Jump to content
Sign in to follow this  

About This World

The quiet Irish village of Phelan Derry is home to a number of secrets, stalking her streets under the sleepy glow of moonlight. Some secrets are better kept than others. Some are harmless. Some have teeth.




  1. What's new in this world
  2. There was, oddly, a relief in knowing that the Derry wouldn't be dogged by yet another sharp-nosed detective inspectors (or whatever it was that they fancied to call themselves down in England). Rowan was careful to mast that he felt that way. It was already getting to be far from ideal. The less warm bodies to worry about, the better. "Hardly a consolation," Rowan drawled, "I shouldn't think we'll have need of anyone else. Missing person cases tend to be rather cut and dry." Generally, there were two options. The person went missing on purpose, or they were dead. Rarely was there anything thing in between. Rarely, of course, did a man go missing amid a pack of wolves. In most cases, that didn't create a third option--it just meant you were most likely to find him dead. He kept his gaze steady, appreciative of the fact that the man across the table did the same. He was probably just as good at this game as he was himself. "Rowan Darling," he answered after a little more than normal pause. There had been, the brief moment, where he had thought of throwing him something fake. From detective to detective, that kind of dishonesty left a bitter taste in his mouth. Many misgivings aside, he was a respectful man. And the Englishman that sat across from him was about as close as either was going to get to having a partner for this whole mess. Besides, it was no surprise the man would want to talk again. "And your name? If I come across pertinent news in the meantime, it would be nice to know who I should look for," he responded. As much fun as it might be to continually refer to him by nationality, he had some inspecting of his own he'd like to do. Just to be sure.
  3. Wesley, unsurprisingly, preferred the ice. Despite the hefty amount of human interaction his profession required, he was not particularly adept at the sport itself. People were more difficult to decipher than evidence, their motives so divided in essence from his own that empathy came from Wesley with extreme difficulty. The only thing about social these social crosspaths were the niceties themselves -- those unwritten codes of interaction that designated propriety and politeness with a predictability he could depend on as something of a guide and a guard against exactly what was happening right now. "Well, if it's any consolation to you," Wesley mused, "unlike our unfortunate friend, it's not likely that anyone would come hunting after me." Sensing the challenge in his companion's stare, Wesley, too, refused to break it as he retrieved his photograph and sipped his bitter tea, blinking slowly as if to maintain the line of sight beneath his lashes. "Do you have a name?" he asked, finally breaking away to flip open his little book to a fresh page. Some muscle out of the town sent to scare him off, perhaps, to preserve their cryptic segregation from society in the light of such exposure. "Since you seem so well acquainted with the details, we may need to revisit this conversation in more depth once I've conducted my initial inspection."
  4. FINLEY B. WINHOLM We’re gonna rattle this ghost town. AGE twenty-four SPECIES human PACK AFFILIATION n/a PACK POSITION n/a ATTUNED n/a OCCUPATION Baker RELATIONSHIPS Granddaughter of Brigid Winholm and Nolan Winholm (deceased) Daughter of Finnegan Winholm and Harper Winholm Sister of Declan Winholm, Vienna Seabrooke, Raisa Winholm, Lyren Winholm Friend of Rosean Hernandez SEEKING Friends, enemies, people that enjoy baked goods, preferably not arsonists interested in burning down bakeries in small Irish towns.
  5. The thing about being at a bar so local, was that Rowan was comfortable here. Sure, it could be said he was comfortable pretty much anywhere, had a good mixture of self-confidence and lack of fear that shook the grip of intimidation even when walking into a unfamiliar setting. The difference was, here he knew every single person that sat around, cleaned glasses, and took orders. Here, he knew that if things went arseways, he had plenty of bodies willing to stand behind him. Rowan stared at the man curiously as he worked on responding. Stoic, calculating, giving away so little beyond those first few moments of fleeting irritation. Exactly the kind of emotional consideration he'd expect from a fellow detective. Good on him, there. "I've always thought the best way to break the ice is to just pretend it was never there in the first place," Rowan answered, giving a casual shrug. He took a healthy sip of his stout and continued. "Would heavily prefer if you didn't get yourself missing, thanks, one's enough for at least a couple of years, I think." He saw the picture slide out onto the table in the edge of his vision, but he didn't look. He didn't need to. It was burned into the back of his mind, yet another proverbial ghost that haunted him and frightened off much needed sleep. "John Matheson, forty-seven, little over one and a half metres in height, hails from Norfolk county. Came here nearing two months now. Made little to no contact home since his arrival and hasn't been seen for a few weeks