Who's Who in the WGP (I-L)

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.

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A lone figure steps through the door, a blond woman, maybe in her 20's but looking in her deep blue eyes, one might catch a glimpse of something older. She wears a faded Russian army jacket, and carries a rucksack over her shoulder. Perhaps more extraordinary is the dragon at her side, the size of a large cat or small dog. The dragon's scales are a deep blue colour.

She walks through the Pub quietly, a hand passing over where the nutrimatic machine stood, a glance at a certain booth in memory, a long look at the howling wolf in the mirror behind the bar. She lays a hand on the bar, feeling the dust under her fingers. The dragon flies up to the bar, tail coiling around an empty glass.

"This is the way the world ended," She says, looking to her dragon, "One at a time."

[No formal exit; last posting mid-December, 2004.]

He's nearly 7 feet tall, wearing a business suit that looks like it has to be sewn onto him. Blond haired, blue eyed and pointed ears, with the same indefinable sense of physical beauty most would associate with the Sidhe.

Second impressions however would make you think again. There's a singe mark on the sleeve of the jacket that no Sidhe would tolerate, some of the hairs on his head have had the temerity to slip from their assigned positions during his dive for cover, and he doesn't seem to be sending out that aura of command that the Sidhe do.

The resemblance to a Sidhe is further damaged when he reaches back down behind the table and brings out a very battered and overstuffed small backpack.

[No formal exit; last posting October, 2005.]

The girl comes in like a shadow, curled up in a long black coat that swirls around her feet. She's perhaps eighteen, black hair, skin as pale as paper, green eyes as luminous as snake venom. Black jeans, good quality, meet high black boots with silver chains on them - Doc Martens. She is wearing a white shirt with a black bodice-cut waistcoat showing dragons devouring their own tails.

The dragons move, very slightly, but only if one watches closely, and the girl's eyes are savage enough to warn most away.

The young woman walks up to the bar and looks at the sign with a thin expression on her equally thin lips.

"_Stories_," she mutters, drumming her slender fingers on the bar. The nails are painted a feral green. And her teeth are sharp, the canines just a little too prominent.

She does not look especially like the Janie who was here last - the complexion is the same, but the bones underneath the skin are considerably more delicate, the features having been 'improved' rather strongly. With the structure changed, the overall effect is markedly different, and rather striking in a predatory sort of way.

[No formal exit. Last posting November 3, 2002.]

Perhaps all that baseball chatter is actually a summoning spell.

Or perhaps the Pub door is displaying its sense of humor again.

However it is, Jay steps through the door, wearing (what else?) a Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap. White sneakers on his feet, neatly pressed khaki pants, and a green polo shirt complete his ensemble. He has a gym bag slung over one shoulder and... is that an earring in his left ear? Why, yes, it is, with some kind of small green stone. Jade, perhaps.

He looks around, raises an eyebrow, and strolls toward the bar, nodding a greeting to Wildwind, Toby, Paddy, and anyone else he recognizes.

Previous description

The door opens and a man steps inside. Hands in his pockets, casual-like, head cocked as he glances around with eyes as blue as a lightning-cracked summer sky. Simple clothing, the same as always, made a little bit more fashionable by the changing of global tastes rather than personal choice.

Black jeans, black skivvy, bare feet wrapped around with scars. His smile has the old familiarity of someone who belongs here, for all its multiplicity of teeth.

"Bon soir," says Jean "Hello hello lovelies. Miss me? Who wants to kiss me?"

He looks older, no longer the easy prettiness of youth in his features. Now a rather more mature attractiveness graces his pleasing features, the eyes that glitter too intently.

[No formal exit; last posting October 2, 2003.]

Previous description and Older previous description

As all the various conversations are going on, the door opens letting in a gust of cold wind. As the patrons look to see what caused the draft, they see the image of a dark long coated figure carrying a big duffle bag over its shoulder. As the figure slowly enters the door and shuts the door, they can see that it is tall gentleman wearing a long duster. He pauses to let his eyes adjust to the light. A small smile slowly crosses his face, as he looks around the 'Pub.'

