[center][img]https://66.media.tumblr.com/1769d45df448d53bf73bcbba6c3c9847/ba2417f508c2f512-37/s2048x3072/6de50cb27d7a51d67083705636e1f70d10f97858.png[/img][/center]
-----
[center][size=5]Welcome to the thread for the roleplay, [i]HUNT[/i]![/size][/center]
[center]Only in-character posts will happen here! All out of character posts go in the [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/rp/2820884/1#post_2820884]OOC thread[/url].
As a quick note to anyone outside, this roleplay is [b]FULL[/b]! But you're always welcome to read along!
If you're not in involved but still interested or want to comment, please post anything in the OOC thread linked above! I'd like to keep this thread nice and tidy.[/center]
-----
Welcome to the thread for the roleplay, HUNT!
Only in-character posts will happen here! All out of character posts go in the
OOC thread.
As a quick note to anyone outside, this roleplay is
FULL! But you're always welcome to read along!
If you're not in involved but still interested or want to comment, please post anything in the OOC thread linked above! I'd like to keep this thread nice and tidy.
[center][img]https://66.media.tumblr.com/1769d45df448d53bf73bcbba6c3c9847/ba2417f508c2f512-37/s2048x3072/6de50cb27d7a51d67083705636e1f70d10f97858.png[/img][/center]
With the passing of the hour comes no fanfare. There's not a clock to be seen in the room anyhow, and the windowless walls just about conceal any indication of time that a glimpse into the outdoors may offer.
And yet, a half an hour has still passed, and the odd assortment's employer is still fashionably late.
The only indication any have gotten so far as to whether they're even welcome here is quick instructions from an older woman (of an unidentifiable breed, as she's been beastly the whole time) sharply insisting they keep to themselves and not touch anything. An easy enough instruction to challenge, sure, but there's something about her glare towards any hint of socialization that seems to kill the rebellious fun. Though, she does let the assortment wander. Glares a bit whenever they touch something they don't need to be, but seems content to simply loom in the background silently nonetheless. So, needless to say, the lot has gotten rather familiar with this glittery jail cell of a waiting room.
It's actually a lounge, typically reserved for VIPs watching a race; but with the arena's limited real estate, it's also acting in lieu of an office (though only in function, not in form). The whole room is clearly built for dragons to enjoy while beastly, but it does seem like any Medium Gaoler or smaller dragon could fit just fine. Some furniture even seems lengthened in such a way that either a dragon could stretch out their body across it, or a load of beastly individuals could share the space. And, if they were drunk or on enough of a gambling high... They might just well want to, despite everything. The chintzy-yet-undeniably-luxurious crushed velvet cushions all reek of smoke, dusting their surroundings with ashes once a big enough dragon plants their rear down, and the glass countertops dotting walls and lining couches all seem frosted. Not traditionally, of course, but rather frosted with rag streaks from being left around and cleaned far too aggressively for far too long, and certainly showing their use with the occasionally sticky drink-rings linking and converging like piles of chains on their surfaces. The dark, patterned (and definitely outdated) carpet stretching across the floor has a few bare, sticky, or bare and sticky patches, but the oddly warm, dim lighting of the room seems to conceal it well. And the dark walls, regardless of the marquee lights which line both their tops and the occasional tall half-ovals of mirrors placed in delayed succession on them, aid in that illusion of cleanliness, luxury, and one might dare say hospitality.
Luckily, it's not too difficult to stave off intimidation from such an unexpected abundance of expensive fixtures. Necessity and especially security can't be escaped in the Wasteland, and the firmly imprisoned bar in the corner stands as a testament to that. Like the arena itself, it's concealed within thick metal bars, weaved into a geometric cage, but unlike the arena there's not a single lick of damage to be found on them. The bar's bars aren't new, of course, but it seems that either no one's tried to get past it before, or at least no one's tried hard enough. And the bar's cupboards have no shortage of bottles, either (though, full bottles is another matter entirely). A few labels can be made out, with their content not being quite as important as the fact that the boss got her claws on some sort of brand-name whatever in the oil-drum-distillery heavy Wasteland.
But there's plenty of time to ponder things like that, especially since it could be estimated that another fifteen or so minutes have elapsed, still with no sign of any authority besides the nosy woman still lurking about. One could only wonder how long it takes an unfamiliar group of hired who-knows-whats to get antsy in a poorly lit room...
