NSWRPF Archive The Tragalbury - Official Character Social Thread and Member Community Centre

IC JACK WARNER:

The mutant walked up to the doors of the building. The sign above it read "Tragalbury."

Looked interesting. A grin formed on his face, showing his pointed teeth. After a day of training in the Danger Room at the Xavier Institute, a day in a place like this might be relaxing. Especially when you just make it out of the Danger Room with your life.

Slipping on his gloves (designed to look just like normal hands) to cover his clawed fingers, he made for the door. As he walked up to the door, he noticed a security guard. That's just what he needed - guards, and an overly ambitious-looking one, at that. Not many people were nice to mutants, Jack of all people knowing that. Hopefully, this guy was in a good mood.

Slowly approaching the door, he gave a nervous smile to the guard. Taking off his Cleveland Indians baseball cap, he took a step closer to the door. "Uh... am I good to go in?"

TAG: LSA, anyone who wants to gab

D_N

 

IC: Bold Security Officer

The Security Officer glanced Jack up and down. He seemed innocent enough, but one could not be sure. It was the nervous smile, and tentative approach that won him entry at the end of the day. "As long as you leave any weapons you're carrying, here with us." The Officer gestured toward the main reception area. "Welcome to The Tragalbury."

TAG: Darph_Nader

 

IC JACK WARNER:

"As long as you leave any weapons you're carrying, here with us." The Officer gestured toward the main reception area. "Welcome to The Tragalbury."

Jack smiled. "Thanks." Having no weapons (at least, that he could take off his person), he strode into the building. It looked pretty normal, aside from the occupants, some looking like people from 100 years ago. He looked around for an empty table, but couldn't find one.

Jack was never good with people. Walking over to the bar, he called the bartender over. "Hey bud, you got soda or something?"

Jack never was one for drinking, especially since, if he was drunk, he might do something really stupid - like get rid of his gloves and eviscerate someone with his finger-claws. On top of that, he never could fathom the taste.

He took a seat at the bar, and waited, continuing to look the place over. There was a man in a Civil War get-up. By the sound of his speech, which Jack could barely hear, he sounded like he'd been in the deep south all his life. Maybe the guy was some over-the-top historian?... Maybe.

But first, he'd have to get his drink. He began to tap his talons on the floor, creating a barely audible clicking sound.

TAG: LSA, anyone

D_N

 

Ori Kama
The Tragalbury, Interior


As Ori sat, and gestured for the strange southern man that he may have a seat, she had a bemused smile on her face. She took a sip of her drink as the man gave her a kind nod and sat himself in the seat across from the woman, extending his hand in greeting. "Fuhgive me ma'am, I seem tuh've forgotten my mannuhs. My name is Thomas Jonathan Jackson."

Ori gave a most charming smile, as she extended her hand. "Well, good evening, Mr. Jackson. I am Ori. Ori Kama. Pleasure to meet your acquantiance." she said smoothly, as she gave him a small smile.

She wondered what this ones story would be. She looked up, as a waiter approached, giving a slight nod. "What you you have to drink sir?" The man then looked towards Ori. "Would you like a menu?" Ori nodded yes, before turning her attention back towards Mr. Jackson. He might be quaint, but at least he had manners. So far.





TAG: Zedd-Vega

 

Thomas Jonathan "Stonewall" Jackson

The Tragalbury, Interior Booth

Thomas smiled as well through his black beard and turned his eyes to the waiter. "Ah buhlieve I orduhed a straight wiskey at thuh bar, my good suh. Just waitin' on it's safe duhlivery." He said with a smile, turning back to Ori kissing her hand gently.

"Please, Ms. Kama, Mr. Jackson is my fathuh. Do call me Thomas." Stonewall replied, releasing her hand slowly, turning to the waiter and ushering him away with his hand to go fetch the lady her menu and Jackson his drink.

TAG: Ktala

 

IC: Quiet Bartender

Jack walked over to the bar, called to the bartender and said, "Hey bud, you got soda or something?" It was the opening line of a joke. At least, it could have been. The bartender smiled slightly, but offered no punch line. He was laughing on the inside as he watched Jack take a seat and look the place over. In short order the bartender passed Jack a soda and waited for the patron to pay for the drink.

