter-island--6.jpg]Dylious[/url] lifted his tan fedora from his head as he leaned into the doorway, and casually stepped in, placing the hat back on his head and pulling the lip of it down just above his eyes.

With harmless haste, he made his way over to the first open booth he found, taking his trench coat off and sitting down, with it resting next to him.
"Excuse me? Bartenda'? I'll have a bottle of Ol' Grand Dad..." he said, lifting his right index finger in the air. The bartender fetched his drink, smiling at the charming New Yorker detective.

Dylious poured a glass just before lighting a cigarette and taking a glance around the barroom.

seemingly slid his way into the bar, his tall frame stood in the doorway, covered by a khaki coat. His hansom head was focused on the floor as he stood there just looking down at the ground. Dylious slowly lifted his head as he shook off the storm that had brewed all over him outside, jerking his head and knocking the rain off of his tan fedora hat, and revealing his charming complexion. He scanned the bar for a moment, not too many people were here he noticed as he tardily made his way over to an empty booth.

He took off his coat before sitting, revealing a businessman like attire; a black suit blazer over-top of a white dress shirt that was accompanied by a dark tie and gray suspenders, on his legs a matching pair of black slacks with a pair of worn dress shoes on his feet.

Dylious lifted his finger, motioning toward the barmaid, "I'll have a Ol' Grand Dad..." he paused for a moment, "Just bring tha' bottle will yah'?" his New Yorker accent spat out from his tongue as the barmaid nodded and fetched his drink. Dylious began looking around the bar for someone to talk to as he ran his fingers back through his wet, dark hair...

He quickly pulled a half way crumbled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, after laying the pack on the table he removed one and flipped it into his plush lips as he surgically struck a match, lighting his cigarette. Dylious took a deep drag from his cigarette and exhaled a feeling of extacy, as he unscrewed the lid from the Ol' Grand Dad bottle and poured himself a glass.

Dylious slowly strolls in a steady fashion up the sidewalk toward Gambit’s. A cigarette dangling dauntlessly from his light lips, Dilly, with his hands in his pockets made it out front of the bar; throwing the cigarette down and stepping on it with his left foot. The sweltering sky was so endlessly enchanted by a muggy moistness, the young detective stood outside for a moment, lifting his hat up and wiping the sizzling sweat from his forehead.
Under his khaki trench coat was a white dress shirt, accompanied by some terribly tacky tie. His brown slacks were being hoisted up by the black suspenders that reached over his strong shoulders, the slacks meeting almost perfectly with the cusp of his dark dress shoes. On the front of his waistline a small badge could be seen, even by a naked eye, as it glimmered with the streetlight.

With his hands resting so presumptuously in his pockets, his nose gave a slight twitch with a sickly sniff. Normally, Dilly was not the nervous type, but there was something so off about this place, he could feel it in his gut. Something was indeed wrong, but then again, anyone would get just at tad bit timid while investigating the paranormal.
Dilly lifted his tan fedora from his head as he leaned into the doorway, and casually stepped in, placing the hat back on his head and pulling the lip of it down just above his eyes. A gushing gust of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume flew into his face, as he entered the overcrowded barroom. The so clearly classified maniacs were cackling away, enjoying their malts and whiskey.

With harmless haste, he made his way over to the first open booth he found, taking his trench coat off and sitting down, with it resting next to him.
"Excuse me? Bartenda'? I'll have a bottle of Ol' Grand Dad." he said, lifting his right index finger in the air. The mature, but youthfully attractive bartender fetched his drink, smiling at the charming New Yorker detective.

Dylious tightly twisted around in his booth, situating himself into the foremost feeling of content he could muster.

No one had noticed him enter, which was indeed to his liking. The young detective sat there for a moment, his eyes firmly focusing on patron to patron around the barroom.
Dilly reached into his shirt pocket, pulling a crumbled pack of L&M cigarettes from inside and lighting one. Perching his elbow causally onto the table, Dilly rested the side of his face into the palm of his hand, rubbing the scruffy hair that was long overdue for a shave.

/me's image begins to materialize in the distance. His walk ever so pevish as he drug what seemed to be a badly injured leg at his obvious disapproval. His fetching clean-cut face wencing at the pain from the gash in his right thigh. He slowly made his was toward two visible people in his dirty and damaged agent-like black suit.

Dylious 's image begins to materialize in the distance. His walk ever so pevish as he drug what seemed to be a badly injured leg at his obvious disapproval. His fetching clean-cut face wencing at the pain from the gash in his right thigh. He slowly made his was toward two visible people in his dirty and damaged agent-like black suit.

Dylious entered the barroom. His dark, hooded-coat covering all but a glimpse of his gushing green eyes. Shaking off the rain from outside, Dylious made port to a stool a few feet from where the bartender was working. His head was knelled toward his prayerful looking hands that rested on the bar counter. Within a dashing moment, Dylious flung his head back, knocking his hood from his head; exposing a bewildered but very hansom face of a young man in his twenties. Slowly he opened his eyes and ran his fingers back through his tattered, brown hair... he began to swiftly scan his eyes around the bar, looking for someone to converse with.