ALL THE WHITE HORSES | open, drinking

[Reggie.]

[align=center][div style="bgcolor=; border: none; width: 375px; padding: 0px; line-height: 13px; text-align: justify; font-size: 10px; color: #262626; font-family: arial; text-transform:lowercase; margin-top:0px; padding-bottom:20px; margin-top:-2px;"]Johnny swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, toes curling inside his boot. With a fucked hip he didn't have many options when it came to entertainment. Usually he would condemn drinking like the boring fucker he was, but tonight he could care less. The only problem was that he got real mean when drunk. No filter either, he knew that so he'd holed up in an apartment. There was no real reason for anyone to come in unless he did something loud. Besides, he was such a downer usually he doubted anyone would even stay if they did find him. Right? Who cared if he drank and drank until he choked on his vomit. Who fucking cared.

He looked like a mess through and through. His shirt had gone missing and his jacket was tied around his waist while his pants were pulled down obscenely low, the only thing keeping himself covered was the sleeve of his jacket. Hair, usually kept back, was covering his half lidded eyes, the black curls going in every which way. One leg was propped up by a old box while the other was splayed out, his arms were folded across his chest, head held up by the wall behind him.

Hocking a loogie Johnny smacked the bottle down, what a fucking mess. God, he couldn't even get shit faced properly. His dark skin was tinted pink making the ridiculously thick smattering of freckles all over even more pronounced than usual. "Fricking," with a painful noise he crushed an ant marching across his stomach, scowling at the sting. Stupid bugs. Stupid fucking bugs! Just fucking going wherever they pleased, right? Gotta go feed the queen who's popping shithead babies. Fuck off. Bugs could go suck some horse dick with their ugly little faces. Didn't even bother trying to be cute cause they knew they're little shits.

What a pleasant guy.

[BRUCE H]

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Bruce was hardly the nosy type. He wasn't the sort of person to insert himself into the lives or situations of strangers. As someone who thrived off of close relationships, this place was killing him already. The promise that this was temporary was already worn to the point that he was sick of hearing it. Just until his leg healed a little bit more. Just until he stopped seeing red every time he closed his eyes. Just long enough that — he doesn't know. However long it will be, it's too long. He's already left shattered pieces of himself with those that he left, and he knows that those damaged parts do more harm than good. Remembering him isn't a good thing, but it wasn't as if he would allow them to forget, right? It's not self-centered of him to say that he's a memorable person to most, considering that making a mark is intentional. Whether it was good or bad, he would always make a point of being there, these days. Earlier in his life, Bruce had made a point of staying in the shadows. No friends, no relationships other than his brother. Things changed once he'd met Dick. He was the sunshine that melted the snow, warm and constant without being overbearing. He had managed to remind everyone that there was an entire ecosystem hidden underneath that silent blanket of white.

And he'd left him. So yeah, he think that he would be drinking too, if he had the ability. It was impossible to relax when he feels as if he's surrounded by wolves, circling for some sign of weakness before they snap. It won't be him, not today. Not tomorrow. He played at strength and stability, and while the facade was crumbling day by day, it would hold him up until he could get out of this place. For now, he still has a faint limp and a scavenged brace on his arm. He had cleaned up a bit since he'd joined, short hair push back in its usual place and dried blood scrubbed off, but his jeans are still stained around the cut on his thigh and the bruises are only becoming more visible. He would have to find a way to hide those before returning to Flintlock. That was the only thought on his mind before hearing the heavy clink of a bottle on the ground. Priority number one was getting back to the people he actually liked, even if they all hated him. Priority number two was figuring out a way to keep them from realizing where he had been or what had happened to him. They could yell as much as they wanted, shout and scream and hit him, he didn't care. As long as they didn't know the rest of what he had done.

