Who's Who in the WGP (M-R)

Descriptions of some 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)

Mahri is fairly tall for a woman, and well-built -- not body-builder built, but swings-a-sword-everyday built. Slightly longer than chin- length curly black hair is constantly being pushed back out of her face, from behind which tired brown eyes peer. She's generally smiling and relaxed, but worry lines and frown lines have begun to whisper across her face. Her right hand is scarred, and she occasionally refrains from using it, as though it were still somewhat tender.

She wears at her hip a blade about 8 inches long in an elegantly tooled black leather sheath, nearly lost against the black jeans. Her shoulder-length curly black hair is even more disheveled than usual. Two pendants, one jade, one amethyst, sit one just above the other at her throat, just above the line of her black tank top.

In the Dreaming: Her clothing is different; it looks like it could be something from the 10th or 11th century, in a dark green, with a heavy black cloak. Sometimes she seems to be wearing leather armor. Other than the fact that she's a woman, she looks like any of the warriors you'd find in the following of a king or lord. It's obvious that she is enchanted, but not fae herself, so her clothing in the Dreaming seems to reflect more the state of mind she's in rather than being any kind of truly chimerical clothing. There is a faint purple glow coming from the animal's tooth carving in amethyst she wears around her neck.

Note: Pub bartender and bouncer.

[No formal exit. Last posting September 5, 2003.]

Further description

A woman who looks to be in her late thirties, wearing winter cameo combat gear; she has a spectacular but probably superficial gash on her forehead, and stops to wipe blood out of her eyes.

With her is a man, very well-muscled, and wearing nothing but boots and a pair of jeans - although in the interests of camouflage, he appears to have been hastily spray-painted white. He doesn't seem to feel the cold, and the glint of metal that shows through a gaping but bloodless wound on his right arm probably explains why; the guy has "HIT Mark" stamped all over him. He is also shouldering a ludicrously large gun.

[Left November 1, 2001.]

The door to the pub swings open once again, letting in a stiff winter's breeze and a light dusting of snow, the kind you get when the temperature's been sub-zero for days and the fallen snow hasn't been able to melt and refreeze into a single mass. In from this weather, a middle-aged man wearing a thin blue coat, blue jeans, and a blue satchel walks. For an instant, as the Glamour lighting hits him, he looks blue too, but no, he's merely pale -- not vampire pale, just lacking in pigment. He's of average height and above-average weight, with brown hair flecked with gray cut in an indifferent style and about a week's worth of beard. He coughs as the change in temperature hits him, letting the door swing closed behind him.

Update: His fae mien is much taller, but no heavier, the fat turned into muscle. For a troll, he's on the scrawny side (which is like saying someone's on the serious side, for a pooka). His hair is as indifferently styled, but shaggier and thicker, the gray streaked through it rather than peppered; his beard vanishes entirely under the light of Glamour. His clothing changes too; while before he was a pale man wearing blue clothing, now he's a blue man wearing pale clothing, a faded yellow 'muscle shirt', tan cotton pants, and heavy shin-height leather boots. His eyes are green instead of hazel.

Note: Mark's chimerical companion is Jerry the Jelly.

[Headed for side table April 15, 2004.]

At that point, the door bounces open and a familiar tall-and-skinny figure - this time, clad in green jeans and a green poloneck - scurries into the room. His arms are full of tinsel and colourful glass balls in grave danger of slipping out and smashing on the floor. His eyes are fairly widely spaced, and the somewhat angular image is enhanced by the way he sways a little as he walks.

"Hello everyone! Merry Christmas!"

To those who can see into the Dreaming, Marvin's fae seeming is even more thin and angular than his human one. It's also green, and his limbs are jointed oddly, and his forearms are covered in barbs. And his head is almost triangular. He is, in fact, a mantis pooka :-)

[Left with Dawn February 11, 2004.]

The door opens again, admitting a pale, black-clad woman whose eyes widen with surprise, then narrow with exasperation as she recognizes her surroundings.

She balls up her fists and plants them on her hips, declaring to the pub at large, "Well, Ah cleahly ain't gonna get -ennythang- else done tonight!"

It is Mary, and she appears *exactly* as she did the last time she entered - right down to the dark blood sticking her ash-brown hair to the side of her head.

(Previous description: She appears to be somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five, of average height and build. Her ash-brown hair has worked its way loose from a ponytail and flies in mad wisps around her face, at least where it's not stuck to her cheek with something dark and sticky that smells of blood. She's wearing a black skirt and black cottom blouse with ruffled cuffs.)

