CAVE IN [open]

[ZERACHIEL ?!]

Eli visited bars once in a blue. Alcohol was definitely not her choice beverage, however the stench enveloping the buildings interior was pungent enough to dull her senses. A glass of water sat before her, hardly touched, and almost certainly one of the few—if not the only—soft drink in the vicinity. It was unusual for the hunter to openly display her emotions. In spite of her usual stoic demeanor she sat forlornly on the fringes, away from the commotion. She sniffed slightly, blinking away the tears that wished to fall. Her attempt to disregard the sorrow swelling unpleasantly within her heart had minimal affect causing the frustration to build.

She hunted creatures, bloodthirsty monsters, on a regular basis, although her best fight was not adequate enough to save her mother. Malicious spirits . . . demons . . . she could combat. Disease? She had lost the battle before it had begun. Considering not even an experienced doctor could cure Abigail Cross there was not a chance Eli would be capable of doing so.

Her throat constricted at the thought of her mother. She was the only family she had left, her closest confident, her largest supporter; she was supposed to live a long and prosperous life, not die—not this way.

Instinctively her grip on the glass tightened, knuckles growing white beneath her skin. She was tired of being powerless, unable to rescue those that meant the most to her. Ever since she could remember she desired to assist those in need and now she could not. All she could do was sit and watch helplessly as her mother’s health rapidly diminished until. . .

Shaking her head in denial, Eli forced the thought far from her mind. There had to be a way; she had to believe that, to have faith, even if only a small sliver remained.

With unsteady hands, she gulped the water down forcefully, the liquid cool and pleasant as it traveled down her throat. Sometimes she wished she could give in to her inhibitions and knock back a beer. Being mindless seemed a lot better than enduring the sadness as she gradually fell apart, her life greatly distorted.

NOTE: This is a post I typed up for a different site, however the thread it was in has become inactive. I do not mind who chooses to reply, though I would like a response that is equal in size to my own.

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[stabinae]

Drinking had never been an activity the she had indulged in. In fact, despite her ancient and powerful status, alcohol had never even passed her lips. Its distinct and distasteful stench was enough to put her off; observations of its cursed after-effects merely posed as an extra explanation as to why she should never, ever get drunk.

Distorted vision, slowed reflexes, sluggish thinking, as well as the inability to properly coordinate her own body sounded more like signing her own death warrant than having a good time. Add that to the hangovers, as well as the fact that drunken teleportation was just as ill-advised as drunken everything else... Overall, 'booze' was a complete and utter waste of time. A hindrance, a nuisance, a foul-smelling liquid.

Still, a foul-smelling liquid had its uses.

There wasn't a decent coffee shop in the area, and she certainly wasn't going to drink any of that beverage-machine expresso crap, so she had chosen the next best place.
The overwhelming, pungent stench of the bar and its many male occupants was perfect for disguising her own faint, yet distinct sulfur-ash-and-blood scent, and it would cling long enough for her to be able to slip past any resident hunters while she did what she's come here to do.

First, though, she'd have to wait until nightfall, so just to be on the safe side, she was laying low.
After all, who would ever expect Stabinae, one the of five rogue shackinjira to roam the Earth, to be sitting in a bar with a shot glass in her hand?

Vodka. Stabinae had been 'nursing' the pathetically small, fragile glass for over an hour, reading some boring newspaper she'd bought and resolutely ignoring the continuous leers and admiring glances she could feel being directed at her back. It was fortunate that none of the idiots had approached her small table in the corner; Stabinae was not particularly friendly, or tolerant, when it came to humans eying up her meatsuit, and by the bartender's body language she knew that she'd be thrown out of here if she broke a single scumbag's arm.

Pah.

The printed words of the Sports section were now meaningless nonsense in her eyes. Out of the corner of her eye, the shackinjira saw movement from beyond the rowdy crowd. Turning her head ever so slightly to get a proper view, her sharp burgundy eyes sliced through stray strands of long, black hair, past the commotion of living bodies, focusing on the single and forlorn figure gulping down her drink. She was on the fringe of things, like Stabinae, sitting apart in definite solitude.

Her body language indicated subtle loneliness, sadness, inner turmoil. Stabinae knew nothing of loneliness or sadness, as her kind were one of few that thrived perfectly well without company of their own species, but inner turmoil was not such an alien emotion to her.
The shackinjira was mildly intrigued.

Just then, there was movement off to her right; a male, encouraged by his drunkenly grinning mates, had risen and was approaching with forcedly casual steps. Smoothly and decisively, Stabinae took her drink and paper and slipped away through the mass of people.
After a quick backwards glance to confirm that the male had stopped, unable to see her, and returned to his companions who were roaring with laughter, she headed over to the lone young woman's table.

"Mind if I sit here?"