conversations: human
conversations:  ...the door opens into a large oak-paneled room.  It smells of rare meats, and spirits.  About the main lounge you see large tables, and large, high-backed, chairs with purple upholstery.  Men, and women, in strange dress sit carousing, and singing.  Some argue, others curse loudly as they lose a hand of cards.
  
  A tribes man, skin dark as night, sits in a corner, fletching arrows, his watchful gaze never leaving you.  A small woman ,with fire-red hair, laughs at an unheard joke, snorting as she does.  The woman next to her, in robes and costume jewelry, continues singing what must be the most hilarious of songs. At another table is a large viking, clad in leathers, with an axe hanging from his belt.  Saliva flies as he screams curses at a smaller man, who scrapes a pile of coins into a pack, a smirk on his greasy face.
  
  “Welcome to The Club.” Says a monotonous voice from beside you.  “Shall I take your coats, and hats?  Please, do sit, anywhere you please. And if there is anything I can do for you, please, feel free to ask” The chubby Englishman, in his suit, gestures his gloved hand towards the large room in front of you.
  
  ----
  
  The room you are in is a large lounge.  There are several tables around the room, none empty however.  Along one side is a bar, bartender perpetually cleaning a glass.  The adjacent dining room also opens into the lounge through a large arch-way.  There are stairs in the back, leading up.  The walls are covered with portraits of men you don't recognize, and battles you've never heard of.  Busts of ambiguous ancients also adorn small alcoves along the walls.  The stuffed head of deer, or what you think are deer, also decorate the space.
  
  [ Start with a description of your character, and then how they got to the Club. (Through a door obviously.)  We'll assume characters show up in the order they post, so feel free to interact with anyone whose already posted. ]
conversations: Zeborazor:
conversations: human
conversations:  Entry to the Club
   
   Spoiler 
  “What…what is that ringing?”
  
       A husky man stands confused on the subway, looking most out of place in mixed garb: A small round hat sit atop his head, a travel stained leather jacket of implacable make covers his torso, a comfortable looking pair of cargo pants for his legs, and a pair of odd if sturdy boots for his feet.  A case rests on his back, a freshly laundered suit affixed to the handle; he taps a second, smaller case on his thigh to some unknown beat as he gazes off towards the sound.
  
  “Is that a dinner bell?”  he mutters to himself, oblivious to those around him giving him strange, amused, and annoyed looks.  “I’ve not heard one in months, not since my last night…”
  
       He moves over to a nearby door, ready to leap out at the next stop to find the source of the bell, too unusual a sound in this crazed world of ever burning glass, talking windows and flameless heat; even more unusual in the crowded and noisy subway.
  
       As the train comes to a halt at the next platform, the ringing grows louder, as if a bell or triangle has been struck anew, and is of course nearer.  Dancing on the balls of his feet, the man stands before the door and bounds out and through the crowd of people waiting to embark, oblivious to crushed toes and bruised shoulders.
  
       The ringing, growing fainter now as all chimes do, seems to be coming from above, and so the man takes the stairs 2 and 3 at a time, coming up to the evening sky in the great and wondrous metropolis he inhabits.  A third ring, clear and loud in the cold air calls to him, and he begins rushing down the street, eager to find its source, to sate his curiosity.
  
       A left, then a right, down an alley and across a busy street - angering several people in their horseless carriages.  Down another street, another left, and another alley, and he finds himself standing before a small sort of building squished between two of the large skyscrapers the people of this world seemed to favor.
  
   An apt name, he'd thought, when he first heard the term. 
  
       The door, oddly large, considering the building it guards, is of a heavy, ancient oak.  It stands open before him,  a rotund man in a strange suit stands inside, beckoning him inside, a triangle and tong in hand.  With caution and a sniff with his nose, the man steps inside, and disappears behind the closing door.
   
  
  
  Out of breath,  "Where the...?"   He puffs and wheezes, taking a look about the room as he does.
  
   "My coat?  No, thank you.  Oh!  But I would appreciate it if you'd take my suit.  In the meanwhile I'll...I'll just, go over here, ok?" 
  
  As he walks away, the husky man continues looking around, awestruck by the sudden transformation from city to comfortable lodge.  Taking note of the song, he makes his way over to the women.
  
   "Excuse me ladies, if you would, could you tell me where I am?  I would be much obliged.  Perhaps I could repay your kindness with a song of my own?" 
  
  As he says this last, he takes the case off his back, and pats it.
conversations: Musashi2:
conversations: human
conversations:  Entry into the club
   
   Spoiler 
  
  A man shambles through the alley,his dark trenchcoat splashed with a mix of blood, mud, and the rain. His eyes were as dark as his mood, and his brown hair cut short as if he were a military man, though that wasn't far from the mark. Across his back was slung a rifle, it was heavy, but he would rather die than let it lie in this filthy alley. In his hand a well sharpened short sword still splattered with some fool that the rain had not washed from it yet.
  
  The way was dark, and growing darker in his eyes. The world blurred around him, and the high rise buildings seemed to stretch and twist along their mirrored spines. Only one thing  dominated his mind.
  Rage.
  Rage as a result of his failure.
  Rage at being afflicted so by that damn arch magus
  Rage at the fact, the fact that he was dying and there was nothing that his hands could do to save himself
  Rage at the sirens echoing off the walls, impossible to tell their distance.
  
    "I'd not be much of a fight if those damn mage's puppets find me, hell one of them could probably do my head with a rock. I have to keep running"  
  
  But his gear was growing heavy, his steps less sure. The labyrinth of alley ways he traversed was paved like most, but far from without dirt or debris. The mud gathered on him and he moved with only lucks blessing over the muddy ground, knowing that if he fell he would not be able to rise again.
  
  When luck finally frowned on Nathyn Turren it did so with a smirk. The strength in his legs gone, his step finally faltered. Collapsing against a door.
  The door opened.
   
  
  
  Hitting the ground with an unceremonious thud as he falls through the doorway. Nathyn's senses could hardly make out the room. He made his best guess, "A whorehouse" , his raspy voice whispered, "Of all the places to die..." 
conversations: FooBot:
conversations: human
conversations:  Originally Posted by Musashi2 
    "My coat?  No, thank you.  Oh!  But I would appreciate it if you'd take my suit.  In the meanwhile I'll...I'll just, go over here, ok?" 
   "Excuse me ladies, if you would, could you tell me where I am?  I would be much obliged.  Perhaps I could repay your kindness with a song of my own?" 
  
  As he says this last, he takes the case off his back, and pats it. 
   
  
  "Oh, well yes, your suit..." the chubby Englishman trails-off as he folds the suit over his arm. "But sir!" attempting to catch the pudgy man's attention.  "Oh yes, they probably know much more about this place than I, they've been here all of half an hour." The Doorman begins to sigh, but is interrupted.
  
  
   
   Originally Posted by Foobot 
    Hitting the ground with an unceremonious thud as he falls through the doorway. Nathyn's senses could hardly make out the room. He made his best guess,"A whorehouse", his raspy voice whispered,"Of all the places to die..." 
   
  
  "My word, sir." The Doorman says as he pushes the door closed with his gloved hand.  "Please, allow me to help you up, though I feel I'm obligated to inform you this is not a brothel, and in fact The Club."  He motions with his other hand, towards the bartender. "If you require medical assistance, Laurence here has limited training."
  
  Though many of the guests only momentarily pause, before resuming their various activities, the two women both exclaim. "Oh my god! Is he alright?!" The smaller, red-haired one yells.  The taller one, in the fake jewelry stands to go to him, "Is-is, he dead?"
conversations: Zeborazor: