07-01-2013, 05:26 AM
Marcellus stiffens reflexively as Jack walks past, not turning to look at him, not reaching out to pluck at his sleeve. Rather, he simply feels the muscles between his shoulder blades grow tight, feels the spot between his brows grow scrunched, and the pit of his stomach drop. He clenches the whiskey, then when the door closes behind Jack, he raises it and downs it in one smooth, practiced pull. No hiss, no showing signs of the alcoholic burn - Marcellus has had enough practice over the course of his life to take a hit of cheap whiskey in stride.
That done, he sets the short, beveled glass down, and rises to his feet. For a moment he simply stares at the door, and then he takes a deep breath and marches down the length of the Tunnel Bar, and pushes his way outside.
There he is. Like a glowing ingot of iron, radiating heat and menace like a sleeping junkyard dog. Furious enough that he's probably an ahroun, maybe a galliard. Or who the hell knows. Marcellus adjusts his belt, then walks over a few steps and stops again.
"Hey." He's of medium height, Marcellus, worn and weathered by the streets, in his late forties perhaps, or hell, who knows given how the streets can age you. China blue eyes with irises rimmed as dark as the pupils, startling almost in that creased and leathered face, his matted mane pulled back into a rough ponytail, his broad lips pressed into a line. No doubt Jack can smell him even from where he stands.
"Hey there." This is always the awkward part. If only there were gang signs they could flash. "'scuse me, but uh, you wouldn't happen to be related to Rat?"
That done, he sets the short, beveled glass down, and rises to his feet. For a moment he simply stares at the door, and then he takes a deep breath and marches down the length of the Tunnel Bar, and pushes his way outside.
There he is. Like a glowing ingot of iron, radiating heat and menace like a sleeping junkyard dog. Furious enough that he's probably an ahroun, maybe a galliard. Or who the hell knows. Marcellus adjusts his belt, then walks over a few steps and stops again.
"Hey." He's of medium height, Marcellus, worn and weathered by the streets, in his late forties perhaps, or hell, who knows given how the streets can age you. China blue eyes with irises rimmed as dark as the pupils, startling almost in that creased and leathered face, his matted mane pulled back into a rough ponytail, his broad lips pressed into a line. No doubt Jack can smell him even from where he stands.
"Hey there." This is always the awkward part. If only there were gang signs they could flash. "'scuse me, but uh, you wouldn't happen to be related to Rat?"