- Messages
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- Character Biography
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AND I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOUR FUCKING FACE IN HERE AGAIN!”
Joseph blinked. Hold on a moment. He’d been sitting on a stool, bottle of whiskey in hand, mouthing off. Honestly, he got more traction in bars as a woman but he couldn’t hold the form long while he was drunk. Understandably, patrons really didn’t like being shifted on mid-shag, much less mid-shag in the storeroom of an Allirian bar. He did a quick assessment. Broken glass showered over him, bottle tucked against his chest, cuts on his forehead, and no pants.
He sat up slowly and looked. Oh, right.
They’d thrown him through the window.
If the shattered frame wasn’t enough evidence, the half dozen or so murderous faces in said window would have said a thousand words. “What are you so fucking mad about? You’re so small I couldn’t tell if it was in anyway!” Joseph barked back, struggling to his feet. Thank the gods he was piss drunk or his clubbed foot would be making him eat those words.
A man turning purple in the face and grabbing a weapon was his indicator to go. He shoved the neck of the whiskey bottle in his mouth and shifted. A large black dog hurtled down the street, with empty glasses raining down behind him as the bar patrons chased him. Gods, they really were taking this seriously, if the snarls about hanging him with his own belt were anything to go by.
Joseph scrabbled into the docks, hoping to lose his assailants. There! Rotten boards near the bottom of a warehouse door. He shoved his way under them, squirming and praying he wasn’t leaving too much fur behind. For a High Lord of the Winter Court…he certainly found himself in these situations often.
He pinned himself behind a group of barrels, and released the form. He collapsed onto his rear, swearing under his breath and tearing his prize open. He’d just taken a slug of whiskey when he heard the voices. Shit. Alright, so maybe he’d underestimated the power of drunken animal tracking.
A good two dozen men were combing the docks with torches. They were stopping people going in or around the docks, asking the same questions.
“You seen a short little shit around here? Either a big black dog with a bad foot or a scrap of a man with one?”
Joseph blinked. Hold on a moment. He’d been sitting on a stool, bottle of whiskey in hand, mouthing off. Honestly, he got more traction in bars as a woman but he couldn’t hold the form long while he was drunk. Understandably, patrons really didn’t like being shifted on mid-shag, much less mid-shag in the storeroom of an Allirian bar. He did a quick assessment. Broken glass showered over him, bottle tucked against his chest, cuts on his forehead, and no pants.
He sat up slowly and looked. Oh, right.
They’d thrown him through the window.
If the shattered frame wasn’t enough evidence, the half dozen or so murderous faces in said window would have said a thousand words. “What are you so fucking mad about? You’re so small I couldn’t tell if it was in anyway!” Joseph barked back, struggling to his feet. Thank the gods he was piss drunk or his clubbed foot would be making him eat those words.
A man turning purple in the face and grabbing a weapon was his indicator to go. He shoved the neck of the whiskey bottle in his mouth and shifted. A large black dog hurtled down the street, with empty glasses raining down behind him as the bar patrons chased him. Gods, they really were taking this seriously, if the snarls about hanging him with his own belt were anything to go by.
Joseph scrabbled into the docks, hoping to lose his assailants. There! Rotten boards near the bottom of a warehouse door. He shoved his way under them, squirming and praying he wasn’t leaving too much fur behind. For a High Lord of the Winter Court…he certainly found himself in these situations often.
He pinned himself behind a group of barrels, and released the form. He collapsed onto his rear, swearing under his breath and tearing his prize open. He’d just taken a slug of whiskey when he heard the voices. Shit. Alright, so maybe he’d underestimated the power of drunken animal tracking.
A good two dozen men were combing the docks with torches. They were stopping people going in or around the docks, asking the same questions.
“You seen a short little shit around here? Either a big black dog with a bad foot or a scrap of a man with one?”