TAG: Darph_Nader

 

IC: Mordred Tara

As Mordred crouched behind the bar, there was an immense BANG that shook the foundations of the inn. The doors swung open, there was a clatter of swords and spears before it, and roughly two dozen soldiers of faerie marched in, clad in bright green and blue surcoats, all with the royal emblem of a cat on their gleaming helmets. Mordred tried to make a run for it, but the first caught sight of him.
"Sire!" he cried, sweeping into an elaborate bow, and doffing his cap. "Your half-sister, Queen Karshaiga, is dead. She was gored yesterday by a great stag during a hunt. And you, sire, are the King of Tirnanog!"
Mordred grinned a bit tipsily, and strode forward. The soldiers broke into a marching song, with flutes, trumpets, and drums, more beautiful than mere earthly parallel. Singing and dancing, they marched out of the Tragalbury, bearing their new king with them.

The King has come into his own!
The Wicked Queen is overthrown!
The Darkness has come back to light!
No more shall faeries war and fight!
Hurrah! Hurrah! The throne is full!
Our King has come into his rule!

LONG LIVE THE KING! LONG LIVE THE KING!

TAG: Absolutely no one.

THE END (for Mordred Tara)

 

Please contribute to the wealth of this great community and visit the Resource Forum where you can cast a nomination for the Summer 2006 RPF Awards

 

IC: Quiet Bartender

Business had been slow over the past few nights. Regular patrons to The Tragalbury were either sent to the district hospital, escorted to the recovery room, or lying unconscious on nightclub floor awaiting pick up. The bartender sighed. It was such a depressing sight.

In an effort to add some life to the place the club's doors were open with the promise of free drinks and a night of entertainment. Alcohol was delivered by the truckload, and performers came with trailers packed full of groupies.

TAG: No one in particular

---

:p

 

OOC: Oh, damn. Reynar and I killed the New Forum Party Thread.

 

OOC: Yeah, screw you guys. This thread is a wee bit too stuffy for random banter about somewhat questionable comic images.

 

IC as Stuttering Lights:

We've failed. We can't turn on. We're covered in dust. Where's our power?

TAG: Cigarette Lighters

 

OOC: Our work here is done.

 

OOC: It's all part of a plan. We let this thread fail, then we create a new one, in our image.

IC as Sir Quincy P. Shackleford, Publishing Mogul

Ah, the Tragalbury. It'd been years since his last visit to this place. Had it changed, at all? He hoped not. Last he had heard, the place was still a reputable establishment, with velvet curtains, prim and proper Maitre D's, and excellent company.

As he approached the front door, he checked his cane at the door, and had a valet park his automobile, a Nemo design. Six-wheels, two sets at the front, one at the back. It was a deep crimson, and Quincy dearly hoped the lad would park it properly, without any mishaps.

He stepped through the check, a new development, to be sure. And then he was in the building itself.

It had changed. Gone were the fine paintings, hunting trophies, and all manner of foreign miscellania. Pity. He'd rather liked the old, Victorian style. Perhaps he could rent a private room, designed to his specifications. He believed that the term used here was "steampunk"....

He approached the coat check with a spring in his step, glad to return to an old haunt. He left his bowler and overcoat there, and strode over to the bar, clad in his favourite jacket and shoes.

"Excuse me, my good man, who would one approach as to the rental of a private VIP room?"

Tag: Bartender, others

 

OOC: Yes, Peng, yeeeessss. Everything has transpired as we have foreseen.

---

[b]IC: Buzz the Annoying, Talking Fly[/b]

Buzz inhaled, taking a deep breath of the nighttime chill roaming hroughout the air. He had just annoyed a cranky woman whose favorite football team had just lost a big game. She went after him with her umbrella, but no one could stop the amazingly annoying Buzz the Annoying, Talking Fly.

He had made his way to the Tragalbury, and flew in just as someone had opened the door. He instantly spotted a familiar face, the face of Sir Quincy P. Shackleford.

"Quincy!" he cried, his voice high-pitched and shallow, remarkably similar to that of a chipmunk's. "How's it going ol' buddy?" Buzz landed on the bar directly in front of Quincy. "How's the corporate world been treating ya?"

[b]Tag: Sir Quincy P. Shackleford[/b]

 

OOC: From the ashes of this threads doom shall arise a new Forum. By the way, nice Peng, cool fly...I think I can beat it though here you go.

---

[b]IC: Russel, In the Bushes.[/b]

Russel sat in his usual spot, in the bushes outside his front porch. Paintball gun in hand he sat there, waiting, waiting for those darned kids that always cross his lawn at exactly 8:10 am on every monday, wednesday and friday.

As he looked over his shoulder, he could see the moniters in his living room, each watching a corner of his house the the little rascals. The one for his north side showed the three children.