He gives his shoulders a little shake. As you look at him, he is 6' tall with a well built physiuqe. He has shoulder length brown hair. It is just pushed back not tied back. He has a short trimmed goatee. His most distinguishing feature is are the two faint scars that run down the left side of his face from his eye down to his chin. He is wearing a long brown duster. Under the duster you can see a tie-dye Grateful Dead shirt, blue jeans and combat boots. He also has a golden ring on his left ring finger. He of course has the large duffle bag (military overseas type) over his shoulder.

[Left on an errand November 23, 2001.]

Jerry looks like a stuffed toy, quite large for a plushie, about two feet from head to feet, a big blue gumdrop shape of sorts with bulging white eyes and a wobbly stitched-on smile. It looks like one of those Japanese slime or jelly creatures that seem to be prevalent in console RPGs.

Under the light of Glamour, though, the plushie is... well, it's ALIVE. Instead of being made of fabric and stuffing, it's got a tough, fuzzy, translucent 'skin' and is pumped full of some mysterious blue goo with tiny bubbles in it. It's also capable of moving, stretching and squashing its gelatinous form in startling ways.

Note: Jerry is a chimerical companion to Mark Cooper.

[Headed for side table with Mark April 15, 2004.]

Jerusha moves, and her reflection shimmers.

She steps through.

*Cold* comes with her. Biting cold. No sensation of sleet or snow or any such thing, just a bone-numbing cold that leeches throughout the room and gradually dissipates.

"Thank you, mage," she says to Shane, her voice a fragile, thin sound without much depth.

Clearly visable now, she is a faintly transparent woman in a camel-coloured trenchcoat. Skintight black streetwear - jeans, boots, a sleek top - cover her pale skin.

She seems rather intangible, a sensation that is only highlighted by her whispery voice.

[No formal exit; last posting June 19, 2001.]

Jess stands about 5'7", with shoulder-length dark brown hair. Her eyes are hidden behind her omnipresent black wrap-around sunglasses. She wears loose-fitting jeans and a comfortable-looking black t-shirt. Her build is slender, but solid. Small-chested, for those who take note of such things. The left sleeve of her t-shirt is rolled up to expose a tattoo of a howling wolf's head, with a tear in its eye.

Note: Jess is co-owner of the Pub with Paddy.

[No formal exit; last posting October 23, 2001.]

The door to the pub opens and a raven haired beauty with amber eyes enters the pub and walks to the bar. She is accompanied by a rather confused looking black teenage boy. (Eddie)

[Left on February 2, 2002.]

Jessie is a rather small woman. She's rail thin, her slenderness enhanced by the oversized, long denim coat that flaps about at her knees. Her blue jeans pants are colorfully patched, and her shirt is red silk. On her feet are a pair of ancient Birkenstocks. At first glance, she's not much to look at with her plain face and frizzy brown hair. But her large gray eyes are warm and friendly and her broad smile is absolutely contagous.

In lupus form she looks like a big... welll... mutt. She's the size of a husky or large German shepard, but her frame and basic coloring are those of a border collie. Her shaggy fur is black and white with some browns added in along the belly. Her snout is narrow and her eyes are keen and intelligent.

The door opens, as you would expect, otherwise it wouldn't be of much use as a door...

About two feet from the floor a fuzzy Schnauzer face appears and barks.

A voice can be heard "Aye, see, ah bloody knew ye could open doors, ya fly wee bugger!"

The door is pushed open a tall fair skinned man enters. He looks to be around two hundred pounds, has sandy hair tied back in a ponytail that looks like it hasn't been cut for a couple of decades. This time he is wearing a leather jacket on top of a denim jacket on top of a faded Thin Lizzy t-shirt. He looks rather unwell.

The dog still looks like George Bernard Shaw.

He looks at the pooka mayhemand groans. "Oh God no' another party!"

The dog wuffs and wags her tail.

"Aye ye're right enough, it's the Betty Ford Clinic fur me lass...where i'm sure they'd prescribe a hair o' the dog."

He grins and heads for the bar, as does the dog.

Previous description

[Left April 5, 2004.]

The stout door to Wolves Glen opens, and another patron walks in. He is not a tall man, but he has powerfully built shoulders. Despite the cold wind that blows in from the outside, he is dressed simply in a blue button down cotton shirt and pressed slacks the color of slate. He is, however, wearing combat boots.