With the passing of the hour comes no fanfare. There's not a clock to be seen in the room anyhow, and the windowless walls just about conceal any indication of time that a glimpse into the outdoors may offer.
And yet, a half an hour has still passed, and the odd assortment's employer is still fashionably late.
The only indication any have gotten so far as to whether they're even welcome here is quick instructions from an older woman (of an unidentifiable breed, as she's been beastly the whole time) sharply insisting they keep to themselves and not touch anything. An easy enough instruction to challenge, sure, but there's something about her glare towards any hint of socialization that seems to kill the rebellious fun. Though, she does let the assortment wander. Glares a bit whenever they touch something they don't need to be, but seems content to simply loom in the background silently nonetheless. So, needless to say, the lot has gotten rather familiar with this glittery jail cell of a waiting room.
It's actually a lounge, typically reserved for VIPs watching a race; but with the arena's limited real estate, it's also acting in lieu of an office (though only in function, not in form). The whole room is clearly built for dragons to enjoy while beastly, but it does seem like any Medium Gaoler or smaller dragon could fit just fine. Some furniture even seems lengthened in such a way that either a dragon could stretch out their body across it, or a load of beastly individuals could share the space. And, if they were drunk or on enough of a gambling high... They might just well want to, despite everything. The chintzy-yet-undeniably-luxurious crushed velvet cushions all reek of smoke, dusting their surroundings with ashes once a big enough dragon plants their rear down, and the glass countertops dotting walls and lining couches all seem frosted. Not traditionally, of course, but rather frosted with rag streaks from being left around and cleaned far too aggressively for far too long, and certainly showing their use with the occasionally sticky drink-rings linking and converging like piles of chains on their surfaces. The dark, patterned (and definitely outdated) carpet stretching across the floor has a few bare, sticky, or bare and sticky patches, but the oddly warm, dim lighting of the room seems to conceal it well. And the dark walls, regardless of the marquee lights which line both their tops and the occasional tall half-ovals of mirrors placed in delayed succession on them, aid in that illusion of cleanliness, luxury, and one might dare say hospitality.
Luckily, it's not too difficult to stave off intimidation from such an unexpected abundance of expensive fixtures. Necessity and especially security can't be escaped in the Wasteland, and the firmly imprisoned bar in the corner stands as a testament to that. Like the arena itself, it's concealed within thick metal bars, weaved into a geometric cage, but unlike the arena there's not a single lick of damage to be found on them. The bar's bars aren't new, of course, but it seems that either no one's tried to get past it before, or at least no one's tried hard enough. And the bar's cupboards have no shortage of bottles, either (though, full bottles is another matter entirely). A few labels can be made out, with their content not being quite as important as the fact that the boss got her claws on some sort of brand-name whatever in the oil-drum-distillery heavy Wasteland.
But there's plenty of time to ponder things like that, especially since it could be estimated that another fifteen or so minutes have elapsed, still with no sign of any authority besides the nosy woman still lurking about. One could only wonder how long it takes an unfamiliar group of hired who-knows-whats to get antsy in a poorly lit room...
Faris had chosen a seat towards the back of the room. Despite his Beastly Form, he unintentionally dominated the sofa he perched upon-- his chin rested in his palm and he sat with his legs crossed, watching the other inhabitants of the room as if enthralled. His chartreuse visage flit from one place to another-- to one guest, then another, then to the bar, then to the door where he was expecting the boss to arrive at any given second.
He'd paid the bar in particular a lot of attention. From many hours of experience, the outlaw knew well that when something in the Wasteland looked untouched... Well, there was usually a very good reason why nobody had touched it. In this place, that likely meant one thing. Yet there was some sort of visceral part of his brain that knew exactly what was behind those bars and wanted it badly. It certainly had to be good, or at least better than what he'd become accustomed to.
Best not get off on the wrong foot, Faris reminded himself. His fingers drummed a vague pattern on his knee.
But nobody was persecuted for merely looking at something, were they? Surely he could have that-- a look, and nothing more. As long as I look, but don't touch.
And it was with that notion in mind that Faris gave a great yawn and a stretch, and got up to-- as casually as he could manage-- stride over to the bar and peer past the wrought cage that protected it.
