(no subject)



November 27th 2003

when I will dump the contents.
Drawn Cool


Jack sighs, reaches into a fold in his clothing and reveals a small drawstring bag. He gently tosses it to Bunburry. "Thanks, buddy. See you around." Jack leans back as if deep in thought.

Bunburry walks toward the door, holding the bag in his mouth. As he leaves, he looks back to say goodbye, but Jack is little more than a mist on the air. Bunburry takes in the lingering scent and leaves an empty room.
Drawn Cool


Jack slowly walks to the bar. His nondescript grey clothing flows easily as he walks. His face an empty slate, he awaits an interesting encounter. He sits and orders an iced tea.

A mottled black and grey cat slowly follows Jack and curls up under his seat.

(no subject)

It stepped through the doors.
The figure could be straight out of a gothic version of a classic detective novel, black fedora, a black double breasted suit beneath a black trench coat, all the fabric it wore shifted to red as the light changed over it but for the most part the clothes were black. The fedora shaded the face that tread that line between feminine and masculine, the eyes were hidden by lenses that were blood red. If you looked closely you'd almost swear they were filled with blood. Of course, this individual was always well aware of of where people were looking.
As it approached the bar long white hands withdrew themselves from the pants pockets. It sat at the bar and started lighting matches one by one, and letting them burn.

You are welcome to try and talk.

(no subject)

The Distant creak of the Rainbow Inns enterance door sounds softly, stretching eerily upon the trail of lulling conversation. A cloaked figure enters quietly clutching her coat collar with two delicate hands, at last fleeing the crisp chill of a bitter sweet springtime breeze and pressing the door closed. She turns away from the door, surrenders her hood and meekily aqcuaints you with deep dark eyes before withdrawing her gaze in quiet assesment of her surrounds. Having fixed the landscape of her surrounds, she wanders beside the fireplace and leans against the fixture, gazing intently into the lapping entrance of flames.


A giant cat stalks into the Inn. Midnight blue fur with black tiger stripes and the generic shape of a tiger, if only just a hair larger than you're normal Bengal Tiger. Massive paws tread silently on the floor of the Inn as he --And there is no doubting it is a he-- glides over to his Oberon shooting a glance towards the sofa where a cat, a man and Evilyn sit. He rubs his head against Oberons dangling hand.


Oberon appears on the stairs, He looks about the room and sees Evilyn. He moves slowly across the floor, black leather boots squeaking faintly, to the table he'd had before as "the Guard" his eyes always on the trio of the sofa. Had you been privvy to the private room you would be familiar with his Midnight blue hair, and silver rams horns.

Evilyn, Has returned.

Appearing behind the bar and stepping out she surveys the scene from behind a pair of red hued spectacles. Dressed in a double breasted pinstripe suit, she'd almost rival the darling Mr. Guisborne in looks. But of course she doesn't as she is female. She spots jack and a cat. But ruby is missing.

She hears faint noises above her head and emits a satisfied, "Ahh... I know where Ruby is." Before walking over to jack once more.

not in California anymore

A momentary swirl of liver-coloured trenchcoat cuts the antique landscape with a quiet impatience, ushering in cool, moist night air with its quickly-righted folds. The man stands just inside of the doorway, one arched eyebrow raised over a dark, heavily-lidded eye just enough to convey an incredulous sort of annoyance, one side fo his shapely upper lip barely curled in a sneer that looks so right on his hard-featured face that it's difficult to imagine him without it.
The dull brass tip of his furled umbrella taps once against the wooden floor as he allows his overcoat to be sloughed off of his broad shoulders and taken in the crook of an impeccably jacketed arm. A long, taper-fingered hand perches easily on the narrow hip beneath a pair of beautifully-tailored pair of trousers that screams "Bond Street!"
He looks as if he could do with a stiff drink, but is too contrary to admit it.