He gracefully strides towards the door, his hands remaining in his pockets. His eyes are clear and ice blue; his hair is jet black.

As he approaches the bar, he smiles showing his perfectly white teeth. The more light that shines on his face, the more everyone can see how pale he is. Yet his speed, grace and power suggests he is far from anemic.

[Left November 6, 2001.]

The man who opened the door steps into the pub. He's in his mid 40's, slightly thin, greying hair with sideboards and a moustache. He's wearing a dark grey, almost black, suit which looks made to measure, but the cut seems a little strange especially the lapels. His tie is plain black and there's a very small silver and enamel pin in the left lapel. Those who look for this sort of thing will notice that the cut of the jacket is designed to conceal a holster.

He walks using a cane with a silver top and three bands of other metals or alloys in the top six inches. One of these looks like gold, another could be titanium, but the third just doesn't look like any normal metal colour. You can't say for sure whether it's golden, silver, grey, or even blue, red or green as it seems to change as you look at it.

He's accompanied by two bulldogs, one male, one female. The male is slightly larger and darker brown than the female. The bulldogs' names are Brody and Liz.

Julia is a pleasant-mannered lady, who gives the impression of being somewhat taller than her actual five foot six inches. Her features might be Spanish, although no trace of it shows in her accent; her hair is long, plaited and raven-black, vanishing down the back of her motorcycle jacket, and her eyes are as close to black as makes no difference. Her overall build is trim without being fragile; she might have been an acrobat, or a dancer, not so long ago. She looks to be in her early twenties.

Along with that slightly oversized motorcycle jacket, she has black jeans and boots on, and a helmet sits on a nearby chair. Oddly even for one of her somewhat pale and cool persuasion, there's not even a hint of colour in her clothing; what few bits aren't black are white, or occasionally grey.

Despite this, she does _not_ seem to be particularly banal; indeed, to fae eyes she looks quite striking. Around her the shadows of the room seem to deepen and twist so that it's hard to tell where her eyes and hair and clothes end, and where the shadows begin. As one might suspect, she does not reflect in the Pub's mirrors.

Update: Julia is wearing a black button with silver writing that says:
 Yes, I am.
No, I'm not.
    Deal.

Note: Pub bartender.

[No formal exit; last posting March 24, 2003.]

The door to the pub opens and a very attractive blonde peers inside.

Her hair is long and curly and her eyes are emerald green, She's average height, slender and moves with grace and confidence. In a pub full of strangeness there still manages to be something odd about her but you can't quite put your finger on what. She certainly has an enchanting smile.

[No formal exit; last posting March 16, 2002.]

The door thumps open. A newcomer stands in the doorway eyeballing the patrons - Paddy and Danny especially - before stepping up to the bar. As she does, she flashes Toby a look of recognition.

She's on the short side, but that doesn't stop her from being intimidating. Ice-blue eyes, shaved head with a three-day growth of blonde fuzz, and not a few scars. A grubby Stars and Stripes tank top, blue jeans damaged by wear rather than fashion, chunky Doc Martens. A few suspicious bulges in her pockets.

Oh, and the tattoos, in a mixture of Viking knotwork and more modern elements. They cover much of her arms, and by the look of them the design continues on her torso. Expertly done, the sort of thing a heavy metal fan with taste might dream of. Among them are Viking runes and - to those who'd recognise such - Garou glyphs.

As she reaches the bar she goes for something in her pocket, then shakes her head in annoyed remembrance. She studies a beer coaster, but it doesn't seem to be what she's after.

Then she remembers Toby, and turns to him, hands signing with practiced ease. Anybody knowing AMESLAN will recognise it: [Toby, order me a Heineken.]

[No formal exit; last posting September 19, 2002.]

Previous description

On cue, the door opens and someone strolls in.

