Post by eryximachus petras on Oct 24, 2013 7:38:43 GMT -8
Eryx hadn’t left the academy in the days since he’d arrived there. He’d gone to the classes he needed to go to , taught semi-eager young people about the different ways to kill creatures, and the weapons they could use to do it, and he’d eaten, and worked out. He was getting antsy. He needed some form of release; more than likely to kill something, but that meant leaving the academy and finding a threatening creature which he could take out his frustration on. He wasn’t entirely sure what was possibly going to happen when he ventured out of the bubble that he’d crawled into, but he was bored. He ached for the feel of flesh under his hands, the crunch of bone, the sing of a knife through flesh or the crack of a specialized bullet through the barrel of his gun. Of course, sex was also a way to get the urge to go away, but he wasn’t comfortable enough here. Everything about him was on edge and the likelihood of him dropping his guard enough to have sex was unlikely.
Alcohol became his answer. Of course. He’d forgotten the double edged sword of the liquid; his inhibitions dropped, but so did his guard, although barely. The last time he’d been hurt, it was because he had been drunk when he’d began his hunt. And if he was inebriated, his reflexes weren’t as fast, and he had scars he hated because of it. Eryx hated to fail. He didn’t fail a hunt ever. Even nearly dying, as he’d been when his ribs had been slashed open on a werelion’s claws, he would finish his kill and become the victor. He didn’t fail. His sister had died because his father had failed to step in. His mother was permanently heartbroken and his father had been waging a six year war against the magicks in the homeland because of it. More damage had come from failure than from Eryx’ successes. Eryx didn’t fail. And if he did fail, he didn’t want to survive the failure.
He dressed in a dark long sleeved T-shirt, pushed up to his elbows, revealing the family crest inked into his left wrist. His dark jeans and boots were a staple; permanent parts of his wardrobe. He’d studied the lore of this area, and opened his box of accessories. A silver ring slipped onto the middle finger and thumb of his right hand, and an insulated iron ring; a layer of insulating rubber protected it from absorbing the heat of his hand, onto the middle finger of his left hand. Eryx’s greatest weaknesses were vampires, as he believed no god would allow the demons on earth to run amok as it had. Regardless, he pulled polished wooden stakes from his stash of weapons and slipped them into their slots in the holster that sat in his lower back, the gun, magazines of silver and iron bullets, sitting between the two wooden stakes. It had been a gift from his grandmother before he left Greece; a family heirloom that he’d been thankful for time and time again.
There were two places that served alcohol in the town he’d passed to get to the academy. One was a night club, and the loud noise and atmosphere wasn’t something Eryx could see himself enjoying. The other was a much quieter bar called Twill’s, and that was where Eryx found himself parking his car and wandering in, on high alert as he sat down, pulling his sleeves down to cover the tattoos. He greeted the bartender with emotionless eyes but a calmly forced smile, “Jack Daniels, please. With a splash of coke.” He sat back and observed the bar around him, still tight with tension.
[shortening the reply is very much acceptable! I just like to set the stage with the first post]
Alcohol became his answer. Of course. He’d forgotten the double edged sword of the liquid; his inhibitions dropped, but so did his guard, although barely. The last time he’d been hurt, it was because he had been drunk when he’d began his hunt. And if he was inebriated, his reflexes weren’t as fast, and he had scars he hated because of it. Eryx hated to fail. He didn’t fail a hunt ever. Even nearly dying, as he’d been when his ribs had been slashed open on a werelion’s claws, he would finish his kill and become the victor. He didn’t fail. His sister had died because his father had failed to step in. His mother was permanently heartbroken and his father had been waging a six year war against the magicks in the homeland because of it. More damage had come from failure than from Eryx’ successes. Eryx didn’t fail. And if he did fail, he didn’t want to survive the failure.
He dressed in a dark long sleeved T-shirt, pushed up to his elbows, revealing the family crest inked into his left wrist. His dark jeans and boots were a staple; permanent parts of his wardrobe. He’d studied the lore of this area, and opened his box of accessories. A silver ring slipped onto the middle finger and thumb of his right hand, and an insulated iron ring; a layer of insulating rubber protected it from absorbing the heat of his hand, onto the middle finger of his left hand. Eryx’s greatest weaknesses were vampires, as he believed no god would allow the demons on earth to run amok as it had. Regardless, he pulled polished wooden stakes from his stash of weapons and slipped them into their slots in the holster that sat in his lower back, the gun, magazines of silver and iron bullets, sitting between the two wooden stakes. It had been a gift from his grandmother before he left Greece; a family heirloom that he’d been thankful for time and time again.
There were two places that served alcohol in the town he’d passed to get to the academy. One was a night club, and the loud noise and atmosphere wasn’t something Eryx could see himself enjoying. The other was a much quieter bar called Twill’s, and that was where Eryx found himself parking his car and wandering in, on high alert as he sat down, pulling his sleeves down to cover the tattoos. He greeted the bartender with emotionless eyes but a calmly forced smile, “Jack Daniels, please. With a splash of coke.” He sat back and observed the bar around him, still tight with tension.
[shortening the reply is very much acceptable! I just like to set the stage with the first post]