The noise he'd heard offers a brief suspension that his exploration of this place had already failed at providing, an alley of thought that isn't yet tainted by the aches and pains both within him and on him. Win knocks briefly against the frame of the doorway, a sharp rap with the back of his hand, just in time to hear whoever was in there avoid swearing. It was amusing, almost, but he still feels as if there's a threat when he glances in. The picture he sees is certainly anything but threatening, a messy figure sprawled out against the floor and a wall wearing... Very little. He's pretty, in a way, though he knows well enough that he's never going to be able to think about anyone else like that for the rest of his life. Pale blue eyes barely scrape over the stranger before they return to his face, one brow raised in question even though half of his mouth is twisted to a sick sort of amusement. (He's tired. He wants to go home.) "You're obviously having a wonderful night." Not that he cares too much.

[div style="background=; border:0;font-size: 9.6pt; text-align:justify; line-height: 1.2; width: 517px"][spoiler=I DON’T GET SURPRISED | INFORMATION; 02/23/2017]‣ Bruce Gideon Holloway / Usually Introduced as "Win" / Cisgender Male
‣ Gray-Biromantic Bisexual / 89% Monogamous / Possessive / Taken by Dick H.
‣ ½ Boysoldier [OTP] / Father & ⅙ of the Batfam [Dick, Dami, Cam, Meg, Stevie]
‣ Twenty-Four / Feb. 19 / NPC x NPC; Deceased / Brother: Jason / Son: Damian
‣ Resident of Flintlock Lodge / Loner / Biography / Notes Page / Pinterest Board

‣ Important Tropes: Death Glare, Disapproving Look, & Faces Death with Dignity
‣ 6'3 & 180-200 lbs. | Muscular, solid build, well-defined but not overwhelmingly so.
‣ Slightly wavy hair, between dark brown and soft black. Shorter on the sides; messy.
‣ Pale steely blue eyes. | Usually scowling or at least looking unhappy. Rarely smiles.
‣ Warm, formerly tanned skin, lightly freckled from sun exposure. Paler with the cold.
‣ Wears layers. Achromatic undershirts, long sleeved overshirt, hoodie or field jacket.
‣ Constantly wearing a black promise ring on the ring finger of his left hand. Reference.
‣ 9mm pistol; holster on left thigh. | A large, single-blade, semi-serrated pocketknife.

‣ Broken Ace / Friend to Children / Deadpan Snarker / Defiant to the End / Attitude
‣ Abrasive and domineering, tends to dislike taking orders from anyone he doesn't trust.
‣ Disciplined, seems calm. Can sometimes seem blank or may hyperfocus on one thing.
‣ Oddly gentle, particularly with young kids who have been through some sort of trauma.
‣ Borderline playful with people that he actually likes; tends to smile only around them.
‣ Measured, collected, steady. Holds himself and those around him to high standards.
‣ Would die for a stranger, but particularly overprotective of his family and close friends.
‣ Can be incredibly charismatic when he needs to be. Typically can't hold a conversation.

[Sel]

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sel

Sel on the other hand, was nosy, and considered herself invested in Johnny, at least until his recovery. She also liked showing up whenever alcohol was involved, wanting to get drunk if at all possible. Lastly, she liked keeping track of the newbies. Since Johnny was drunk and Bruce was bearing witness, it seemed only natural that the Warchief would show up. "He's had worse, I reckon." She muttered, glancing around in hopes of finding his bottle but not putting too much attention on it. "Didn't take you as the drinking type, Johnny."

//bleh this is crap

[spoiler=Tags - Updated 2/27/17]General:
▪ Selena Felix | Sel or Lena depending on situation
▪ Biological female | Identifies as female | She/Her
▪ 23 years | Birthday is 12/18 | Real Time Aging
▪ Warchief of the Badlands

Relationships:
▪ Biromantic | Bisexual | Poly
▪ Single | Flirty
▪ Crushing on Blake
▪ Would hook up with almost anyone in Flirtlands
▪ Lives with Mettaton | Hired John as her manservant
▪ NPC x NPC | No adopted kin
▪ Generally very friendly but not easy to become close with; flirty and defiant; loyalty is hard-earned and easily betrayed

Important Facts:
▪ Trained medic but prefers the war and/or social branches.
▪ Usually untrustworthy, everything is calculated, ambitious as f**k, nefarious motivations.
▪ Opinions, motivations and ambition are Sel's and Sel's alone and are not shared by her roleplayer.