Faris had chosen a seat towards the back of the room. Despite his Beastly Form, he unintentionally dominated the sofa he perched upon-- his chin rested in his palm and he sat with his legs crossed, watching the other inhabitants of the room as if enthralled. His chartreuse visage flit from one place to another-- to one guest, then another, then to the bar, then to the door where he was expecting the boss to arrive at any given second.
He'd paid the bar in particular a lot of attention. From many hours of experience, the outlaw knew well that when something in the Wasteland looked untouched... Well, there was usually a very good reason why nobody had touched it. In this place, that likely meant one thing. Yet there was some sort of visceral part of his brain that knew exactly what was behind those bars and wanted it badly. It certainly had to be good, or at least better than what he'd become accustomed to.
Best not get off on the wrong foot, Faris reminded himself. His fingers drummed a vague pattern on his knee.
But nobody was persecuted for merely looking at something, were they? Surely he could have that-- a look, and nothing more. As long as I look, but don't touch.
And it was with that notion in mind that Faris gave a great yawn and a stretch, and got up to-- as casually as he could manage-- stride over to the bar and peer past the wrought cage that protected it.
Under normal circumstances, Relic would use the long wait as an opportunity to study the other dragons in the office. Right now a splitting headache and a gap in his memories have him preoccupied.
He had ran late for the appointment, not helped any by the Arena's erratic layout. Upon entering the right room the pearlcatcher had awkwardly seated himself on an empty piece of furniture, changing into his beastly form to limit the space he took up. Relieved that the owner of the Arena had yet to show up, he'd chosen an ambiguous dark stain on the opposite wall to rest his eyes on and set to try and recall the accounts of last night.
As time drags on Relic remains blank faced and unmoving. The occasional twitch of his tail is the only thing that hints at his current thoughts. His mind is a maelstrom of vague images from the day before, but however hard he tries, its last two hours remain a mystery. The stabs of cranial pain tell him that he'd been drinking, but he wishes he could recount his other activities. Having been so near the Arena, the possibility that he went out to bet is dreadfully likely and would account for the disappearance of his last coins.
The pearlcatcher quietly sighs and closes his eyes, throwing up a small prayer in his mind to the deities he's sworn to serve.
Mighty Eleven, you who guard our world from destruction, I pray I may receive this assignment and avoid disaster.
Under normal circumstances, Relic would use the long wait as an opportunity to study the other dragons in the office. Right now a splitting headache and a gap in his memories have him preoccupied.
He had ran late for the appointment, not helped any by the Arena's erratic layout. Upon entering the right room the pearlcatcher had awkwardly seated himself on an empty piece of furniture, changing into his beastly form to limit the space he took up. Relieved that the owner of the Arena had yet to show up, he'd chosen an ambiguous dark stain on the opposite wall to rest his eyes on and set to try and recall the accounts of last night.
As time drags on Relic remains blank faced and unmoving. The occasional twitch of his tail is the only thing that hints at his current thoughts. His mind is a maelstrom of vague images from the day before, but however hard he tries, its last two hours remain a mystery. The stabs of cranial pain tell him that he'd been drinking, but he wishes he could recount his other activities. Having been so near the Arena, the possibility that he went out to bet is dreadfully likely and would account for the disappearance of his last coins.
The pearlcatcher quietly sighs and closes his eyes, throwing up a small prayer in his mind to the deities he's sworn to serve.
Mighty Eleven, you who guard our world from destruction, I pray I may receive this assignment and avoid disaster.
Pibb's patience was pretty clearly running thin. She kept alternating between pacing around the room and sitting, trying a different chair each time. This time, she stops at a sofa, letting gravity drop her body down, lightly grunting when she hits the cushions harder than she anticipated. She hopes no one heard that. Don't need them thinking she wasn't completely in control there.
Pibb reaches into her bag and pulls out an empty glass bottle. Her eyes momentarily close as she taps into her magic to refill the container with a sweet cola, which she begins drinking quite quickly as she arranges herself into a more comfortable position for her beastly self. She puts her non-drinking arm behind her head and sticks her legs out, resting them on the nearest glass table.
