First Person: [Well well well. This wasn’t what he expected when he’d woken up today. Actually, he was expecting a source to show up at his home, so being here on this train is kind of an inconvenience]
Sae whit’s thes all about? Nae of’en Ah’ll be thae ain bein’ pranked. Enough. Yoo’ve had yoor laugh, tell me whit’s up. Syphus, ye gettin’ bored? Ah’m sure ye kin dae better.
[He sounds unimpressed as he gets up off the train, not realizing that his newfangled pocketwatch was half-dangling out of his pants and activated. Personally he’s far more interested in peering around and trying to figure out where he even is. This obviously wasn’t anywhere NEAR London, where he’s crashing. Running a hand through his long hair, he disembarks from the train, frowning and seeing the posters.]
Ruby City, eh?
Third Person: Lucien smirked as he checked over his email for any new prospective “clients.” He loved winding these people around his finger, and keeping them constantly returning back to him with small treats here and there. Lucien posted up news on his site every once in a while. It was always just a little tidbit to tease the masses with. Usually it pertained to a person that had dissatisfied him either with payment, attitude, or something else entirely.
Yesterday, he’d dropped a little love on his favorite foe, Syphus Alsheer. Honestly now, the man begged for it with the way he lived. The finer things in life? Ha! They were all dead, and dying with little to no prey. There was hardly a fine life here, unless you were Lucien Iyesterius. He always had a friend to rely on, and a wrist to nip a few drops from. Pity. He couldn’t find any demon blood, and he rather enjoyed different varieties.
The hit on Syphus had yielded quite a few hits, most of them begging for further information. This wouldn’t be bought cheap, not if it was from Lucien.
“Ye little upstarts, ye cannae afford thes piece,” he muttered in sheer amusement as he cleared the requests. Even he wouldn’t sell Syphus out so cheaply.
A hand strayed up to his throat, and he rubbed at the scar there idly. Deep and jagged, it crossed in a lazy diagonal slope. He remembered. He respected. And, as he reached out to grab a bottle of Scotch next to his keyboard, he reflected on how much he could hate just one man.
Re: [OC] Lucien Iyesterius | Not Reserved | 3/3
Sae whit’s thes all about? Nae of’en Ah’ll be thae ain bein’ pranked. Enough. Yoo’ve had yoor laugh, tell me whit’s up. Syphus, ye gettin’ bored? Ah’m sure ye kin dae better.
[He sounds unimpressed as he gets up off the train, not realizing that his newfangled pocketwatch was half-dangling out of his pants and activated. Personally he’s far more interested in peering around and trying to figure out where he even is. This obviously wasn’t anywhere NEAR London, where he’s crashing. Running a hand through his long hair, he disembarks from the train, frowning and seeing the posters.]
Ruby City, eh?
Third Person: Lucien smirked as he checked over his email for any new prospective “clients.” He loved winding these people around his finger, and keeping them constantly returning back to him with small treats here and there. Lucien posted up news on his site every once in a while. It was always just a little tidbit to tease the masses with. Usually it pertained to a person that had dissatisfied him either with payment, attitude, or something else entirely.
Yesterday, he’d dropped a little love on his favorite foe, Syphus Alsheer. Honestly now, the man begged for it with the way he lived. The finer things in life? Ha! They were all dead, and dying with little to no prey. There was hardly a fine life here, unless you were Lucien Iyesterius. He always had a friend to rely on, and a wrist to nip a few drops from. Pity. He couldn’t find any demon blood, and he rather enjoyed different varieties.
The hit on Syphus had yielded quite a few hits, most of them begging for further information. This wouldn’t be bought cheap, not if it was from Lucien.
“Ye little upstarts, ye cannae afford thes piece,” he muttered in sheer amusement as he cleared the requests. Even he wouldn’t sell Syphus out so cheaply.
A hand strayed up to his throat, and he rubbed at the scar there idly. Deep and jagged, it crossed in a lazy diagonal slope. He remembered. He respected. And, as he reached out to grab a bottle of Scotch next to his keyboard, he reflected on how much he could hate just one man.