Shadows Bar Deck

Robert Thaltasion Clayt: Heh. Not like I get a lot of sun. *sits down and makes himself comfy at Scott's table. Pulls a flask from a random pocket and offers a drink*

Scott Rawlins: Suppose you're right *politely declines and pulls out a flask of his own* Probably a good thing fir me that you don't. Be bad for business

Robert Thaltasion Clayt: True, true! *Taps his flask against Scott's, then takes a long drink* How is business lately?

Scott Rawlins: *Follows suit, taking his own drink* To be honest, kinda slow. I mean, take a look around, this city aint exactly the hustle and bustle it used to be

Robert Thaltasion Clayt: Depressingly true. Practically a ghost town... in more ways than one. *sighs*

Scott Rawlins: Ha! I understood that reference. *chuckles to himself* Oh, before I forget. *reaches into his inside jacket pocket pulls out something small, sliding it across the table* You know how suprisingly hard it is to find these anymore? *on the table sits a solitary book of matches*

Robert Thaltasion Clayt: *picks up the book of matches, an oddly nostalgic grin on his face* Heh, nice.

Scott Rawlins: *a rather non descript book with the exception of the words "First City Saloon" on the front* Took a trip up north for a bit. Was feeling nostalgic

Robert Thaltasion Clayt: *Raises an eyebrow, grins* Well, in that case I'll trade you. Nostalgia for nostalgia. *takes the book of matches and tucks them into a pocket inside his jacket, pulls out another and tosses them across the table*

~*Patzy*~: ~*Bubbles slowly appeared then quickly amassed within the lake as once glass-still water was disrupted from below. Slowly a figure emerged, bloated, discolored and accompanied by a foul stench of years of aquatic life. Some how hair kept once vibrant pink and purple hues, the Necropolis High cheerleader uniform decomposed and leaving little for the imagination of what laid underneath. Nailess fingers clutched a stuffed green puppet which served more as a sponge these days than anything else.. - she dare not look up. One rollarblade clad foot clomped as the other barefoot moved through sand, muck and possibly snow of the shore. Her path led her to the entry of the wood where she sought one specific tree. Unfurrowed from her other hand fell a noose which after numerous tries due to waterlogged limbs, she managed to lace over a low branch. Freud, the frog puppet was strung up left to freeze to its own demise in the winds and weather of which was to come.*~ Finally you piece of shit fuck. ~*All that was said from between clenched teeth as she punched it waiting for the piece of disgusting fabric to swing back if only to give it a kiss on what should be its head. With that she turned to walk back to the shore and slowly descended back to the depths of the lake*~

~*Patzy*~: (In Memory of Max Buckland / Max Bridges (7/1983 to 12/8/22 who loved all facets White-Wolf, gaming and imagination. One of the wackiest and fun players I had the pleasure of knowing.. just felt right to post up here, even though these rooms are but an echo of what they once were...)

Besus Fufoon: *Enters*

Samantha Haine ~cyberpunk sidhe~: ooc I'm sorry for the loss, Patzy... if I may I'd like to add a memorial of my own for the player of Rayne Tanaka of the Outsiders, who in addition to a great player and friend to many was also the love of my life. There is not a day that passes in which she is not missed deeply.

Besus Fufoon: *Enters*

Once that Enrichae guy: My condolences Patzy and Sam. I’m very sorry for your losses. I remember Rayne from back in the day. While I don’t think I had the pleasure of direct interaction I remember enjoying reading scenes involving rayne.

: .

Beesus Fufoon: *Enters*

Besus Fufoon: *Enters*

: A full description of the deck as I always pictured it in my mind: Shadows Bar – Lake Smithville, Missouri Tucked twenty minutes outside Kansas City down a winding gravel road, the Shadows Bar looks like the sort of place you’d only find if someone told you where to turn. The woods close in tight around the road, branches arching overhead until the tree line breaks and the building appears at the lip of Lake Smithville. From a distance it’s just a long, single-story shape of weathered timber and neon haze, but up close the details start to breathe: warped planks, the faint smell of spilled beer, the low rumble of a jukebox that’s been patched together since the nineties. A cracked parking lot sprawls to one side, half dirt, half asphalt, dotted with motorcycles and the occasional pickup. Behind the building, a raised deck juts out over the slope like a pier that never quite reached the water. The deck’s wooden railing is wide and flat, polished smooth by decades of elbows, boots, and bodies perched on it for a smoke. Sliding glass doors connect it to the interior, while a set of stairs descends to the ground where the darkness gathers thick under the beams. The space beneath the deck—eight to ten feet of clearance, open to the elements—smells of damp earth and cigarettes. It’s where whispered deals, forbidden meetings, and unwise kisses happen, invisible from the bar’s windows. Step out onto the deck and the geography unfolds: to the right, the parking lot glows under tired sodium lights; straight ahead, a field opens up, hemmed in by heavy woods; to the left, the lake glints through the trees, close enough that you can see the ripples of anyone walking along the shore but far enough that their words never reach you. The air tastes faintly metallic from the water. On still nights, you can hear the frogs; on bad nights, you hear nothing at all.

: A full description of the deck as I always pictured it in my mind: Shadows Bar – Lake Smithville, Missouri Tucked twenty minutes outside Kansas City down a winding gravel road, the Shadows Bar looks like the sort of place you’d only find if someone told you where to turn. The woods close in tight around the road, branches arching overhead until the tree line breaks and the building appears at the lip of Lake Smithville. From a distance it’s just a long, single-story shape of weathered timber and neon haze, but up close the details start to breathe: warped planks, the faint smell of spilled beer, the low rumble of a jukebox that’s been patched together since the nineties. A cracked parking lot sprawls to one side, half dirt, half asphalt, dotted with motorcycles and the occasional pickup. Behind the building, a raised deck juts out over the slope like a pier that never quite reached the water. The deck’s wooden railing is wide and flat, polished smooth by decades of elbows, boots, and bodies perched on it for a smoke. Sliding glass doors connect it to the interior, while a set of stairs descends to the ground where the darkness gathers thick under the beams. The space beneath the deck—eight to ten feet of clearance, open to the elements—smells of damp earth and cigarettes. It’s where whispered deals, forbidden meetings, and unwise kisses happen, invisible from the bar’s windows. Step out onto the deck and the geography unfolds: to the right, the parking lot glows under tired sodium lights; straight ahead, a field opens up, hemmed in by heavy woods; to the left, the lake glints through the trees, close enough that you can see the ripples of anyone walking along the shore but far enough that their words never reach you. The air tastes faintly metallic from the water. On still nights, you can hear the frogs; on bad nights, you hear nothing at all.