[No formal exist; last posting October 16, 2003.]/p>

A woman with excitement shining in her eyes, wearing the same arctic camouflage as Blaze as well as a pair of goggles now propped up on her forehead. A scrape down the side of her skull has nearly severed the binding on them, blood is frozen there in a clump. The woman carefully notes Blaze's relaxed stance and drops the muzzle of her Uzi, sliding its own catch.

[Left the Pub November 1, 2001.]

There's two trolls in the room. Both are a bit... odd. The young one, Merlin, seems to be shooting for the Geek Chic look, sweatshirt with a pithy saying in Latin, Jeans, glasses. It's very much like he's in costume, honestly; a disguise to keep the big blue giant from being intimidating. Even in his mortal mien, he's very nearly seven feet tall, with a sort of permanent stoop. He's wearing a sweatshirt with the legend Liber Delecatio Animae emblazoned on it in Neo-Gothic letters, a pair of jeans and wire rimmed glasses.

In the Dreaming: On the faerie side of things, he's much taller, at least a foot and a half taller, though his clothing remains the same, visible skin a sort of pleasant robin's egg blue.

The other, Owain, bears a certain family resemblance to the younger. Except for being translucent, with a tendency towards snow.

[No formal exist; last posting Sept. 6, 2001.]

The woman stands about 5'4", with long gray hair and blue eyes. Her hips are wide, her mouth and smile are generous. She's dressed in a faded peasant skirt and blouse, with sandals on her feet. Her hands show the signs of hard work over many years and although she looks to be in her 60's, she looks hale and hearty.

[Left May 8, 2002.]

The door opens and a woman looks in. She has short, bright red hair that is messed up with a certain style. Standing about 5'7" and a slender figure, she is wearing a nice, black evening dress that ends at about her knees, it is slashed in many places by what look like claw marks. She has a little bit of blood on her neck that looks like a recent attempt to bite her. Her attractive face is bruised and cut, but she tries to keep a smile as if these are all little things to her. She holds a pair of black spike heels in her hands and returns them to her feet at the door. Looking around the bar and seeing the collection of characters, she smiles with a bit of pain and slightly, without wanting to seem like it, limps a little towards the bar.

[No formal exit; last posting August 21, 2002.]

There is the smell of the ocean and the sound of gulls in the evening.... "Hullo handsome!" chirrups a woman in a sou'wester jacket. She has...well, in pub-vision, she has a distinctly golden sort of pelt. And those normal pooka eyes. You know. The 'I am entirely innocent and gorgeous' eyes. She also has a dirty great big sword hanging incongruously from under her jacket, which she is currently trying to strip off, in between kissing Toby. The sword is getting vaguely in the way, as swords do, and let's face it - it's hard to get a big heavy jacket off when one has an armful of otter pooka.

Underneath, she has woollen trousers and a bright red sweater. The grin's the same though.

Those deep liquid eyes of hers, the small ears, and the comfortable sleek padding all make her look like a rollier version of Toby, although her tail is such a tiny little bob of a thing and she is pale where he is tanned. There's something sensual and comfortable and confident about her. This is not someone who is at all concerned about her distinctly snuggly appearance.

[No formal exit; last post December 29, 2003.[

Previous description

[Oswald is] a bald man in a coarse, dark red robe, clutching a bloodstained dagger with a wavy blade in one hand and with a sports bag slung over the other shoulder. His eyes are wide and staring and sunken in his pale face, and he wears a tidy black goatee and moustache. Underneath the robe he's wearing a pair of frayed, dirty jeans, and an even more filthy pair of old trainers.

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

In through the front door stomps Padraic.

He carries his duffle bag, and it's obvious he's been outside a lot--he's sunburned, sweaty and smells like Chicago in the summertime.
------
Padraic is a young man who looks about twenty years old. He has a tall (6'8"), lithe build (190 lb.) and a classic Celtic face. His hair is cut short and is jet black in all of his forms. He's got a runners build, except for his shoulders. He's got rather big shoulders.

Paddy's eyes are his most distinctive feature. They're a brilliant emerald color, with gray rims. However, they almost always shine with whatever emotions the Fianna is currently enthralled in. Paddy also has a sharp looking scar just below his eye, on the left side of his face.

The Fianna is usually in jeans, with a plain white shirt. He wears a small, white leather bag around his neck. Occasionally, a wry grin crosses his face which makes him look quite mischievous. However, when he is angry, his Celtic features make him look grim and regal. (Appearance 3, Pure Breed 5)

Note: Pub co-owner and bartender.

