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I feel like some good unpredictable RP. Open!
Well, that's just great. Twice in as many months. Whaddaya know?
The man currently calling himself Lee Chikatilo stalks through the ground floor of the hotel, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched, looking like a cross between a two-hour squall and a bad hangover. Deep green eyes, shuttered and gleaming with ire, take in every detail of the place and every person he passes, with an unnerving intensity.
After stalking out the worst of his frustration, Lee makes a beeline for the hotel bar. Alcohol being the cause of, and solution to, all problems, he figured it couldn't hurt.
Knew I shouldn't have run a Kano triad through a north-northwest ley line, he grumbles inwardly, accepting his first shot of Stolichnaya. And of course, they don't know how to keep vodka here is his next sour thought upon discovering the clear liquid's chill, or lack thereof. Grey-shot green eyes take a cursory sweep of the immediate vicinity, ensuring no one is paying him any attention; then he pulls a small, blackened bone from an inner pocket in his battered WWII-style bomber jacket. Staring into the shot glass, he looks furtively about again, careful not to make the gesture too obvious and draw attention by looking for it, then draws a single, straight vertical line on the glass with the bone, with a little flicking gesture at either end.
Palming the bone, prepared to make it disappear into any number of hiding places if need be, he downs the shot at the same time. Much better.
The man currently calling himself Lee Chikatilo stalks through the ground floor of the hotel, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched, looking like a cross between a two-hour squall and a bad hangover. Deep green eyes, shuttered and gleaming with ire, take in every detail of the place and every person he passes, with an unnerving intensity.
After stalking out the worst of his frustration, Lee makes a beeline for the hotel bar. Alcohol being the cause of, and solution to, all problems, he figured it couldn't hurt.
Knew I shouldn't have run a Kano triad through a north-northwest ley line, he grumbles inwardly, accepting his first shot of Stolichnaya. And of course, they don't know how to keep vodka here is his next sour thought upon discovering the clear liquid's chill, or lack thereof. Grey-shot green eyes take a cursory sweep of the immediate vicinity, ensuring no one is paying him any attention; then he pulls a small, blackened bone from an inner pocket in his battered WWII-style bomber jacket. Staring into the shot glass, he looks furtively about again, careful not to make the gesture too obvious and draw attention by looking for it, then draws a single, straight vertical line on the glass with the bone, with a little flicking gesture at either end.
Palming the bone, prepared to make it disappear into any number of hiding places if need be, he downs the shot at the same time. Much better.