Who's Who in the WGP (A-H)

Descriptions of current and previous characters (from the spring of 2001 and later) in the Wolves Glen Pub thread in the newsgroup rec.games.frp.storyteller.

Go to: Index -- (A-H) -- (I-L) -- (M-R) -- (S-Z)

Alan is in his thirties. He looks in good health, though you can see shading which indicates long "ribs" of callipers [U.S.: braces] under his trousers. They seem to run the full length of his legs.

He's wearing charcoal grey suit pants with no jacket, and instead of a shirt and tie, he is wearing a teeshirt with a collar and tie printed onto it... in dayglow colours.

His face shows severe injuries, well repaired and healed, but still clearly visible. There were obviously serious burns and trauma injuries to it at some time. There are no signs of such injuries on his hands.

His accent is English, and well educated.

[Left the Pub February 13, 2002.]

It's afternoon twilight outside the door when a young woman steps through, bringing the smell of salt air and newly-mown grass with her.

Her hair is blonde, faded by the sun, and wispy bits have escaped from her ponytail to frame her tanned face like a halo. She could be as young as twenty-one and quite weatherworn, or a well-aged thirty-five made younger by the sparkle in her blue-gray eyes and the freckles on her cheeks. She's taller than average, though not especially so, with the wiry build of a woman not unaccustomed to physical work. Well-worn jeans and ancient sneakers, a plaid flannel shirt and a smallish leather purse complete the picture.

From her expression, it's evident that she didn't expect to be -here-. She recovers quickly, scanning the room, then strides toward the bar, her eyes focused on the Rules.

[No formal exit; last posting July 17, 2003.]

A woman of African heritage, her once-black hair now a dignified grey, tied back in a very short ponytail, placing her firmly at the latter half of a human lifespan. But her posture is solidly erect, her motions full of energy, her eyes bright and animated, and a look of excitement fills her face --this lady has a lot of living yet to do before she's done...

Her dress is academic formal: robe, hood, black eight-sided tam in place of a mortar board. The robe is dark crimson, with three black-velvet bars at each sleeve; two black velvet panels run vertically down her front, each embroidered in golden thread at about breast level with the coat of arms of her university -- a cross ermine, lions rampant upper left and lower right, unicorns lower left and upper right; a book centered, a sunburst within its pages. At her exposed neck rides a burst of white lace, and one can make out the navy-blue suit she wears under the robe.

The academic hood is golden yellow velvet on one side, crimson and white satin on the other. Around her neck she wears a gold medallion, about palm-sized, on a wide crimson ribbon; and a long necklace/wreath of small square gold panels, like the sigils of office mayors in old European cities used to wear. Anchored in a breast pocket, worn like a badge, is an octogon of featureless black polished stone the size of a hand, mounted in gold and secured with a chain she wears like a sash. Exquisitely crafted little earings contrast with the simple gold band on the third finger of her left hand. No makeup. A handbag the size of a lap-top computer case. Boots meant for walking. About five-nine in height, ordinary build, ordinary looks.

[Left February 9, 2002.]

Character sheet and associated stories

The voice is deep, commanding, yet gentle and well-spoken. The accent is a refined english with just a hint of something germanic beneath. The speaker, who entered quietly and without fuss, stands by one of the tables near the door with his companion.

Those who have met Alexander will recognise him, then not recognise him, and then recognise him again, for if it is Alexander then what a change, what a transformation! The man near the doorway is tall, blonde, with eyes like steel, and there the resemblance ends. His skin is soft, smooth and almost without blemish, with not a suture, scar or ominous black pipe carrying daemon ichor beneath the surface anywhere to be seen. Gone are the massive chest and broad shoulders of the centaur; the man by the entrance is slender and graceful as he is tall and well-proportioned. His eyes sparkle where they might have been forbidding as stormclouds, and a long black coat of what could be PVC is the only other reminder of the Nephandus.

[No formal exit; last posting March 11, 2002.]

Astarial stands about 7' tall, and is slender - if anything, rather too slender for his height. He has long black hair touched with silver at the temples which falls over his pointed ears, and is caught back by an ornate silver clip to hang to the middle of his back in a complex braid. His eyes are a peculiar colour - the irises are silver - although this is slightly obscured by the monocle he sometimes wears over his left eye. They are set in a hawklike face that is handsome in an unearthly way, but too angular to be considered so in the human manner. His complexion is very pale, almost translucently so with a faint blue tinge from the blood beneath the skin, and a scar runs from under his right ear along the angle of his jaw, which he has a habit of fingering. His canine teeth are slightly pointed. His voice has a peculiarly liquid accent, which tends to slur his vowels.

He is wearing a midnight-blue cloak, trimmed with silver, over the half-dress uniform of the Imperial Navy. Twin twelve-pointed stars of silver ornament the collar of his uniform jacket, midnight-black over a ruffled white shirt, edged and epauletted with gold braid, of which also five broad rings circle his sleeves. On the left breast of the jacket is embroidered, again in gold, the crown and rayed sun of the Home Fleet, and over his right shoulder hangs a baldric cut in leather dyed purple and silver, from which a sword, basket-hilted, hangs at his waist, opposite the sharp lines of a energy-pistol at his right. His uniform trousers are of a narrow cut, with a thin stripe of crimson at each side running from waist down to his black boots.

On his right hand he wears a heavy gold seal-ring; on his left hand he wears a single ring on his index finger, of entwining red and white gold.

[Exited April 29, 2001.]

A twin [of Alexander's], she could be, a second half of a matched set. For she, too, is tall, with flawless skin and a long blond ponytail that sways only gently as she walks across the floor. She wears a long-sleeved gown of some silver-grey velvety material held tight to the skin across her high bosom and narrow waist, then draped and scalloped in the skirt. A network of delicate chains and beads make patterns from her collar to her waist. Her hands are decorated with filigree rings. Her eyes are a bright blue, until one gazes deeply into them and finds that where many blue eyes are brown around the pupil, her pupils are ringed with red.

[No formal exit; last posting February 2002.]

Door. Entry. You know the drill.

Boots. Big, black, pointy-toed leather boots with a good solid sole to them. Thigh-high - you can't see that far up, but you can make out the shape under the dress.

The dress. Glossy red, ankle-length, figure-hugging, PVC.

The occupant. About five-foot-nine, late twenties or so. Brushing aside a shock of flaming red hair. Smiling, but wearily so.

"Damn, but I need a holiday. Evening, everybody!"

General description: Blaze stands about five foot ten; he's a little slender, but more likely due to exercise than to lack of substance. He has an odd air of innocence and gentleness, without a hint of naivete; he could be anywhere between twenty and thirty, really, and quite attractive depending on tastes. The most noticeable thing about him is his long auburn hair, which spills out over his shoulders and flows down his back; it tends to move in the lightest breeze. Somehow, wherever he stands the light seems to flicker over him and take on a slight reddish tinge, giving the impression of a fire somewhere about.

[No formal exit; last posting January 18, 2004.]

Previous description

Boris is a large robotic spider. He's got an approximately six foot legspan, with a body around 18 inches wide at its widest point and about the same thick and nearly three feet long. He has no obvious face; certainly no mouth. He has the usual compliment of eyes (for an arachnid, i.e., lots) and if you look closely there seem to be a few "spares" in less usual places, but there is no mouth. His voice comes from a box which has clearly been fixed to his carapace some time after he was built since it doesn't match the appearance of the rest of him.

There are several small vents around Boris' shell and a close look at his feet will show retractable claws and a suction system, allowing him to wallcrawl. Going flat out on the ground he can manage around 10 mph, climbing or hanging from the ceiling he is capable of around 3 mph.

The pub's door is opened quietly. For those paying attention, the weather outside is rather unappealing, the sky a dark gray and the sound of heavy a heavy downpour. An asian woman, apparently in her thirties, steps into the bar and out of the rain. She stands about five foot four, and is relatively slender. Her clothing is rainsoaked, despite the black peacoat she wears buttoned around herself. Simple black slacks with three pleats show the worst of the soaking, the front of the material clinging to her legs.

She walks towards the bar, shedding her coat and hanging the damp wool from two fingers. Her red turtleneck sweater shows the wetness as well... It must've been really pouring outside. She shakes her bobbed chin-length hair slightly, getting the surface moisture off it. She hops up onto a stool, then drapes her coat over her knee. She waits for whomever's tending bar before ordering, "Just a cup of coffee, please."

[No formal exit; last posting March 25, 2002.]

The pub door opens and a short dark skinned gentleman takes a step inside. He looks at Thumper nods, pauses and looks around the room.

He doesn't seem surprised in the slightest by the wide variety of non-humans that seem to proliferate this particular establishment.

His gaze momentarily flicks to Yelyena, he raises an eyebrow then strides up to the bar. From his bearing and the unfeasiably shiney shoes he is wearing, it would seem likely that he is from a military background. He is wearing a dark blue suit and a white shirt which is open at the collar. On the breast pocket of his jacket is a smallish brass badge consisting of two crossed, curved daggers with what looks like a bugle underneath. The number one, is superimposed on the bugle and above the daggers is a crown of some sort.

He stands about five and a half feet tall and is broad across the shoulders, his eyes are dark brown, almost black. His hair is short, black and neat.

[Left June 30, 2003.]

The young man, dressed in a white t-shirt that's slightly lost its sheen and a pair of blue jeans touched with the occasional unquestionable stain, kicks off his thongs and leaves them next to the sack.

His eyes are also green, hair a dirty brown, and though he's heavier set than the other two there's no doubt he's in his late teens too.

He grins widely at Marvin, showing an impressive array of teeth, were he better looking and female he'd have the smile of an American Beauty Contestant but he isn't and he isn't and his voice is a little gravelly as if it broke just a bit too severely. He moves a little sluggishly but there's a certain sense of sinuousity to it, as if despite the touch extra bulk he's carrying he could probably move damn fast. His fingers are a little stubby and don't quite match the dexterity he otherwise projects.

In the Dreaming, there's a very definite green tinge to his skin, skin that seems somehow harder than it really should be. (Yep, he's a 'gator.)

[No formal exit; last posting April 16, 2001.]

The sounds and smells are cut short by the door being shut by a tall, wiry blonde-haired man. He is not incredibly tall or short; he walks slowly towards the bar. While not handsome in a classical sense, his green eyes--as green as spring--are capitvating. He is wearing a black duster, which is closed tight around him.

A few feet in front of the bar, he stops, and loosens his coat with his right hand. While his right arm works, people in the pub can see that his left arm is a prosthetic, definitely not of modern make. In a melodic, sweet tenor, he address Mahri and anyone else behind the bar...

In the Dreaming, Conall's face, while extremely handsome, is horribly cruel. His cheek bones are much higher and his bright green eyes are as bright as balefire. His smile reminds one more of a weapon then a greeting or an expression of happiness. He wields his smile like an ahroun uses her claws. His fae mein is not simply captivating; weaker people would be drawn to him like a moth to a bonfire.

To fae sight, his 'duster' is shown to be wings, broad and veined like a bat's, which he has draped across his shoulders. And as he moves it can be seen that his left arm is made of silver. He is wearing a simple blood-red poet's shirt and black leather trousers. However, the leather is definitely not made from a chimerical cow....

[Left October 30, 2001.]

The man is in his early twenties, with a runner's build. Pale eyes are set within a hawkish face, and his brown hair seems reluctant to stay in a neat ponytail. He is tall, easily past six feet. The patched camoflague pants he wears are probably army disposal rather than uniform, and his red tanktop is belted at the waist by a light jacket tied by the arms.

He wears battered canvas shoes match the equally old canvas backpack that slouches over his shoulders. A leather thong around his throat supports a metal black panther ornament, rather plain in design.

The man crosses into the pub, his gait an economical feline glide. His skin has a golden health to it, though weathered - a kink in his profile shows where his nose was once broken. His eyes are nearly colourless by comparison with his tan, possibly hazel, possibly pale grey. His smile is friendly, without a hint of wariness.

Update: Constin's now wearing a black tank top and not wearing any shoes. His feet have decent callouses on them - apparently he doesn't always wear shoes. On the top of his right arm, and the bottom of his left foot, he bears tattoos - rather simple ones, in black, of thorned roses. He's also wearing a silver pin which proclaims "I'd rather be running" in flowing red calligraphy with a delicately hand-drawn black rose - with thorns - curving up around one side.

[Left early February, 2002.]

The door rolls aside.

First to enter is a tall, blond man, wearing a space-black coverall, with its seams picked out in white, a crowned sun and spanner crossed with lightning-bolt embroidered in gold on the left breast, and a star surmounting tripled chevrons on his sleeves, shortly followed by another man, shorter and dark, this one in mid-grey with seams picked out in green, a stylised tree within a cog accompanied by the triple knot of the Technocracy rather than the crowned sun, and the tripled chevrons alone.

[Last posting May 13, 2003.]

The woman who enters is small-framed (5') and slender, delicate-appearing, the waves of her dark auburn hair framing sea-green eyes and high cheekbones. She is wearing a conservatively-cut business suit in dark green, over a white silk blouse, although one familiar with fabric might realise that while the suit's might bear no small resemblance to silk, it isn't *quite*, nor can the precise cut be *quite* placed to anyone with which he's familiar.

And in the lapel of her suit jacket, for those who would notice such things, is a golden pin in the shape of a - perhaps familiar - twelve-pointed star and crown.

Approaching whoever is currently behind the bar, she enquires in an impeccable English accent, "Could I have a glass of red wine, please?"

For those of the lupus persuasion or others with very busy noses, her scent could be basically human - ish -, except that not even a freshly-bathed human normally ever smells that *clean*.

[Left early February 2002.]

The girl at the door looks to be around sixteen, with brown hair down to her shoulders. She is of moderate height and relatively plain appearance; the word to best describe one's first impression might be "sparkling". The sparkle ends at her eyes, though. They match the smile on her face, but there's something nasty there as well.

She is dressed in a blue and brown uniform, although it's not like anything used by any organization you know. Around is a belt with a silver buckle; the buckle's design reminds you of the Masonic compass, the All-Seeing Eye, and the Eagle, all at once. The belt supports a holster on her left hip, from which protrudes the grip of something that can only be a ray gun.

Both hair and uniform are in slight disarray, as though she has just come in from a very strong wind.

[No formal exit; last posting June 29, 2001.]

She's only about 5 ft tall and has piercing green eyes. Her hair is dark as a ravens wing. Her skin is pale but not all that pale. Indeed the only thing that gives away her vampiric nature is the fact she casts no reflection... which to those who know of course gives away her clan as well. She has a smile that seems to come from within and is deeply infectious.

Currently: She looks tired and a bit dustier than usual but it's obviously her. She's got that sword strapped to her side and is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. The shirt is obviously made of silk and the front is finely embroidered with the Lasombra Clan symbol in gold thread and on the back it says in equally fine embroidary. 'I survived Gehenna and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.'

[Left February 24, 2002.]

The door jerks open to admit a creature who by any reasonable estimation is a young man seeking to make an anti-social statement with his appearance and manner. He is slight of build and intermediately tall, made taller by the blade of technicolor hair he has carefully sculpted into place. The mohawk is striped blue, green and firey orange, while the stubble on the sides of his head has grown in a dull brown - but the glare of his eyes defies anyone to comment on his needing a shave.

He wears barbells through his eyebrows and a ring through his nasal septum, with enough metal in his ears to set off the most 1990s of security devices. His black leather cycling jacket bristles with steel spikes, hanging open to display a tattered black tee-shirt scrawled with red profanity, while his leather jeans cling to his legs before disappearing into - what else? Black leather boots, of the well-worn half-laced variety. They are muddy; he pays no heed to the dirt that he tracks in.

The apparition saunters directly up to the bar, lip curled in an underage, defiant sneer.

[Fled while fighting Janie, September 19, 2002.]

The door opens, and in walks a little girl. Roughly ten years old, at a guess. Her dark hair is very short and curls around her face. Her eyes are a deep brown, and she does not wear any glasses. She is wearing a fancy dress of rich burgundy with lace trim, and no shoes. From the look of her feet, you gather she doesn't wear shoes much if at all.

[No formal exit; last posting March 15, 2001.]

She speaks rapidly.

"Oh I _so_ want to catch it when it comes out - it'll be just fab! We could, like, go to my place before and like, party..."

The door closes behind her and she's several steps in before a puzzled look comes to her face.

"Hey... this isn't... "

She grins. "Oh cool! A bar! Call you later Nancy!" She pups the phone in her purse and looks around. Under the pub's Glamour spotlight her Fae nature starts to shine through.

She's green. With antennas coming out of her head.

She flounces over to the bar and smiles at Paddy. "So like, what sort of stories do you like, like?"

[Left with Marvin February 11, 2004.]

A woman walks through, as graceful as a dancer. She wears baggy jeans--not gangsta baggy, just a size too big baggy--with a button down white (men's) dress shirt. She has dark hair, slightly curly, and bright violet eyes.

As she glides past, people can clearly smell lilacs.

[Even those who can't see in the dreaming see this if they squint their eyes. She is wearing loose wool trousers that appear to be blue, and a white silk shirt. Her hair is more curly, and her violet eyes shine brightly.]

[No formal exit; last posting May 24, 2002.]

Seen beyond the threshold when the door opens, she's certainly nothing remarkable - a woman with pale skin and darkish hair, her face downcast, her slim, shapeless body clothed in a nondescript brown turtleneck and skirt.

She steps across... to arrive in the Dream.

Muddy brown hair lifts itself from her shoulders, lightening to a dirty blond with hints of green that drifts, in defiance of gravity, around her head. Her clothes are still brown, but have gained ragged layering. Her pale skin takes on a tinge of oxygen-starved blue. But all of this will be noticed after the fact - most people will see first the two pairs of insectoid, amber-threaded wings that have sprung up behind her.

She crosses the room, aiming for the bar. Her feet leave puddles. Small insects whirl around her head.

"I am called Dew-on-the-Reeds," she speaks, all in a whisper. "I was directed here by Snake-in-the-Grass. She told me that you require all who enter to tell stories. Is this true even for those with... deformities?" And on that last word her voice rises, slipping from whisper into the lowest range of normal speech. Her words are punctuated by the emergence of a yellow-winged beetle from her lips, to join the swarm around her.

[No formal exit; last posting April 28, 2002.]

He's wearing a fur-lined hooded parka, goggles, a breathing-mask, thick gloves, thick padded boots, and carries a fairly small backpack on one strap over his right shoulder. He seems to radiate /cold/, as his clothes and equipment are well below the ambient temperature in the Pub. On seeing the Pub's interior, he throws back the hood, takes off his gloves, pushes the goggles up on his forehead, puts down the breathing-mask, and, as the air starts to bring his clothes to room temperature, quickly removes the parka, boots, and pants, revealing a bag on his chest which is connected to the mask, a thick sweater, a pair of black NATO BDU pants, and several pairs of thick woolen socks.

Underneath all this is a fairly short-ish man, maybe five foot four, who seems to be in his fifties, with thinning hair a graying blonde in colour, tired brown eyes, a bristly red mustache and beard, weathered skin and wrinkles. Lots of them. In fact, on a closer look, he seems to be in his mid-thirties, but some of his features make him seem older.

[No formal exit; last posting November 27, 2001.]

In homid form, Eddie is a rather confused looking black teenage boy. He came in with Jessica but she was forced to leave without him.

In cat form Eddie is a young cheetah.

[No formal exit; last posting, February 9, 2002.]

"Ho!"

The door crashes open. "Back at the Inn of the Wolves' Glen! How good it is to shake the dust of the road from my feet!"

The speaker is a tall figure, broad-shouldered, clad from head to foot in full plate armour. He carries a shield in one hand, and a long sharp sword in the other. Over his back is slung a large compound bow, and a quiverful of unnecessarily decorative arrows.

Gideon's face is different. Indeed, come to think of it, his build has changed too. Almost... slender. And his ears have become... pointed.

"Barmaid, a pint of ale, I prithee!"

[No formal exit. Last posting July 17, 2003.]

Previous description and spoiler

He's not a very good-looking guy, though he's big and square and brawny. Or perhaps he's a Garou in glabro form, a suspicion enhanced by the fact that he's carrying a wolf in his arms.

An injured wolf.

Blood drips to the floor under the man's arms. (Man? At second glance, he seems more of a youngster in mid to late teens, perhaps.) He has curly dark hair, coppery skin, and deep brown eyes. The clothes being bled on are warm outdoor wear; whenever he's from, it's likely cold outside.

His reaction to finding himself in this strange place can be summed up in one word:

"Fuck!"

Carefully, not to jostle the wolf, he turns around and fumbles for the door latch to let himself out again.

[Went upstairs with the wolf February 1, 2003.]

Five-foot-five, one familiar with such things would pick her up right away as an Eshu, in that awkward age between the innocence of the childling and a more adult sexuality; perhaps about twelve to fourteen years old, one might guess. Cute but the light, stale smell of sweat and garbage on her might put some off. Her clothing could be generously described as "raggedy"; clearly, she subscribes to the theory that multiple layers can make up for lack of intactness in any particular garment.

[Went upstairs to meet a friend late May 2001.]

The man is just under 6 feet tall, with slicked back salt and pepper hair. His smile is slightly twisted, probably from the long scar across his cheek. He's dressed in a LOUD polyester shirt and black pants from the Disco era, with cowboy boots on his feet. His hands show the signs of hard work over many years and although he looks to be in his 60's, he looks hale and hearty.

[Left on May 8, 2002.]

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Last update: March 11, 2004.