[No formal exit; last posting March 28, 2004.]

He's thin. Really thin. Fashionably so, just this side of 'you really should get some help you know'. Thin and pale and wearing a lot of black, a long woollen coat with a matching beret and he is smoking something perfumed. There is a sharp looking scar just below his eye on the right side of his face - the opposite side to the bartender everyone knows so well. He is wearing a golden celtic cross, very similar to his Fianna doppleganger's.

The pub causes him to pause, looking rather startled. Pure confusion begins to spread across his face. It's nothing to the look that lands on his bewildered features when he sees himself behind the bar. His mouth opens soundlessly and he drops his clove cigarette.

Note: This is a different version of Paddy, from a different world, than the one who is co-owner and bartender of the Pub.

[No formal exit; last posting October 14, 2002.]

There is the sound of someone entering from the back door. From the kitchen is the sound of packages being placed on counters.

A woman comes out from the kitchen. She is stocky, with short gray hair. Her age is perhaps in the late 50's. She's wearing a quilted jacket, loose cotton pants and hard leather boots. In her hands are several bottles of wine.

She looks around and makes a face. "I thought I was gone just a few minutes..." She looks at the dust like a drill seargent looks at a dirty uniform. "This won't do."

She puts down the wine and looks up at the woman. "Hello. Sorry about the mess. I guess I was gone longer than I expected. My name's Jane." She starts hustling - cleaning up the bar. "Tell a story and the first drink's free... after I find a clean glass."

[Previous description]

Pearl is a slender but muscular woman of medium height with short-cut straight blond hair. Her blue eyes betray her mental exhaustion and her skin color is a little too pale. Her arms show the marks of battle, and during the times when her chest is visible (since entering the Pub she's gone through 3 shirts and 1 borrowed suit-jacket), one can see the slashes of three parallel scars extending from her left breast to the right side of her belly button. Currently, however, she is wearing a t-shirt similar to Alan's. Carried at her belt is a sheathed (silvered) wakizashi. She's wearing rugged jeans and fringed 'hippie' style boots, and carrying a small backpack.

Around her neck is a plain, brown leather dog collar, complete with metal tags.

[Left the Pub February 13, 2002.]

It's a fairly short someone, in fact, by the looks of him, a twelve year old boy. He's rather innocuous - neat black hair, curious brown eyes, a spattering of freckles and a smudge on his cheek, no weapons or angry look. He's wearing a t-shirt and pair of cargo trousers - the kind with umpteen bulging pockets and zips all over the place. And a reasonably large backpack schoolbag boasting the Eton coat of arms that's rather beaten up. There's a similarly mistreated violin case tied to the back of it.

Despite the mildly unkempt appearance, he moves with a sort of polite deference in and out of the adults, careful not to jostle...

[No formal exit; last posting March 13, 2002.]

The door opens again, letting in a figure in on a cellphone, toting a backpack, in. He's yelling into the phone, not paying attention to anyone around him. He shakes his head, sending his blond pony tail swishing back and forth. ...He makes his way to a booth, amazingly avoiding hitting any patrons, tables, or chairs, and starts to sit down... He hangs up the cell phone and slides it into his pocket. He pulls out of the backpack a laptop, with a red cross emblazoned on the top. He scratches his beard thoughtfully as he waits for the computer to finish booting up. Humming an odd tune, he begins typing on the computer, occassionally sighing, occasionally chuckling.

[No formal exit; last posting March 8, 2002.]

The door opens again, but the view of the New York skyline from ten stories up is almost immediately obscured by the person looming in through the entrance. He's hardly unsavory looking; nice suit, trenchcoat, fedora, unremarkable blocky features. He'd be completely unremarkable if it weren't for being close to seven feet tall....and at least a foot and a half over that in fae sight. To fae eyes, he seems to be covered in fog and shadow, and the only thing that even faintly makes his face visible is the fact that his eyes glow yellow. The...whatever it is looks around the room wearily.

"Right. Giant metal spider, guy with a bleeding wolf. Did I walk into a villain's convention again? Cause honestly? I've already _had_ my quota of being tied up and told plans for world domination this week."

[No formal exit; last posting December 17, 2002.]

Possibly a man. It's hard to tell. It's rather covered in a big, shapeless sort of black smock or robe. Whoever the stranger is, it's apparent that they favour the 'I've been trapped in a burning car' sort of look - the smock resembles frayed slightly crisp flour bags more than anything else. The material trails along the ground after it for some distance, tangling and tattering.

It walks somewhat like a man, a big, heavy, ungainly fat man. Lurching slightly in a way that indicates some crippling disease or a simple lack of care for the shoulders and hips of anyone it passes. But it doesn't speak like a man. Not with that long beak that protrudes from under the rotted cowl, a raptor's hook marked in bloody red and sickly yellow, a purple tongue like a slash of muscle. The razored length quests up, perhaps scenting the Time Mage, for it orientates on him immediately. Its eyes are febrile gleams of red-purple light under the hood.

It looks reproachfully around the room, then shuffles its awkward shoulders up, and the tattered sacking lifts. There is a thick, spicy scent that can only be described as 'red', almost pleasant. Certainly not the mortuary smell that would be expected.

The clothing isn't...clothing. It's part of the creature, like a sagging shell. Fragile struts have extended out slightly, supporting the battered, blackened skin. And Restitution shakes its head out fully.

Only a mother could love this. And maybe not even then. It's somewhat reminiscent of a pterodactyl, but with an absolutely predatory hooked beak. The dark red skin is featherless, although abortive black collections of tortured metal might be the remainder of such structures. All in all, it's probably closest to resembling the head of a newborn hawk, with weak muscles supporting a weight of skull far too heavy for the bony neck.

[Left the Pub August 22, 2002.]

A man of no more than 20, wearing a flannel hunting jacket and tattered jeans enters briskly and cuts his way over to a seat. He bears the tribal marking of the Fenrir, and sports several wound dressings on various parts of his body. He looks more than a little anxious and absurdly out of place.

[No formal exit; last post December 25, 2003.]

Roche stands 5''8" with long black hair which is now being brushed out of her face to show her sparkling blue eyes. She represents the stereotypical black Irish with a bit of a Scottish accent that has twinges of Irish while trying to be Americanized. She has a solid build with a very tone look beneath her black t-shirt and jeans. She wears an Irish wedding band on her finger that is attached to a chain wrapped around her wrist. She seems to be trying to keep a smile on her face, but there is sadness still in her eyes.

[No formal exit; last posting August 21, 2002.]

Moving with the weight of a mountain worn down to sand, she turns back in the direction she's moving and freezes.

Streaks of what must be blood snake down Rose's cheeks, though none of it seems to have reached her clothing... but then, if it had, you likely wouldn't see it. The casual silk button-down has been replaced by a black cotton t-shirt and a black leather button-down in a similar cut to the silk one but worn loose like a jacket. She's wearing stonewashed blue jeans instead of slacks and boots instead of penny loafers. Her hair is loose, wild, unrestrained by any headband or chignon and it falls down around her face like a sandblasted glass wall. One hand is absently playing with a little silver bottle on a leather cord about her neck, and a purple rose pendant on a silver chain sits just beneath it.

Whatever life animated her features before is gone. Her eyes are dark and shadowed, her cheeks sallow, her lips and eyes painted a deep charcoal grey. But the biggest change is in her eyes, which stare dully around her as she registers her change of location.

Note: She has since washed the blood off her face.

[No formal exit; last posting September 5, 2002.]

Further information, including original Pub entrance and LARP version of character.

There's the sound of the back door of the pub being pushed open, then kicked closed. Sound of much shuffling of bags. The thump of a box being dropped on the counter in the kitchen. Cupboards opening and closing, supplies being put away. More crinkling of paper bags, the sound of the freezer and 'fridge doors opening and closing. After about 10 minutes of this, a tall woman emerges from the kitchen. She's several inches shorter than Paddy, which leaving her standing about 6' tall. Naturally silver hair is braided back, but the wrist-thick braid hangs to the middle of her thighs. Flawless pale skin and high cheekbones combine with a straight, narrow nose and full lips for a face that could easily grace fashion magazines. Long, thick, silver lashes frames eyes curiously colored; thin, emerald rings surround ice-blue circles of iris. Anyone with Fae sight will notice she's got Fae-pointed ears, but isn't quite Fae. Around her neck a Celtic knot has been tattooed. She's wearing a purple t-shirt, decorated with "The Dana's Laugh Pub - Chicago's Finest". Across the back is printed "STAFF", in fancy Celtic-style lettering. She's got on faded blue jeans, with thin spots in imminent danger of splitting across the knees. On one arm, she's carrying a box of different bottles and cans; under the other arm is a thin box.

Previous description

[No formal exit; last posting April 11, 2004.]

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Last update: December 5, 2004.