Who's Who in the WGP (S-Z)

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)

Seamus is not as tall as Padraic, but he moves gracefully. His hair is jet black and his eyes are clear, focus and silver. His court finery is in tatters, its impossible to say what colors they were or what they were made of--right now, they are simply rags.

[Went upstairs to change clothes December 22, 2001.]

He was probably already there in the corner, brooding over a pint; after all, the door wasn't locked when Illyana came in. Pale skin and paler hair, sunglasses - blue-gold lennon-style - unnecessary in the dim lighting of the pub, but too much a part of his identity to remove. Very well tailored charcoal grey suit, white shirt, no tie, black leather driving gloves. Briefcase by Giger on the floor beside his chair.

A girl.

A small girl child with curly dark brown hair and darker eyes and grass-stained feet.

[No formal exit; last posting April 12, 2001.]

The woman is hooded, wrapped in the same arctic camoflage as Blaze's team. The head tilts slightly, dark glasses examining the Mage in the doorway. Then she smiles, approving, though the expression comes to her face only with difficulty.

The Sibyl is perhaps in her early forties, fine lines on her face forming a network that is deepening to show the marks of laughter and pain. Dark glasses cover her eyes completely, hiding whatever is behind them now. Her body is thinner than it was, but her stance is stronger. Perhaps more telling is the strong scent of ozone that accompanies her. When she speaks her voice nearly...crackles, as though lightning-energy wars with deep exhaustion.

She half-turns in the doorway to go back, then shudders and sinks to her knees just inside, holding her head. Her heavy hood falls back. The dark brown hair she once had is more grey now than colour, and she wipes weakly at a thin trickle of blood from her nose. Dark stains show across her upper lip - and fresher ones mark the collar underneath each ear.

On her last visit, the Sibyl was accompanied by Lyssa.

[Left the Pub October 30, 2001.]

Initial impressions of the newcomer are more than favourable, for those inclined to be impressed by such. Her face is elfin, heart shaped with high cheekbones framed by a golden tumble of soft hair that catches the light. Her body is slender and almost delicate, luminous cream-coloured skin changing to a shell-like pink over her lips. Her beauty - and she is beautiful, very - is almost more a girl's than a woman's. There is nothing pretty about her, however, no sense of vulnerable attractiveness there.

She is dressed in a white, loose blouse over soft grey slacks, black boots and delicate black gloves that match. The collar of her blouse is embroidered with laurel leaves. She has folded her coat over her arm.

For those close enough to see, her eyes are empty. Literally so, the pupils floating over a hollow expanse that is constrained by the whites of her eyes. Whatever material makes up the iris is either transparent or nonexistent. While her face lacks animation, what passes for her eyes do not. Something moves spasmodically in the depths of them, twisting, furious, trapped.

[Note: Went upstairs March 8, 2002.]

The door opens, and in totters an apparition which might well strike terror into the heart (or other sensitive bits) of the most fearless of souls. White hair is piled neatly into a bun from which a surfeit of hairpins protrude in all directions, and her face is a delightful maze of lines and creases. Enormous round-rimmed glasses frame her bright green eyes, which blink and peer curiously about the room. A handbag of epic proportions hangs from her arm, and wrapped round her hunched shoulders she wears - ye gods! - a fuzzy little pink sweater. A tidy skirt and extremely sensible shoes complete the picture.

"Oh my," she declares querulously, her eyes magnified to the size of tea-saucers by those ridiculous spectacles. "I see they've redecorated..."

[No formal exit; last posting October 16, 2003.]

Stalks Hidden is a wiry, medium-tall young woman with shoulder- length curly dark brown hair, darkly tanned skin, and dark eyes. She's wearing navy blue shorts, purple and lilac sandals, and a grey sweatshirt jacket, zippered open to reveal a bright and *extremely* colorful tie-dyed tee- shirt. Around her neck is a black leather thong from which hangs a polished purple (amythest?) crystal, and a leather and suede jogger's pack hangs by her left front hip. The necklace matches neither shirt nor the sandals, nor do the blues in the shirt match the shorts, and the pack doesn't match anything but itself. Stalks is also carrying a large stuffed teddy bear (currently strapped to her back). She speaks English with an educated British accent while her Garou accent is distinctly North American.