Pibb finishes her soda, seemingly just as quickly as she had spawned it into existence. After putting her bottle back into her bag, her eyes are drawn to Faris walking past her, toward the bar. On her first go around the room, she already got a pretty good look at the various bottles on display - she did enjoy collecting them, after all - but she instinctively stands up once more and begins following the other Ridgeback. However, before making it to the bar, she suddenly veers left and plops herself into a new chair, one looking comfier than the sofa she was in moments ago.
She spends a few minutes finding the perfect position to sit and... it feels exactly the same as the sofa, and just about every other seat she's tried. She then turns her head to the motionless Pearlcatcher sitting across the room. What if that guy has the best seat, she thinks to herself. She gives him a glare as if he's inconveniencing her, then once again gets up to pace around the room.
Pibb's patience was pretty clearly running thin. She kept alternating between pacing around the room and sitting, trying a different chair each time. This time, she stops at a sofa, letting gravity drop her body down, lightly grunting when she hits the cushions harder than she anticipated. She hopes no one heard that. Don't need them thinking she wasn't completely in control there.
Pibb reaches into her bag and pulls out an empty glass bottle. Her eyes momentarily close as she taps into her magic to refill the container with a sweet cola, which she begins drinking quite quickly as she arranges herself into a more comfortable position for her beastly self. She puts her non-drinking arm behind her head and sticks her legs out, resting them on the nearest glass table.
Pibb finishes her soda, seemingly just as quickly as she had spawned it into existence. After putting her bottle back into her bag, her eyes are drawn to Faris walking past her, toward the bar. On her first go around the room, she already got a pretty good look at the various bottles on display - she did enjoy collecting them, after all - but she instinctively stands up once more and begins following the other Ridgeback. However, before making it to the bar, she suddenly veers left and plops herself into a new chair, one looking comfier than the sofa she was in moments ago.
She spends a few minutes finding the perfect position to sit and... it feels exactly the same as the sofa, and just about every other seat she's tried. She then turns her head to the motionless Pearlcatcher sitting across the room. What if that guy has the best seat, she thinks to herself. She gives him a glare as if he's inconveniencing her, then once again gets up to pace around the room.
Why is the floor soft, why is the floor soft, why is the floor soft--
Those are the thoughts that accompany Pitch when she with others were brought inside the room. She'd love to tear up a spot in it to feel the firm ground but understood well of the consequences. But, despite her inner fussing, she still plops down on it, as it was still more comfortable than any of the offered furnitures.
Her eyes run over her surroundings. Goggles are still pulled on, making them glow like 2 small bullseye lanterns from the small flames she emitted.
Sofas, couches, an imprisoned bar and its bottle children, useless furniture with their trinkets and crafting scraps in some fancy form. None of them look interesting on their own. Why does anyone even bother with them? At least the dragons that inhabited them were worthy of observation.
Well, Pitch's question is partially answered as she takes notice of one strutting towards the alcoholic hostages. Thirsty? Maybe. But he doesn't seem to be daring enough to make a jailbreak.
...Speaking of thirst, a pudgy lass can't seem to decide which identical pillow is better, eventually settling for a chair, yet still turning. Picky. And then she stares at some odd figure......... Oh. Wait. That's actually a person. Impressive sculpture imitator, say for the twitchy tail.
Her attention shifts once again, now to herself. Pitch pulls out a wide chiself from one of her satchels and begins to grind it down her tail. The brown coloring gives in to the tool with an odd ease, that reveals skin underneath. After a while she stops and gathers the dried oil layer, rolling it up into a small ball, which she then raised up to her mouth and lit it aflame with a quick spark.
Why is the floor soft, why is the floor soft, why is the floor soft--
Those are the thoughts that accompany Pitch when she with others were brought inside the room. She'd love to tear up a spot in it to feel the firm ground but understood well of the consequences. But, despite her inner fussing, she still plops down on it, as it was still more comfortable than any of the offered furnitures.
Her eyes run over her surroundings. Goggles are still pulled on, making them glow like 2 small bullseye lanterns from the small flames she emitted.
Sofas, couches, an imprisoned bar and its bottle children, useless furniture with their trinkets and crafting scraps in some fancy form. None of them look interesting on their own. Why does anyone even bother with them? At least the dragons that inhabited them were worthy of observation.
