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The Multiverse

Setting

Notice: OPEN AGAIN!

ImageThe Den, as apply named, is a local den house for a pack of urban werewolves led by a man who goes by the name of Baron.

The stench of booze, tobacco, and cigarette smoke are thick in the air, and the place has a rugged, and weathered feel to it.

Like most of the urban packs, Baron's wolves have staked out a decent sized territory within Vargeras, and though The Den doesn't maintain a strict guest list at the door, members of other packs are liable to be met with hostility.

The den house also doubles as a bar; however, humans though allowed, might find service difficult if they aren't good at blending into the rugged atmosphere that is The Den.

Minor brawls and pack spats are relatively common place here, though mind the furniture lest Baron get involved. One should also note that pack law bars the use of weapons with settling internal spats between pack members.
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The Den

A local den house and bar for a pack of urban werewolves.

Minimap

The Den is a part of Lupaix.

2 Places in The Den:

7 Characters Here

Jarrett McKeldin [23] A Lutetia City resident. Nothing to see here.
Jeanne Bonheur [23] "Yes, I see what you did there."
Ulrich Palomer [6] "It wasn't my fault."
Nieve [2] ...

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Setting

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Character Portrait: Baron
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#, as written by Tiko
Baron was seated at his usual table near the back of the bar next to one of the only windows in the establishment. The air was hazy and thick with cigarette smoke which he was contributing to as he took a long drag of his cigarette.

The regulars knew to keep their distance and the immediate tables near his seat where vacant of patrons as he watched the activities of the bar with an aloof look of boredom.

It was late enough in the evening that the sky outside was beginning to grow dark, but some light filtered through the dirty glass yet. The sun wouldn't be set for another hour or so.

Elsewhere in the bar the evening regulars where beginning to fill the room out. They were pack members mostly, but also the occasional biker or trucker was known to pass through. Some scoffed at Baron's willingness to take human patrons into his establishment, but it was his openness to bringing outsiders into his numbers that had allowed his pack to swell until it had claimed a seat among some of the largest packs in the city. They maintained a respectable sized territory in Vargeras, and those who frequented The Den knew better than to openly question Baron's decisions.

He took another drag of his cigarette while he used his free hand to poured himself a glass of whiskey that he had had imported from Llohap.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Baron Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Lialore
Max was late. And he couldn’t find it in him to care.

He shouldered through the entrance to The Den a solid thirty minutes after his shift was supposed to have started. His hands were in his pockets, chin tucked in, gait sloppy. The haze was disturbed as he stomped in, manner not unlike a teenager who had just been denied his petty little heart’s desire.

Max had good reason enough, so he thought. After selling the last of his mother’s possessions, he’d made his way straight to work. If you could call it ‘selling’, more like; ‘giving away’ or ‘being absolutely conned out of a decent sale by scrounging necromancers.’ His lips twisted at the thought. The beloved piano should have fetched way more than he’d sold it for.

On reaching the counter, he flipped up the section used to gain access to behind the bar then hesitated when his sweep of the bar brought his eyes to a resting spot – Baron’s table. He had to bite back a dramatic sigh, blowing lips and all.

The thought of having to narrate his personally awful day made him uncomfortable. But it wasn’t just that. Meeting the man’s gaze brought more frustration. More feelings of inadequacy. Usually, he’d be able to scorn himself. Rein himself in. Ungrateful, Max. Not today. He was too far gone in the self-pity which his mind had been indulging in, the sale of the piano having been the catalyst.

Snapping the section of the counter back down with a sharp bang, he gathered all the respect he could muster and stepped through the smoky clouds towards the Pack Leader. He’d planned on demanding answers, perhaps throwing in some points about how bad his life was, how he felt useless, like a nobody, like he was fading away…

All that came out once he’d entered Baron’s aura was: “Sorry I’m late.”

His heart jumped up into his mouth. Do it.

“Is-“ Max cleared his throat, balled his hands up at his sides and took a deep breath. “Is there something wrong?” His voice came out sounding exasperated. “It’s been five years. I thought I’d at least get a-“

It came out in a flare of anger.
“Where’s my promotion? Have I not proven my worth? My loyalty? I can't do anything more, Baron, not unless you change me. I want to be something more.”