Physical:
★ HUMAN | health: 100%
— She's small, but not too small, about 5'4" or so. Slender and always moving, pretty blue-green eyes with a mischievous glint in them and you know she's gonna get you into trouble. Dark hair, no doubt dark thoughts as well. Red lips curve into a lazy grin that reveals white teeth - they won't stay pearly for much longer, though, as she's often seen smoking.
— major injuries: none
— minor injuries: none

Personality:
— Sel is a very bold, competitive and stubborn person, with a wild side that is shown frequently as well as flirtatious tendencies. She is easily bored and is always on the lookout for adventure, with a spark of curiosity that she hopes will lead to what she seeks: adventure and romance. She seems to not be a very serious person and would rather have fun than be productive, and failing entertainment she can be quite productive and get quite a bit done. She's loud and lacks discipline. While Sel is irresponsible (and oddly bossy) and wild, she is very family-oriented and loves her family dearly. She is usually a cheerful, friendly person but she definitely has a passion for the weird, dark and creepy. She is somewhat vain and egotistical. She has her secrets and one of them is her intelligence and ability to collect information; most dismiss her as a dumb party girl (or something like that) and that's part of her cover, she has her fair share of sins and has to have a way of hiding them, and because she is a good liar and good actress, she succeeds.
— curious; friendly; bold; friendly; intelligent; brave; observant; stubborn; competitive; flirty; sly and cunning; ambitious; wild; irresponsible; bossy; vain; arrogant/egotistical; cruel/sadistic; dark; deceptive

Interaction:
▪ Trained with knives and poisons | Medium physically | Hard mentally
▪ No kill/capture/maim without permission | Will kill/capture/maim with permission
▪ Prefers to fight with poisoned daggers | Relies largely on speed and agility
▪ To attack, [member=183]Sel[/member] and attack in underlined #440349

Links:
— Bio v.1
— Bio v.2
— Plot v.1 (Badlands)
— Plot v.1 (TNW)
— Storage v.1
— 100 Oneshots[/spoiler]

[TATIANA]

trackk

[woodsy]

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Sebastian didn't make a habit of drinking, except for when, of course, he was already drunk. See, when you're used to greaser style roundabouts at any moment, you try to keep your head cleared and your hand steady. Your knife is never polished because the rust bleeds into the wounds, you never waste your energy so that you don't have an almost narcoleptic spell. The little bits and pieces that are so overlooked in life are centered towards one moment of preparation: the fight. But alcoholics, while generally being undependable, could always be counted on for returning to their nature when depression nicked at your ears until they were raw and fleshy. Him, with his long history of a dead father, abusive family members, bad boyfriends, shit friends, and oh, you know, the little thing called the fucking apocalypse, were enough to wear at him until he no longer had any skin or muscle, just bones.

The guy could hardly mind the company of Bruce or Johnny, who he swore cursed more than a fairytale witch, when the rest of the universe was slumming it. He picked at the dirt that had flown in from New York, unpacked its shit, and made its home under his nails. what a boring life to lead. money money money. that's where his head was at. but money was useless and careers were not really a thing unless you wanted to be a cub scout who sold death sentences instead of popcorn or a yee-haw dippe-de-doo-da warchief with my little pony band-aids who got high all the time. Such fun. Sebastian's favorite memory of his mother was her slapping him in the face and yelling "Stop being a piece of shit, I raised you with better manners than this. Stop being so damn mean." Which, he of course, found awfully amusing since she didn't raise him at all when he was born in the same room where she died of cancer. besides, meanness isn't something that comes and goes so easily, it settles like dust, and eventually there's enough to cause a dust storm and choke a person. it will only go away if the situation eases, but it never will, not unless you crack open a bottle.

If you know Sebastian, you know that whiskey burns his throat. If you know Sebastian, then you know that when his throat burns he likes to sing to try to cool it off. There's no logic behind it, but you're going to sure as hell want cotton or wax to plug your ears. He looks like a coyote, lean, golden curls, sharp eyes, just with a dirty stripped blue shirt that he's constantly pulling if he's nervous due to the general existence of pretty people. And he sings like one too. "DEEEEEEEP IN THE HEART OF----------"

Fortunately, he passes out as quickly as he starts.