Well, Pitch's question is partially answered as she takes notice of one strutting towards the alcoholic hostages. Thirsty? Maybe. But he doesn't seem to be daring enough to make a jailbreak.
...Speaking of thirst, a pudgy lass can't seem to decide which identical pillow is better, eventually settling for a chair, yet still turning. Picky. And then she stares at some odd figure......... Oh. Wait. That's actually a person. Impressive sculpture imitator, say for the twitchy tail.
Her attention shifts once again, now to herself. Pitch pulls out a wide chiself from one of her satchels and begins to grind it down her tail. The brown coloring gives in to the tool with an odd ease, that reveals skin underneath. After a while she stops and gathers the dried oil layer, rolling it up into a small ball, which she then raised up to her mouth and lit it aflame with a quick spark.
Kera/Horrorboros, she/her, aroace-spec
Fixating on Rain World and Splatoon
Cookie Run's a dying fixation
|
|
|
|
Raleigh has been zoning out for the past… He doesn't actually know how long. He never really cared about keeping track of the time, but the lack of natural light in this room bothers him. Being in his beastly form doesn't help. It feels like wearing pants that are just a little too tight. He shifts to a different pose every few minutes and alternates which leg he's shaking (sometimes it's both, just to mix things up). His eyes occasionally dart over to the caged bar. Raleigh wants to start a conversation, but the room has been so quiet save for the occasional creak of furniture or shifting of fabric that it feels wrong to break it.
A girl with a unicorn horn fills a bottle of pop out of nowhere. Raleigh watches her, wondering if it would be rude to ask her for one. Not that he's much for conforming to social mores, but it's probably best to not get on someone's bad side when you're trapped in a windowless room together. He decides against it and turns his attention towards the bar. There's already someone standing in front of the cage, looking just the right amount of interested. Raleigh approaches the bar at a leisurely pace, trying not to think about the sticky patches in the carpet. "I dunno about you, but I could really go for a whiskey sour right about now," he says, crossing his arms. "Then again, this don't seem like a lemon-juice-and-egg-whites kind of place."
Raleigh has been zoning out for the past… He doesn't actually know how long. He never really cared about keeping track of the time, but the lack of natural light in this room bothers him. Being in his beastly form doesn't help. It feels like wearing pants that are just a little too tight. He shifts to a different pose every few minutes and alternates which leg he's shaking (sometimes it's both, just to mix things up). His eyes occasionally dart over to the caged bar. Raleigh wants to start a conversation, but the room has been so quiet save for the occasional creak of furniture or shifting of fabric that it feels wrong to break it.
A girl with a unicorn horn fills a bottle of pop out of nowhere. Raleigh watches her, wondering if it would be rude to ask her for one. Not that he's much for conforming to social mores, but it's probably best to not get on someone's bad side when you're trapped in a windowless room together. He decides against it and turns his attention towards the bar. There's already someone standing in front of the cage, looking just the right amount of interested. Raleigh approaches the bar at a leisurely pace, trying not to think about the sticky patches in the carpet. "I dunno about you, but I could really go for a whiskey sour right about now," he says, crossing his arms. "Then again, this don't seem like a lemon-juice-and-egg-whites kind of place."
Already having her glare drawn to Faris' saunter towards the bar, considering the attention the bold movement called from others already, Raleigh's auditory intrusion only affirms the supervising woman's wrath. With the same almost monotone hiss she'd scolded any socialization with before, she quickly directs a glare and reprimand at the pair at the bar. "I told you to be quiet. If you two can't even follow simple instructions-" she pauses, a slight waver now in her tone, "-then by the Gods, at least try to behave yourselves. And get away from the bar already, it's not like you're getting in. Just be patient, won't-"
Her scowl quickly fades as the door to the lounge, just down a short hallway concealed by a curtain, lets out something between a metallic ringing and violent bang. At the telltale noise of an opening door, she quickly shifts her focus from the hired lot to the entrance as she straightens her jacket and posture before folding her arms behind her back. Chains rattle from the other side of the curtain, rhythmic and clear as spurs or snakes, sounding in time with the fall of confident footsteps. With a clean, exaggerated sweep, two beastly, gloved hands easily part the curtains before them. And in strides the odd assortment's employer.
Even as she somewhat gracelessly adjusts her cape, Maneater's assured steps and showbiz smile upon entering the room make it seem like she owns the place- disregarding that fact that she does, of course. Each growth of an eye on her face follows the same focus as she examines the group before her, and her smile doesn't waver one bit as she lets out a chuckle. "Apologies for the hold-up, everyone, had something to take care of. Nothing that can't be forgiven, right? We all rush, all put off things, all forget things. Part-of-business, part-of-life." The words roll off her tongue at a mile a minute, sounding like they're bouncing off each other and side to side as she prattles on. But she does slow once her cape is firmly in place, and once she's taken a moment to drink in the atmosphere a bit more. "Quiet lot though, huh?" Another chuckle, accompanied by a slight nod. "I like that."
"So!" she begins, giving her cape one more dramatic, correcting flip with another even sweep of the hands, "-let's get to business." She continues her stride towards what looks like a glass card table at one end of the room, and stands right at the dealer's seat, ushering everyone over with that same grin. "Come on, I don't care if you sit down, just get close enough to pay attention."
The Gaoler leans forward to be more at eye level with any sitting dragons, supporting herself on the table with her hands squarely palm-down on it. "I don't think we really need to discuss payment- any mercenary I've hired'll tell you I'm good for my word, so you're all getting paid once the job is done, as agreed. Gonna have some change on me during the journey, so if you've not got any treasure of your own with you, I can cut you a bit of your paycheck early, provided I know you're not swindling me." A chuckle, more reflective than amused. "Not that any of you would. Cause it's not something you can get away with, I promise you. Any mercenary I've hired can tell you that, too." Pausing, Maneater sways a bit on her arms, smile reaffixing itself in a more rigid form, with clenched teeth. "And, I'm telling you, I'm really hoping to be able to pay you all by the end of this. It's an important job for me, and I expect for no one to mess it up, right?" Brow suddenly furrowing, and jaw clenching again, she suddenly raises her voice. "Because the amount of hired gun heads rolling across my goddamned floor by the end of this are gonna tell me how much I'VE ****ED UP, right? I mean, if none of you make it out of this, no skin off my nose, but it sure won't do a goddamned HELL of a thing for my reputation, now will it?"
Shaking and swaying on those arms still, Maneater's head quickly falls limp on her neck with an agitated laugh, before she violently smacks the table with her palms and rises, still laughing slightly through her teeth and uniting her hands with a quick clap. "Gods willing, nothing bad'll happen, though. I'm sure you're all competent. Wouldn't have had you hired, otherwise." She smooths the back of her hair with one hand, allowing the other to rest on her belt before her initial joins it. "So, before I actually start explaining what-the-hell-we're-gonna-be-doing, any questions?"
Already having her glare drawn to Faris' saunter towards the bar, considering the attention the bold movement called from others already, Raleigh's auditory intrusion only affirms the supervising woman's wrath. With the same almost monotone hiss she'd scolded any socialization with before, she quickly directs a glare and reprimand at the pair at the bar. "I told you to be quiet. If you two can't even follow simple instructions-" she pauses, a slight waver now in her tone, "-then by the Gods, at least try to behave yourselves. And get away from the bar already, it's not like you're getting in. Just be patient, won't-"
Her scowl quickly fades as the door to the lounge, just down a short hallway concealed by a curtain, lets out something between a metallic ringing and violent bang. At the telltale noise of an opening door, she quickly shifts her focus from the hired lot to the entrance as she straightens her jacket and posture before folding her arms behind her back. Chains rattle from the other side of the curtain, rhythmic and clear as spurs or snakes, sounding in time with the fall of confident footsteps. With a clean, exaggerated sweep, two beastly, gloved hands easily part the curtains before them. And in strides the odd assortment's employer.
Even as she somewhat gracelessly adjusts her cape, Maneater's assured steps and showbiz smile upon entering the room make it seem like she owns the place- disregarding that fact that she does, of course. Each growth of an eye on her face follows the same focus as she examines the group before her, and her smile doesn't waver one bit as she lets out a chuckle. "Apologies for the hold-up, everyone, had something to take care of. Nothing that can't be forgiven, right? We all rush, all put off things, all forget things. Part-of-business, part-of-life." The words roll off her tongue at a mile a minute, sounding like they're bouncing off each other and side to side as she prattles on. But she does slow once her cape is firmly in place, and once she's taken a moment to drink in the atmosphere a bit more. "Quiet lot though, huh?" Another chuckle, accompanied by a slight nod. "I like that."
"So!" she begins, giving her cape one more dramatic, correcting flip with another even sweep of the hands, "-let's get to business." She continues her stride towards what looks like a glass card table at one end of the room, and stands right at the dealer's seat, ushering everyone over with that same grin. "Come on, I don't care if you sit down, just get close enough to pay attention."
The Gaoler leans forward to be more at eye level with any sitting dragons, supporting herself on the table with her hands squarely palm-down on it. "I don't think we really need to discuss payment- any mercenary I've hired'll tell you I'm good for my word, so you're all getting paid once the job is done, as agreed. Gonna have some change on me during the journey, so if you've not got any treasure of your own with you, I can cut you a bit of your paycheck early, provided I know you're not swindling me." A chuckle, more reflective than amused. "Not that any of you would. Cause it's not something you can get away with, I promise you. Any mercenary I've hired can tell you that, too." Pausing, Maneater sways a bit on her arms, smile reaffixing itself in a more rigid form, with clenched teeth. "And, I'm telling you, I'm really hoping to be able to pay you all by the end of this. It's an important job for me, and I expect for no one to mess it up, right?" Brow suddenly furrowing, and jaw clenching again, she suddenly raises her voice. "Because the amount of hired gun heads rolling across my goddamned floor by the end of this are gonna tell me how much I'VE ****ED UP, right? I mean, if none of you make it out of this, no skin off my nose, but it sure won't do a goddamned HELL of a thing for my reputation, now will it?"
Shaking and swaying on those arms still, Maneater's head quickly falls limp on her neck with an agitated laugh, before she violently smacks the table with her palms and rises, still laughing slightly through her teeth and uniting her hands with a quick clap. "Gods willing, nothing bad'll happen, though. I'm sure you're all competent. Wouldn't have had you hired, otherwise." She smooths the back of her hair with one hand, allowing the other to rest on her belt before her initial joins it. "So, before I actually start explaining what-the-hell-we're-gonna-be-doing, any questions?"
"It looks like quality alcohol. Though I myself am partial to an old fashioned," Faris purred, reaching up to scratch at his chin. He turned his uncanny green eyes on Raleigh-- there had been a look of challenge on his face; a quirked eyebrow and the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. However, that daring countenance vanished when Maneater announced her presence. Faris wasn't clueless; Perhaps he might've tried something when he'd first arrived in the Wastes, but he knew far better now-- even with two men, it'd be downright stupid to attempt to break into a liquor cabinet in front of his employer. He turned and sidled up to the table she'd taken up, managing to slide into a seat more or less opposite her. He rested his chin in his hands to listen and crossed his Beastly legs-- it seemed natural enough to him to be a habit.
"None that come to mind," He hummed when she'd finished her speech, shifting to sit up straight. Though I wouldn't mind at all if you disclosed to me whether or not I'm permitted to purchase some of the booze.
Oh, Faris, you minx-- drinking before an important mission? That's only for after you've gotten your paycheck, He chided himself. After all, better earn before you spend, isn't that the saying?
"It looks like quality alcohol. Though I myself am partial to an old fashioned," Faris purred, reaching up to scratch at his chin. He turned his uncanny green eyes on Raleigh-- there had been a look of challenge on his face; a quirked eyebrow and the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. However, that daring countenance vanished when Maneater announced her presence. Faris wasn't clueless; Perhaps he might've tried something when he'd first arrived in the Wastes, but he knew far better now-- even with two men, it'd be downright stupid to attempt to break into a liquor cabinet in front of his employer. He turned and sidled up to the table she'd taken up, managing to slide into a seat more or less opposite her. He rested his chin in his hands to listen and crossed his Beastly legs-- it seemed natural enough to him to be a habit.
"None that come to mind," He hummed when she'd finished her speech, shifting to sit up straight. Though I wouldn't mind at all if you disclosed to me whether or not I'm permitted to purchase some of the booze.
Oh, Faris, you minx-- drinking before an important mission? That's only for after you've gotten your paycheck, He chided himself. After all, better earn before you spend, isn't that the saying?