Setting

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Character Portrait: Baron Character Portrait: Carlisle Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Tiko
A hush fell over the room as everyone turned their eyes to Max and Baron, and the silence was broken only by the clacking of pool balls that seemed to resound eerily loud in the absence of any other noise, but soon the pool balls fell still also.

Baron took one last drag of his cigarette before blowing it out slowly as he stubbed it out on an ashtray sitting next to him. He followed it with a sip of his glass before he leaned forward to look Max dead in the eye.

"Is that so?" he asked. "Tell me, what exactly have you done for this pack? Get your ass beat down from poking your nose where it doesn't belong? Showing up late to work?"

There was bite to his words, and something about Max's request had riled him. It was difficult to say why though, and he didn't seem intent on sharing his reasoning. Instead he leaned back in his chair and took another sip of his drink before dismissing Max with a wave of his hand.

Another man approached Max from behind and clapped a hand down on his shoulder.

"Come on kid, not tonight," he said as he nodded towards the bar where Max was supposed to be working as of a half hour ago.

The voice belonged to Carlisle, an older member of the pack and sometimes friend to Max. He had been with the Bloodstone pack going on thirty years now, but he wasn't of the local bloodlines and served as something of an oddity. He had in fact found his way to Lutetia all the way from Quelaya.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Baron Character Portrait: Carlisle Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Lialore
Baron’s apparent carelessness only infuriated him more. His smooth, time-consuming movements had Max gritting his teeth. He didn’t notice the stares that were turned on them; his world consisted of only himself, his annoyance, and the man who - at the moment - he blamed for it all.

He didn’t just want to be something more.
He felt like he needed to be something more.

From the Pack Leader’s demeanour after his outburst, Max had already guessed what was coming. It didn’t hurt any less. The reality check sent him spiralling back to earth. He felt some shame creeping in at how he’d handled the situation. Still, he held Baron’s regard as best as he could despite the wave of his hand. Max had already hurdled the immediate intimidation; he intended to run as far as he could before it caught up with him. Though he was well aware it could end in a good black eye or a few broken ribs, or worse.

Get your ass beat down from poking your nose where it doesn’t belong?
Where it doesn’t belong?
Doesn’t belong.


The hand that came down on his shoulder reminded him that he had an audience. Max collected himself. Calmer, he continued in a more hushed voice, addressing them both.

“Not tonight? When?” He said, eyes flitting to Carlisle then returned to Baron. It came out in a soft hiss, only slightly venomous.
“You know I wouldn’t get beat down if you made me one of you. I don’t want to, just, be an errand runner; shining your glasses, pouring your liquor. Is that all you saw in me when you took me in?” Max unclenched his hands and turned the palms upwards as his tone grew pained and somewhat pleading.
“This is all I have. Let me make something of it. I won’t let you down.”

He didn’t know if Baron cared. He didn’t know if Baron was even actively listening.
Max lightly shrugged off Carlisle’s good-natured hand and turned for the bar.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Baron Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Tiko
Baron's glass was slammed down on the table and he was on his feet before Max could turn from him. There was a growl upon his lips as he grabbed Max by the back of his jacket, half shoving, half dragging him towards the cellar door. Jerking the door open, he shoved Max down the steps towards the cold hard pavement below before following him down.

None followed the pair down and Max would find himself alone with Baron in a larger cellar lined with wine racks and casks of alcohol. At the far side of the cellar stood a large cage of sorts that had been partitioned into two cells. It was this that Baron was showing Max as he dragged him back to his feet and shoved his face up against the bars. Even after having been thoroughly cleaned, the lingering smell of bodily excrement was still detectable - as where the signs of rusty blood stains on the bars and pavement of the cell floors.

"Is this what you want?" Baron growled lowly. "Living down here in your own shit and piss for three weeks while your body rips itself apart and you experience the worst possible agony you have ever endured? If the pain doesn't kill you, you'll be wishing it would. And even after you endure all of that, you still might not survive your first turning. Is that what you're asking for?" Baron growled.

He pulled Maxwell back from the cage and gave him a shove back towards the stairs.

"Get out."

Setting

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Character Portrait: Baron Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Lialore
Max was literally wrenched out of his self-pity by the scruff of his neck.

He stumbled down the first few stairs which led into the cellar, but he couldn’t regain his balance from the shove and ended up rolling down the last half of the flight ungracefully. Knowing better than to curse or agitate Baron any further, he started to get to his feet in grim silence, without a single complaint. He didn’t have to struggle much as Baron gave him a helping hand by dragging him back up and kindly directing him to where he wanted Max to go with rough hands which mashed his face up against the cage. Now he put up some fight, trying to push his head away from the rusty metal which pressed into his flesh. He didn’t like to think what could’ve come into contact with it. Too bad Baron gave him a lovely poetic confirmation of his badly suppressed thoughts.

That was what he wanted. That was what he was asking for.

How could he explain it? This wasn’t a choice. He couldn’t carry on as he was. For such a long time his life had been nothing but the pack, they were the closest thing to a family he’d ever had, and Max had no one else. His future depended on the pack. His future depended on being turned - or else remain stuck in time. It was what he wanted. He didn’t see why the fact that he could die even mattered when it was his decision, a decision he had made years ago. Besides, why should Baron care so much? Yet here he was, being denied for reasons he thought were unclear. Whether he lived or died, Max believed wasn’t up to Baron. Whether he was a pack member, however, was. And it seemed like Baron had already practically made that decision.

Or so Max had thought.
But he was being deprived of full membership.

Max snarled upon his release, stumbling back a few steps before steadying himself and squaring up.

Get out.
Doesn’t belong.


After a moments quiet, he snorted, both hysteric and infuriated at being - what he believed - led on under false pretenses.
“Guess I really don’t belong.” And never will.

He started up the stairs with his head turned down, shrugging about in his jacket to get it back into position after being manhandled so. Max was planning on leaving The Den for the last time in his wave of deceit.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Baron Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Script
"Max." A calm and cool voice cut into Max's hearing as he stormed out of the cellar and towards the door. The white-haired Adair - generally referred to as 'Snow' by other pack members, a nickname given to him when he was a kid for the colour of his hair, his pale skin and his arctic origins - fixed the younger man with a cold stare.

"It looks to me by the way you're going for that door, that you're about to do something stupid." The white-haired young man folded his arms and raised a questioning eyebrow, "It also looks like you could use a drink. I'm buying, if you stick around."

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Character Portrait: Ragenard Guiscard
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The familiar noxious bouquet of tobacco, sawdust, spilled beer, liquor, sweat, and fear hit him like a wave as Ragenard cast his eyes about the room, as a small pool of blood started to gather beneath his feet. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took the "temperature" of the room.

The smell of fear was fresh, and mixed with a twinge of excited expectation. A cursory glance around the bar confirmed what his nose already knew. Baron wasn't at his usual spot. Seeing how Ragenard knew for a fact it was the usual time for his usual drink and his usual smoke before he got around to doing his usual things, it wasn't hard to guess what had caused the fear stink. A brief look at the unmanned section of the bar also made it clear as to why this had likely happened.

"Great. I come here hoping the bastard is mellowed down half a bottle at least, and the damned pup-hopeful goes and riles him up..." muttured Ragenard under his breath as he wandered deeper into the Den, not caring that his appearance might draw the eye of the few local human patrons. They knew where they were.

Once again the partion dividing the common room and the bar rang out loudly as Ragenard slammed it out of his way and reached for a bottle of bourbon off the low shelf. Between long, hard pulls of liquor like a man might drink water he bellowed; "Oi, where did Baron piss off to and what did you fuckers do to piss him off?". Gulp. Gulp. Clank. An empty bottle flew into the ground as Ragenard saw his query go unanswered.


"Well? Don't just stand there you fucking mongrels. And someone fetch a fucking bucket and some rags so I can wipe myself off"! groused Ragenard as he took a second bottle and made his away to his preferred corner, where a lonely and scratch scarred booth sat apart like an island in the sea of happy drinking noise that was the Den on a bad night, and a fortress none dared to let their fights spill into on the good nights.

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Character Portrait: Ragenard Guiscard
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.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Baron Character Portrait: Ragenard Guiscard
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#, as written by Tiko
Baron was shedding his jacket as he returned from the cellar, which was followed quickly by his shirt that was tossed onto the back of a chair.

"I'm going for a run," he growled out.

A few others in the room followed suit in shedding their own clothes. Nudity was par for the course when you hung out in The Den and jackets and jeans hit the floor while bodies twisted and writhed, sprouting fur.

As a wolf, Baron was a massive beast of an animal that stood several heads taller even than a dire wolf - though he wasn't near as large as those of his pack who took on towering bipedal forms. Of course, the hybrids lacked the speed of their quadrupedal counterparts and where less apt to taking an interest in social runs. Tonight was no different as the three that chose to join with Baron appeared as little more than large wolves themselves.

Baron shook himself off and pushed the door open with a wolfish snout before taking off down the street at a lope. Even urban werewolves found patrolling territory easier on four paws with a heightened sense of smell.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Lialore
Snow’s voice brought Max to a hedgy standstill. He was aware of the eyes that had followed him from the doorway of the cellar. Some pairs held him with a sorriness, others curiosity, more perhaps amusement. A few might’ve been disappointed that he’d returned relatively unscathed. But the chatter and clinking was returning to The Den.

He’d already done something stupid.
The sigh that escaped from Max’s lips was one of redundancy.
“I don’t think that’s-“

The force with which the door was flung open caused even one of the most hardy packs some discomfort.

None felt as uneasy as Max did, though. As the werewolf moved in, the damned pup-hopeful fucker who had pissed Baron off, that being Max, sidled into the shadows. Ragenard’s presence was usually an intimidating one; importance tinted with danger. His current state only intensified this. The patrons were momentarily subdued by such an aura. Max only caught a quiet, low impressed whistle from near the entrance. At Ragenard’s final demand, the member who was still working behind the bar - thanks to Max - jerked into action and disappeared.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Max murmured to Snow.

He was preparing to slip out onto the street when the Pack Leader returned, announcing the run.

What followed was nothing Max hadn’t experienced before. But now he felt detached as he watched. A week ago, had this happened, he might’ve been wondering how the change would affect him, whether he’d be more powerful than these who transformed before him. In the earlier years he’d sometimes take to the roofs to watch their progress in boyish awe.
Now all he felt was bitterness.

The wolves departed.

“Please, Snow, fund the drowning of my sorrows.” He said, grim in his sarcasm.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Script
Snow observed the forceful entry of Ragenard silently and without flinching. If he was uneasy or alarmed by the yelling and thrashing about, he didn't show it. He watched the man until he retreated to his corner booth, and turned back to Max in time to catch his murmur of disapproval. Before he could reply, Baron reemerged, and announced his run. The offer might have tempted him were he not preoccupied, but he had to deal with Max. Running off with the pack would achieve the exact opposite.

Finally, it seemed as though the Den was to return to its regular goings on for long enough for him to get a word in. "Take a breath, let it sit for a while. Doing anything drastic now, while your mind is fogged over, won't end well." he said.

It was a line of thinking that was typical of Snow. Whilst he by no means lacked warmth in his socialising and friendships, where many of the pack were emotionally charged and volatile, he was more than capable of being detached, calculating and coldly logical.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Baron Character Portrait: Carlisle Character Portrait: Ragenard Guiscard
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Ragenard was already halfway through his second bottle of bourbon and the ministrations of one of the newest pack girls who had for some reason taken a fancy to him and helped him clean the silver off his wounds when he heard Baron's call for a run.

By the time he belligerently got up from the booth and untangled from the fussy woman blabbering at him that his wounds weren't clean yet and wouldn't stop bleeding and who knows what else, Baron was already well down the street.

"Sod off, whelping bitch, I'm fine and will run if I damn well feel like it!" exclaimed Ragenard as he began to discard his clothing. Upon noticing the angry expression on the woman he quickly offered up his version of ammends "Ah, don't look at me like that lass. Rough day, and I can't let the boss run off without his second, now can I? as he finished discarding his clothing he added-"Now quit staring at my twig and berries and make sure the clothes and equipment make it to my room!" .