Russel could feel his adrenaline pump, his system had just had a fight or flight situation, and he had chosen fight. [i]I'm gonna get you this time boys![/i]

Russel pushed the barrel of his Tippman 98 Custom with M82 attachment through the bush, he was ready. He sighted down barrel and saw two of the children, one had disappeared. Where was he?

Russels adrenaline began to pump once more, he looked frantically around...then he heard it. The familiar sound of Carbon Dioxide firing a thin layer of plastic that held washable paint on the inside.

Russel felt it on his back and turned so see the thirteen year old kid standing behind him with a wide grin, laughing at him.

"Noooooooo," Russel shouted as he lay on the ground, "It can't be..."

[b]TAG: Mean Children[/b]

 

IC: Conan Edogawa (sort of)

[image=http://www.sshf.com/fr/holmeso/filmo/photos/1996_detectiveconan_4.jpg]

With the electricity dead, there was no way she could use the lights. When she used her lighter to look under the vehicle, the leaking fuel ignited. And that's how you murdered her.

 

OOC: Rectangular Businessman is the Intellectual Property of Williams Street Productions

---

[b][link=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/8/81/Square_Guy.png]IC: Rectangular Businessman [/link][/b]
[i]Location: Right Here[/i]

The Rectangular Businessman moved into the room. It seemed there were some other people in here, a talking fly and a detective of some kind.

How irregular.

The Rectangle moved his way to a corner booth and found himself a seat.

He would watch...

The....

Tragalburiousity....

Of it all...

[b]TAG: T - A - G [/b]

 

Quincy

Quincy looked for the source of the whiny voice, only to see his acquaintance Buzz on the bar in front of him.

"Ah! Buzzington!" he exclaimed, and brought his open plam down hard and fast at the bug's location, only to miss - the advantage of compound eyes.

"Good to see you! It has been a while since we last matched wits, has it not?" he said jovially, as if the assassination attempt hadn't happened.

His last duel with the fly had resulted in vodka on a carpet, numerous rolled magazines (that never went flat again, damn him), and Quincy bedding a Nubian queen. He wasn't quite sure about the vodka part, though.

Tag: Buzz(ington)

 

IC: Rudolphous Gregory Kant III
The Tragalbury

As dramatic an entrance as any, the wooden door suddenly creeks open, no longer protecting the inhabitants of this fine social club from the outside elemts. A shilouette is seen standing in the door way, black trench coat, fidora and all.

Sternly, Kant makes his way to the bar, taking his jacket on the way.

When he reached his destination (a wooden barstool), the stranger reaches deep into his pocket and pulls out....















A cigarette.

TAG: Any

 

OOC: Hey, whose fly do you think that is?

---

[b]IC: Buzzington[/b]

[i]"Ah! Buzzington!"[/i] Quincy exclaimed. But Buzz knew that tone of voice. He readied his legs, and just as expected, Quincy brought his open plam down hard and fast at the bug's location, only to miss - the advantage of compound eyes.

[i]"Good to see you! It has been a while since we last matched wits, has it not?"[/i] he said jovially, as if the assassination attempt hadn't happened.

Buzz smiled at his previous memory with the old goat. His pestering of the man had resulted in vodka on a carpet, numerous rolled magazines, and Quincy bedding a Nubian queen. Buzz himself impressed a nearby female mosquito, and the two hit it off afterwards.

"Indeed, indeed!" Buzz said proudly, now circling around the man's head with the occasional jab. "Anita sends her regards, she's sorry she couldn't make it."

[b]Sir Quincy[/b]

 

Sir Quincy

Quincy brushed his brown hair back, smiling. "How is the old girl? Well, I hope."

He ordered a drink, vodka, naturally, and sipped idly at it. Buzzington (as Quincy called him) was a pest, to be sure, but he was good company. An oxymoronic lifestyle, thought the publisher.

"Read anything worth reading recently?"

He sipped at his drink again. Oh yes, this was going to be just like old times. Now, if he could only rent a room...where'd the proprietor get to?

Tag: Reynar, LSA

 

OOC: Sorry Reynar, read the names wrong. My Fault...see, that;s why it's you two taking over the boards, and not me, I might overlook some air duct that the hero could crawl through to escape my lair.

 

OOC: LightWarden;

 

IC: Jaleesa LaCroida

The bar doors opened, bringing life and warmth to the rather cold entering woman. Before 10 seconds were up, Jaleesa was already checking the bar for the more interesting people. The back of a mans head, a man who was withdrawing a... cigarette from his pocket. This was her cue.

Before he had the time to reach for a lighter, Jaleesa was seated next to him, holding her burning zippo just away from his face.

"A light?" She forwarded, grinning.

Tag: Prenn