In lupus form, Stalks has long legs, large ears, a dark pelt highlighted with russet, and white markings on her face. There is a star-shaped patch of slightly lighter fur on her chest and belly.

In the Dreaming, the teddy bear that Stalks carries shows up clearly; someone loved this bear deeply, and more than that, it seems to have been purposely englamoured.

[Left the Pub February 13, 2002.]

Tall. Strong and hale, yet not overbuilt; a man conditioned by years of steady exercise.

Thick, dark brown hair, tied back in a short ponytail by a leather cord, dark brown hair that wraps his head from crown to deep full beard. Brown eyes that sparkle, a face that looks equal parts troubled and sad. Tanned skin, bearing a few wrinkles of age, over a nose and cheekbones that are hard to assign a geographic origin.

His clothing is English in style --Late-Middle-Ages England or Western Europe, clothing for a Lord. A black tunic of fine, heavy cloth, front secured with golden clasps. Over the tunic a shorter red-brown leather vest, also opening to the front, that ends at his thighs. Both fastened at the waist by a sturdy belt. Over that a heavy dark-forest-green cloak secured by shield-shaped golden brooches and solid chain, with the cloak's hood thrown back. Thrown back too is the hood of a chain-mail shirt which must lie underneath all. The hems and edges of tunic, vest and cloak alike worked expertly with a line of embrodiered Celtic knots.

Under the cloak, attached to the belt, most prominently a heavy sword and scabbard, peace-tied; and a long-knife or short-sword, sheathed. Belt pouches too, a chime of black metal or crystal, and a case for a pair of flutes or recorders, one long, one short.

The man wears a single heavy gold chain as a loop around the back of his neck and dropping down front to his flat belly, on which is no sign of paunch. Also there is a set of charms on a leather cord, charms of worked jade, obsidian, bronze and hardwood. A long, thick wooden quarter-staff in his hand completes his ensemble.

[Went upstairs early March 2002.]

Once again, the gust of foul and stinging air sweeps in a wave of choking, red dust as he squeezes his 8' bulk, all-concealed from head? to toe? in the dull-grey of his armour, through the door, and shuts it quickly behind him. The light fails to glint, once more, from the cutlass hanging at his side in that same dull metal, nor does it shine from the massive, multi-barrelled weapon slung across his back; only from the paired golden diamond pips, crowned sun, and silver skull at each shoulder.

[Left November 1, 2001.]

The door opens slowly, almost hesitantly. Then quickly in steps a man, tall and lean dressed in worn jeans and a t-shirt, a heavy duster showing some wear and tear but still looking relativly new, especially when compared to his boots. Their leather is worn supple with age and a few holes have been patched. The lithe muscles on his six foot one inch frame are taunt as he scans the room. He pauses on each Paddy and Rowan looking intently for a moment with a single pale grey orb. His left eye is covered in a worn leather patch. Three scars run vertically through it, a testament to an old wound. He runs his right hand over his short cut salt and pepper hair before walking to the bar. He moves with the balanced gate of a veteran warrior though no weapons can be seen on him or in his coat.

[No formal exit; last posting January 23, 2002.]

The door opens, and a man steps in. Tall, wearing a brown leather jacket, jeans, and a T-shirt that says 'I am a bomb technician. If you see me running, try to keep up.' He looks Scandinavian, tall and thin, red hair, blue eyes, pale skin (but not unnaturally so), and a sort of angular face. On his skin and face are a few scars, in angular and blocky shapes, although mostly faded. He steps in, looks around, and blinks. "Where in the nine worlds am I?" he says, quietly, looking around.

[No formal exit; last posting November 13, 2003.]

The new arrival has dark brown skin, heavy brow ridges, pointed ears, and a set of upward pointing tusks which a boar would be proud of. He also has several large lumps and protrusions on his head, all of them apparently natural, not due to injury. A couple of these might be the fore-runners of a set of horns. What hair he has on his head is in a very rough "Mohican", and shows traces of red and blue dye, although most of it has washed or worn out.

