<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Prologue-Barking at the Moon</div><div class="spoiler_body">Freedom is a pretty interesting thing. Those who have never lost it take it for granted; A simple thing that can be ignored. It'll always be there, right? To those who have lost freedom though, it is not a simple commodity. It's closer to a way of life. You don't give away or trade freedom, you don't let it float away or vanish in the sunlight. You hold onto it, kicking and fighting, biting and ripping. Losing freedom for a day is disheartening, a week and it's agonising. Losing it for decades? That's enough to drive a man insane.<br/><br/>Jack Mason is, for lack of a better descriptor, interesting. His name is connected with rumours and shrouded in mystique. To most, he acts as a warning, to the Brother's Fallen, his continued existence is an insult. To a select few, he is a promise of power. Jack Mason has lived in Middle City for more years than most people have been alive. He once stood at the heart of a thriving industrial and mythological revolution: then he was thrust into it's dark underbelly: Where he managed to bring the earliest iterations of the Brother's Fallen to it's knees. Yet for the last 51 years, 5 months, 7 days and 12 hours, he has been locked in the Tiamat-level maximum security prison: Right in Middle city. For the last five decades plus, Jack Mason has been hidden from the world, locked in a cell smaller than most bathrooms.<br/><br/>Until now.<br/><br/>Someone had taken an interest in the Lycanthropic monster and; with an interesting combination of cash, threats and tactical fucking, Jack Mason was let out of the prison with a small bundle of cash and a note with a single meeting place. <br/><br/>That was a week ago</div></div><br/>Name: Jack 'Jekyll' Mason<br/><br/>Location: Entrance-->Bar<br/><br/>Tagging: Orc Bartender, Anyone at the bar.<br/><br/>_______________<br/><br/>It's amazing what a man can do to himself in a week. Especially after Five decades of incarceration in a maximum security prison, where the closest thing one gets to a good drink is diluted piss, and the closest one gets to a good fuck is the moron who dropped the soap: Not that he'd ever taken part of<em>that </em>particular prison ritual. Things never got that desperate. Suffice to say though, it didn't take long for Jack Mason to burn the 20k he had stashed away. Nor the 5k that the man who purchased his freedom had lent to him. Twenty-five Thousand dollars buys a hell of a week. It got Jack back on his feet; A shitty apartment, a few changes of clothing, and half the women in the closest Maidenhood Brothel for a night or two. To say that Jack had missed the finer points of freedom would be an understatement. If he had more time and more money, he probably would have fucked a few whore houses out of business. Sadly, the Lycanthrope had other concerns.<br/><br/>Jack walked through the entrance of the Gehenna. He wore a buttoned shirt and dark Suit Trousers. If not for his physique and the aura of danger that clung to him like a thick cologne, you'd be be forgiven for thinking him a businessman of some sorts. His eyes betrayed the thinker underneath, but it was rare that people sought the thinker. Most people wanted the beast behind the thinker. Jack felt the prying eyes of several people rest upon him as he entered the bar: rumours had been floating around of Jack's return, yet now they were confirmed, and it would have dire consequences at some point.<br/><br/>Jack stood in the doorway, sniffing the air silently. His nose was much more potent than most, a side effect of his transformation, and he started identifying any interesting discrepancies. For one, he could smell the scent of several women: something that still gave him a heady pleasure. Even a week of fucking a brothel's fine ladies had only begun to stem the desire that five decades had pent up inside. And the angel was a damn fine sight. She was...fuckable. Jack tried to think of a better descriptor...One that he might be willing to share, but sadly, he couldn't. Turning his head away from the Angel, another scent caught his nose.<br/><br/>Two creatures at the bar had a recognisably unwelcome tinge of danger. A demoness and a Vampire: Brother-bait. Jack closed his eyes for a second, exhaling with slight signs of strain on his face. As if some niggling annoyance was gnawing at his Patience. Opening his eyes slowly, he looked over at the bar. People were gathering there, so it made sense to make his way there: A drink would help.<br/><br/>Sitting in the seat two spaces away from the Demoness, Jack lifted a hand, as if trying to hail the Orc. Not really patient enough to wait for the Orc to ask, he spoke up his order. "A double shot of whisky. I need to distract myself."<br/><br/>To anyone in the know, especially a demon, Seeing Jack Mason would ring serious danger bells. The Previously mentioned aura of danger would swallow demon with a sense of immediate threat: and anyone who knew of Jack's history would also know that he was not on good grounds with the underworld's denizens. His left index finger was scratching against the bar, the normal nail having transformed into something resembling a claw. He was obviously in need of a distraction, agitation starting to get the better of him.<br/><br/>"This is going to be an interesting night..."