The scene outside the door, this time, is brightly illuminated, white stone and concrete bleaching under a winter Mediterranean sun in a clear sky, streets paved in a gleaming blue-black tile, skyscrapers in the background glittering in glass and metal. And amid the scene, a statue - the nearest two of four figures visible, a uniformed man and woman, the former with a spanner resting across his arms, and the latter holding a balance-scale in one hand, and a flask in the other. Beneath the pedestal, a number of carved broken forms support the figures; visible is the figure of a fomor lying incongruously next to a representation [1] of a Crinos werewolf, and half of what looks like a perfectly mortal skinhead... and on the pedestal, the carved words: "Reason Triumphant".

The someone, on the other hand, is a perfectly ordinary woman - shortish, blonde hair cut fashionably short, tanned, wearing a dark blue pocketless suit with a jade-green neckerchief, who walks straight up to the bar.

[1] Rather representative due to the slight technical difficulties involved in carving from life...

Curly hair, big blue eyes, and angelic face comprise oddly familiar features ... it's ... Frodo?! He has the face of Frodo from the movie "The Lord of the Rings."

Why Frodo should be carrying a shotgun and an oversized PDA is not apparent.

Kenny's present clothing style includes some kind of body armor. It sort of looks like plastic scale mail covered with Kevlar(tm). Other than that... he's wearing a button down shirt, vest with a pocket watch and chain and heavy slacks.

[Left July 15, 2003.]

The door opens into a dimly lit, non-descript hallway, and in walks Kronos. He looks fairly normal in his typical leather vest, poet shirt and jeans. In the vastly un-normal department, nothing weird seems to be happening to him.

He walks up to the bar, sits on a stool, and says, "Hello Paddy. I think I'll have a shot of Lagavulin, neat please." He takes another look around the bar and comments, "Busy today, isn't it."

[No formal exit; last posting February 17, 2004. Amendment: formally left March 30, 2004.]

Previous descriptions

The door of the pub opens as if of its own accord. First through is a bitterly cold winter wind, next, flurries of snow, lastly, stumbling more than walking, a humanoid figure wrapped in furs, he seems to be speaking, but the wind carries the words away.

Behind him the door slowly closes and the speech becomes clearer, "... requests sanctury.. hospitality.. yadda yadda we all know the drill, right?"

He straightens up and removes his hat; definitely Leigh. Hair longer than usual and undyed, clothes and armour that wouldn't look out of place on a viking warrior. Except, the sword is wrong, more romanticised medieval england in style, and the fingerless leather gloves are totally wrong, but apart from that, a close match. In addition he still wears the eyepatch that Toby gave him.

Previous description

The woman who called her out slips inside as she leaves. Looks around at the various chaos with something approaching relief. Then again when you've spent all day driving the wyrmspawn out of a hellhole only to be attacked by a wyld spirit the wolves glen seems like an oasis of calm. She's blonde and there's a gold circlet askew on her head. Her jeans and T-shirt and scuffed as if she's been in a fight. She carrying something that might be a sceptre or wand. It looks like a single, twisted horn.

[No formal exit; last posting March 3, 2002.]

In the men's room is the gaunt figure of a young man. He looks as though he could do with feeding. His hands are covered in blood, and there are crimson splatters all over his clothes.

That's interesting. His clothes. They look like a uniform, grey slim pants, a top that wraps around his torso, and his hands are covered in thin black gloves. He has short black hair cut neatly to his head, but he is unshaven, and his blue eyes are tired and panicked.

And when he turns and looks at Padriac his face is peculiarly familiar.

Strange blue eyes, swirled with grey that seem almost mad. Black hair. Tanned skin. He's tall, built like an athlete, a gymnast more than a body builder - though definitely the worse for wear with those shadows under his eyes.

It's Jean-Baptiste.

Well...almost. The cheekbones are a little lower, the face definitely saner, the body perhaps a little shorter and a lot thinner. He's younger, perhaps five years younger, and he doesn't have a white lock in his hair or a scar down his neck, and he moves completely differently and he *smells* different, and his face is rounder.

[No formal exit; last posting March 28, 2001.]

(Brought to the Pub by The Sibyl)

A small girl; she is no more than six or so, skinny and so bundled in a collection of scarves, mittens, and bobble hat that it is difficult to really tell what is child and what padding underneath it all. Her small face is screwed up with tiredness and she has muddy marks down her face from where tears and dirt have combined.

[Left November 1st, 2001.]

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Last update: December 11, 2004.