All of which leads to one conclusion. A Troll.

A Troll with large metal plates bonded into his skin. These plates look as if they are designed to provide even more protection to various bits of him than his naturally thick skin does.

He's carrying a weapon which would require vehicle mounting for any lesser humanoid species. You can see several barrels, probably firing 20mm ammo.

He's wearing a rather tattered teeshirt with "Live (or die) with it chummer!" scrawled across the front.

The metal plates are on his body too, just not as visible, except occasionally through small holes in the teeshirt as he moves.

A pair of combat trousers and a large backpack complete the ensemble.

He has a rough deep voice which has an English accent, but it's difficult to tell exactly what part of England he may come from.

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

The door bounces open again, admitting an elf.

No, not one of -those- elves. Technically, it's a dark- haired girl in an elf costume - green tunic with bells on, red and white candy-cane striped tights, and the requisite plush Santa hat, complete with pom-pom. That she has (at least in the light of Glamour) a proudly swirling squirrel's tail and cute little round ears seems almost inconsequential, compared to the large bag she's got slung over her shoulder.

"I promise it's not my fault!" she exclaims, to the room in general. "Nobody saw me and you can't prove anything!"

[No formal exit. Last posting December 30, 2003.]

Previous description

Footsteps come lightly pattering down the stairs, and a teenage boy comes into view, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He seems to be about 15 or 16 years old, and about 5'4" or so tall. Lean and wiry rather than skinny, even half-awake he moves with a certain grace.

Like Rip VanWinkle, he seems to have slept through the end of the world. Or, at least, an end. He runs a hand through his curly brown hair and looks around in apparent surprise. He's wearing black jeans, black sneaker-boots, and a warm-looking brown long-sleeved shirt.

In the Dreaming: For those who can see it, he's still lean and wiry, and obviously a pooka. He's got whiskers, a black button nose, pointed ears, and a flat but not especially broad tail.

He's a young James Dean, maybe sixteen, maybe eighteen. It's a little hard to tell, with those lambent green eyes and the black hair that needs a bit of grooming. He has a sort of relaxation about him that is almost sensual, startling for his age.

He moves like liquid honey, smoothly and easily, unconsciously graceful. His accent as he addresses Padriac is softly burred, perhaps English, perhaps Irish. It is a little hard to tell.

In the Dreaming, he has the tell-tale animal features of a pooka Changeling. By the looks of his slitted green eyes and black twitching tail he's some kind of feline. Both soft pointy ears have notches taken out of them, and his tail's missing the odd tuft of fur.

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

He's dressed in a black all-in-one outfit which is somewhere between a low-budget fascist uniform and a motorcyclist's waterproofs. It wouldn't suit everyone, but he looks good in it - he's tall and trimly built with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. If he doesn't exercise a lot to stay like that, then he has unfairly good genes.

The head-to-toe black look also works well with his blond hair and blue-grey eyes. Compared to the oddities and unnatural beauties which frequent the Glen his looks are nothing dramatic, but by human standards he's handsome. It's only on close inspection that a certain hardness around the eyes and mouth spoils the effect. And the slight pallor - he'd look better if he got more sunshine. Early thirties would be a reasonable guess for his age, but he could be a little older or younger.

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

The door of the pub opens onto a bombed out ruin of a modernish city and a figure bundled in a WWI trenchcoat walks in. As she steps into the light of the pub you see a young (sixteen, seventeen?) indian woman, her skin more ashen than brown and a look in her eyes like a starving man who's just found a banquet. Taking care to hold the coat closed she stands in the doorway and stares.

[No format exit; last posting September 17, 2002.]

The door opens and a familiar tall native american enters. She is wearing an expensive looking charcoal coloured suit, a white shirt and sun glasses. Over one shoulder she carries a large hold-all which is partially open and appears to be full of dollar bills. In the other hand she carries a katana in a highly polished, red lacquered scabbard.

She appears to all intents and purposes to be entirely normal and healthy. In fact she exudes normalness; she is not so much normal as utterly lacking in anything abnormal, to anyone with any intelligence she is so normal that it's suspicious.