After taking a few glances around, he noticed none of the pack bipeds had made a move, much to his annoyance.


Bruisers! What the fuck do ye think you're doing? We ein't going to let the boss run off without his vanguard! You and you, trous off and off we go! he roared pointing at the two closest bipeds as he began his own grisly transformation.

From a flurry of broken bones, reassembling muscles, and migrating organs came Ragenard's werewolf form.*

Standing just shy of nine feet, the intimidating werewolf was a wall of ripply black furred muscle that could barely be contained by the The Den's roof.*

His appearance was made all the more startling by his sudden move to rip off his own skin where his previous wounds were. In the space of a few heartbeats -filled with much enraged roaring and flying spittle- the now forcibly de-silvered wounds sealed back together.

Knowing his entourage would be behind him, Ragenard stomped off through the door, nearly ripping it off it's considerably reinforced hinges, and adding another score mark upon the finish.

Once outside, rather than sticking to the open ground of the streets like their quadrupedal brothers, Ragenard and the other bipeds used their strength to haul themselves and jump off roof to roof, and before long managed to spot Baron and the others down in the streets alongside their rooftop jaunt.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Carlisle Character Portrait: Ragenard Guiscard
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#, as written by Tiko
Carlisle didn't seem too thrilled with the idea, but he too shed his clothing as his muscles began to bulge beneath the sickening pop of realigning bones. He let out a roar as his face took on the snarling visage of a wolf before he was out the door after Ragenard. He didn't come close to the height, nor the heft of the much larger wolf, but his gangly limbs left him able to lope on all fours, or to stand erect. It was a well rounded form, though he lacked the brute strength of the beefier wolves, or the speed of the purely quadrupedal. The overly developed digits of his hands where well suited for climbing though as he took to the rooftops with swinging grabs and bounds from window sills and fire-escapes.

Meanwhile back inside the bar, no one seemed at all perturbed by the events that were ordinary enough around here. The piles of abandoned clothes were ignored in favor of returning to their pool games and drinks.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Lialore
Max found himself letting out a long breath which he hadn’t realised he’d been holding whilst more writhed into their menacing forms. With both Baron and Ragenard off the premises, he was reflecting some. Snow had been speaking sense. As always. Instead of heading to the bar, where he was supposed to be working, Max motioned for Snow and sat down at the nearest empty table. Short glasses sat mostly drained of liquor on the table and he moved them out of the way with a sweep of his arm. Just another sign that he wasn’t doing his job.

If there was someone he could confide in and receive some decent, unbiased advice; he was about to have a conversation with him.

Max didn’t bother to hide the dejection written all over his face as he propped his elbows onto the polished wood and worked his fingertips against his temples.
“I spose you guessed it was a no.” he croaked then let out a chuckle at his own stupidity. “Don’t know what I was thinking. Spent years working up to that moment and now look. All those ideas, those dumb ideas about me being turned were all wrong. Sure set myself up in quite the illusion. He doesn’t give two shits.” The hysteric laughter threatened to return but he cleared his throat instead and sat back in the chair, dropping his hands into his lap and regarding Snow with sad eyes.

“So, he told me to get out, anyway. I won’t be here by the time he gets back. I fucked up.”
‘Fuck him’ another part of Max wanted to say. He didn’t. Not just because he was surrounded by werewolves who could give him a good crushing for the disrespect, but he still had immense gratefulness and reverence for the man who had saved him from his slippy descent all those years ago even if that was hard to feel right now. But over the last few months, and especially right now, Max had been left to fall. He didn’t think Baron would be throwing down the rope at all, not after that fiasco.

He grimaced.

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Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Script
"You think that's why he won't turn you?" Snow folded his arms as he sat down, "Because he doesn't give a shit? You're wrong. If he didn't give a shit, he'd turn you and not care whether you survived the night. Being turned kills as many people as it transforms. The people who it transforms aren't the same person afterwards."

He met the eyes of the bartender and beckoned for drinks. He didn't much care what drinks they were. "Did he tell you not to come back?" Snow's eyes fixed on Max's. "No, he didn't. He didn't want to deal with you being in his face about this, but that isn't him kicking you to the curb. Baron doesn't do that, not without a damn good reason."

The bartender covering for Max brought over a bottle of whiskey and a pair of tumblers. Snow nodded, passing over money, before splashing out a draught for each of them. He downed his, before letting out a sigh. "I don't give a fuck whether you're a werewolf or not, Max. You're my packmate. You're one of us. So swallow that lump in your throat. I've only got so many heartfelt words in me before I'll start feeling like I'm going soft."

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Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Lialore
“I’m sick of being this person. He doesn’t care enough to take into consideration what I want. This is my life.”

Max knew of the dangers. Hell, he’d seen people turning, heard their screams, and experienced their rebirth. Baron’s harsh reminder still hadn’t deterred him. Surely the fact that he still wanted this to be his destiny showed the sheer amount conviction he held; how much he needed this.

He wanted to look away as Snow gave his version of reasons for Baron’s behaviour, feeling ashamed. Snow was right to have the upmost respect for Baron and what he did for the pack. When his drink arrived he picked it up in a tense hand and took a sip, letting the whiskey burn along with his frustration.

Kind words like this were rare to come by in an environment where poweress was so highly regarded. But, they always managed to come about when it mattered the most to packmates, when you were one of them. One of us. To be receiving such treatment had him rethinking things, yet again.

“He didn’t tell me not to come back. But I don’t think I should, anyway. I was suffering this daily grind with the idea of becoming something more, Snow. And that’s not going to happen.” He took a nostalgic look about The Den.

Max swallowed the lump in his throat and smiled kindly at his friend, a necessary sorrow taking over him.

“I’m done. I love you, I’m grateful for everything that the pack has done for me so far. But if there’s nothing more… I’m done. Staying around, watching the pack succeed and develop… and having no actual, useful part in it, ever? Realising that means I’m done.”

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Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Script
"You're ... done?" Snow repeated, disbelief evident in his voice. "Max, listen to me, you don't have to be changed to have a part in the pack. You're so hung up on the idea of wanting to be something different, or 'more'. You don't have to be that, it's who you are that makes you one of us, not what. Why can't you get that through your damned thick skull?"

The paler young man ran a hand through his hair, "Uhg, c'mon, don't do this. Man, you can't just ... walk! This is your home, our home. Whose ass am I going to kick at pool every night if you're gone? Who's going to sit and pretend they're not enjoying stupid corny movies with me? C'mon ... you belong here."

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Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Lialore
“I do have to be that. It’s part of who I am, who I want to be.”
Done.

Snow was making this more difficult than it had to be. He hated the look on his face, those practically pleading eyes. Max felt like a bad person. Gulping from his glass, he tried to keep the reminiscing of his time with the pack at bay. That was it, it seemed like it was already over.

“I’m not going to join a fucking vamp clan, mate.” Max smiled warmly.
After pushing his now empty glass away, he organised the collar of his jacket, indicating that he was preparing to leave.

“Not done with you, Snow. Just… this whole…” He blew out a sigh then got to his feet, stool scraping out behind him. “You know where I am if you need me. Sure you'll find someone to fill the void anyway. Just know that they'll never have hair as good as me."

His apartment in Vargeras was a dusty, uncared for place. In a while it wouldn’t be his at all. Without any income, since he was walking, he’d be out on the streets soon enough. No matter, he’d manage. He'd scrape by somehow.

It was time for a re-evaluation.

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Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Script
Snow's heart sank as he realised he wasn't going to change Max's mind. "It won't be the same without you, Max." he said, standing himself. "Just don't end up in a gutter somewhere, for fuck's sake."

He placed a hand on Max's shoulder, "You'd better stay in touch. And you know I've still got your back if you need anything." he said, shaking his head. "I still think you're an idiot. But it's your decision to make... I hope you find what you're looking for. If you need help, just give me a call."

Grimacing, he let out a heavy sigh before releasing his grip on Max's shoulder. "This isn't goodbye." he said.

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Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Lialore
"I'll try not to." Max grinned, all teeth, and returned the friendly gesture, his fingers curling to take a firm grip on Snow's shoulder. He gave it a bit of a shake then nodded his head slowly and sadly, meeting those expressive eyes which he currently thought were full of honesty. "It is my decision to make. Exactly." said Max, referring to more than what Snow had just confirmed. "Here for you too, bud, always." He lowered his arm in unison with his friend then shoved the end into his pocket along with the other one. His stance was awkward, tense, like he was being forced to do something that he really did not want to.

Snow's last words had Max's sorrow surging back.

He could take it all back, forget about his juvenile wishes. He could continue working at the bar. Even if it was all he'd ever do, he'd still be surrounded by friends; accepted.
But that couldn't be all he wanted from life.

"Goodbye" he managed with one last whisper of a smile.

Max left The Den, stealing into the newly turned night without a backwards glance.
Emerging from the haze, he was able to see everything a little too clearly.

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Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Maxwell Lessard
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#, as written by Script
"For now." Snow added softly as Max was turning away. His voice was momentarily unsteady.

He watched as Max walked to the door, then a few moments later stepped after him. He caught the door before it closed and stepped out onto the threshold. He opened his mouth to call after him, but stopped before the words left his mouth. He bit his tongue and watched as Max disappeared into the night.

After he was long gone, only then did he speak.

"Fuck." Snow punched the door frame, violently. At least one of his fingers broke.

One of the other pack members came to the door. "Snow, close the damned door. You're letting a draft in." he said, "Come on, mate. Come have a drink, yeah? No good to be had just standing there."

"Yeah..." Snow muttered, "Sure."

The door swung closed behind him.

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Character Portrait: Snow Character Portrait: Bowen Davion
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#, as written by Varden
Enter Bowen Eli Davion, a lone wolf, not a member of Baron's pack. It had been five long years since he had caught this scent. Surely this was the same pack scent he had detected on that bloody night. Surely this was Baron's pack. The sleeves of his black button down were cinched up at the forearms and the cuffs of his ragged blue jeans hung over a pair of brown boots.

Bowen smelled the air and then moved to the bar. "I suppose you don't have any Macallan 1939?", he said and paused short before following up with his true order. "Give me a glass of the Aberfeldy then." His drink of choice was still very expensive, likely the most expensive choice The Den had to offer. He took a seat.

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#, as written by Tiko
Bowen was met with some uninviting looks as he entered the bar, and hostile eyes lingered on his back as he seat himself at the bar.

The tender, a lean, clean-shaven man named Jacques, was wiping out a glass when Bowen ordered his drink. He cast Bowen a suspicious glance, not yet moving to pour the man the requested Aberfeldy.

If Bowen had a keen ear, he might take note of the quiet murmurs in the background.

"Look at the set of balls on this one?"

"Do you suppose he's with one of the east side packs?"

"There's only one way to find out..."


It was likely only a matter of time before some of the rowdier patrons opted towards roughing up this strange wolf that had found his way into their bar.

Jacques asked as he set the glass down and retrieved another. "We don't take too kindly to the other packs poking their noses into Bloodstone business," he warned the newcomer.

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#, as written by Varden
"No pack likes it when the lone wolf wanders in for a drink and a drink is what I am here for. Here for that and to catch up with Baron. Is he still around?" He paused for only a moment and then continued on without waiting for an answer. "How about that drink?" If Jacques made no move to serve the scotch then Bowen would stand from his stool at the bar and look around with a slight smirk.

He then would turn back to Jacques and half speak, half sing in a mock country accent. "But if you wanna fight tonight, guess those boys don't look all that tough." The funny thing about all this was that Bowen didn't even care for that particular singer's music or even country music in general. He was a fan of the classic rock bands of the 60's, 70's, and early 80's but those lines just seemed so right and he hadn't been in a good bar fight for nearly thirty years.

If there was a fight brewing here Bowen knew he was severly outnumbered. Big balls indeed! He was confident that he could take them one or two at a time unless they decided to shift. He doubted they wanted the bar that smashed up and bloody. If a fight was inevitable Bowen was hoping for a more civilized brawl. How can any brawl be civilized? A civilized brawl ends without intestines, blood, gore, and limbs strewn about. At least that was Bowen's definition of the term.