Picture used by permission.

Previous description

The door swings open and Wilf enters. He is dressed in calfskins and hat like those worn by the American settlers. He is carrying two chickens.

[Left early June, 2003.]

[Yelyena speaks]
> "And isn't Vienna such an *exciting* place? I wonder if
> they've stopped chasing us yet," she adds thoughtfully.

"No." The speaker is backing into the Pub, dragging a very large trunk behind him, and as soon as he's pulled it in he slams the door behind him. "No, they haven't."

He looks around the Pub and nods approvingly. A young man, pale by human standards if not by vampiric. Auburn hair in a vaguely 1820s style, and a trenchcoat and sunglasses that make him look almost as shady as his companion.

[No formal exit; last posting March 7, 2003.]

He is a pale and slender man, with a compelling sort of charm about him (OOC: Augmented by a bit of Presence...) A long velvet cloak is drawn tightly around him, and his face is framed by medium-length red hair. He looks over the Pub's denizens with caution, though not fear. Some he seems to recognise, although evidently something's not quite right about them.

Note: This is a different version of William, from a different world, than the one who usually shows up in the Pub.

[Left with Yelyena 2.0 February 15, 2002.]

She's somewhere between twenty and twenty-five, though at first look you'd think she was older - perhaps due to the distant look in her icy blue right eye, the thousand-yard stare of one who has "seen the elephant"; her left eye is an obvious replacement, made from smoky glass, sitting in the middle of a large scar runs from her temple down to mid-cheek, pulling her mouth into a permanent half-sneer. Standing five foot eleven, maybe six feet in height, wiry but with visible muscles, and with black hair in a braid that reaches her shoulders, an angular face with pronounced cheekbones and a hatchet-sharp nose. She's wearing BDU pants and jacket, over a t-shirt with a print made unreconizable by dust, scuffed boots, and a pair of hearing protectors hanging around her neck.

[No formal exit; last posting November 18, 2002.]

The door opens in the normal manner and a woman walks in.

Most of her features are obscured - she is wearing a thick black cashmere coat, grey leather gloves, a rather attractive furred hat, an equally fluffy scarf and fashionable boots. Snow dusts the top of her shoulders and the hat, so that as she lets the door shut behind her she spends some moments brushing it from her.

[After removing coat, scarf, and hat] underneath she is wearing a long black skirt which is parted at the back to show the white pleats of a silk underskirt, the entirety rather flattering in a conservative sort of way. Atop this is a deep shimmering green satin shirt with a black lace collar. The ensemble looks rather expensive, but nowhere near as much as the sleek black laptop case at her side.

Yelyena's eyes glitter, grey and alive. Her face is somewhat changed, subtley, more refined as though the passage of years has thinned out the last of a characterstic plumpness and left graceful curves and planes.

She is breathing. A crisp of snow against her cheek melts.

Looks like Yelyena. Smells like Yelyena...rolls her eyes like Yelyena, and manages a look of completely fake patience just like Yelyena.

[No formal exit; last posting March 7, 2003.]

She's a somewhat plain, quiet-looking Russian woman. She has long black hair in a velvet ribbon and a voluminous shirt, with good quality slacks and servicable leather boots. A long coat, expensively cut, completes the image. There is no colour anywhere on her - her velvet and coarse silk clothing is black, her skin stark white, and her eyes a brilliantly clear grey.

Note: This is a different version of Yelyena, from a different world, than the one who usually shows up in the Pub.

[Left with William 2.0 February 15, 2002.]

She's on the short side, about five-three, dressed simply in a long-sleeved blouse - hemp fiber - and a long split- skirt, something like a martial arts hakama. Her skin is dark brown - she looks Arabic - and it makes the bright green of her eyes all the more striking. She wears a simply patterned headscarf, concealing most of her hair.

Over one shoulder she's got a backpack that looks as if it's seen better days. By the way she's holding it, it's uncomfortably heavy.

[No formal exit; last posting August 30, 2002.]

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Last update: December 11, 2004.