now," Rowan rattled off, keeping his gaze level with the Englishman's. In that moment, he was of two minds. The first, the initial reaction, was the extreme reluctance of having anyone else touch this case. Especially when that someone was a human, completely unaware of what they were looking at, and entirely unprepared to deal with the consequences. The second, however, was far more selfish. With the Garda being hands off and still paying him to solve local, human-centric cases, his hunt for Mr. Matheson had slowed down exponentially. Seated across from him, was a man whose sole purpose in the Derry was to find him. Pack interest or not, he found himself tempted. Why not utilize the resources laid out in front of you? Because of the consequences, came a voice, quiet and reasonable, from the back of his mind. Because his manhunt could turn into a death sentence.
  6. The cracked white mug hovered near his lips, momentarily forgotten under a wave of irritation, visible only in the soft, quizzical rise of Wesley's brow and the brief, indignant curl of his lip. He couldn't say it had been a sudden surprise to find his space suddenly so invaded -- the man's progress from the door to the bar had been very closely tracked and recorded -- but the sheer audacity of the action was almost. . . impressive. For the space of a few long, careful breaths, Wesley stared silently across the table with unblinking intensity, taking his time with the slow, calculated sip of his tea. Grimacing bitterly at first, he set the cup centrally on a round paper coaster, rotating the handle a quarter turn so that the plain branding of some unknown local business faced his bowl from the appropriate angle. Someone's personal collection, he guessed. Perhaps the barman's. Wesley's irritation shifted into a tight, forced smile, accompanied by the soft snort of breathy laughter. "Well, you all have your own independent concepts of hospitality, don't you?" he observed aloud, lacing his fingers gently on the table in front of him. "It's quite disorienting, to be honest, I wonder if I'm not going to find myself missing, too." As he had with the barman, Wesley slipped a hand into his breast pocket and withdrew the smiling photograph of Mr. -- with his ginger-headed wife and children, setting it down over an old water stain between them. "Then again," he said, returning his hands to their placid state, an angular mass of slender ribs, all curled into one another, the knuckles hard and white, "that might be more useful to me than this town has been, so far."
  7. Cases like this didn't happen all that often. Phelan Derry was the kind of place where everyone knew to leave well alone--the Garda only touched the human cases, and in turn the wolves of the Derry ran a tight ship when it came to their own kind. Basic rules, simple structures, all of it in place to keep peace and protect their long standing ways of life. Don't shift in public. Don't mate with anyone of a blood less pure. Don't bite. A two word command. Simple enough. Or perhaps not. Rowan Darling leaned against his front door, the cherry on his cigarette one of the brightest lights in the pre-dawn, clouded sky. Sleep, playing her recurring roll of the fickle mistress, had yet again managed to elude him for hours on end. It left him alone in his home, nothing but the pounding of insistent theories washing circles against his skull to keep him company. Two months, and no closer to any answers. Two months, and people started to worry. Sent out other people to do the bulk of the aggressive worrying for them, and those people were wholly unaware of just what a delicate balance their little world held. As far as he was aware, they'd lucked out; and it would be awful nice if they kept lucking out. Now if only he himself could luck out, and make any headway on that case that had been dropped into his lap. "That's looking a lot like your business, not ours," the superintendent had remarked, with an unceremonious toss of a clip of papers. He had filed through them carefully. Missing man, bloodstains, prints, hair of an animal decidedly not found on your casual trip into the wilds. His business indeed. What a bloody headache. With one last deep inhale of cloves and tobacco, Rowan snuffed the remains of his cigarette on the brick of his house and shuffled inside to ready himself for a rainy day. ☴ ☵ ☳ Work went without any forms of entertainment as it usually did, forcing Rowan to find his own forms of entertainment (like he usually did). Not much in the way of inspecting in Leitrim county, it was a day filled with traffic patrol and hassling the usual local suspects, minutes counted down until they finally had the good mind to reach the end of his shift. The rain had only added to the tedium, keeping him closed and cramped up in the cab of his car, inching towards claustrophobic misery. Free to roam, he instead clambered into his own car, making straight for the Derry and the pint that would be waiting for him downtown at the Willow and Thorn. But the pint would have to wait. Rowan hadn't even finished walking to the bar when he felt the wind shift, the soft mist and sharp air bringing with them the scent of something unfamiliar. A figure outside, smoke already in hand, looked up to him and he strode closer. He pulled the half-smoked clove out of his pocket and lit, balancing a black umbrella in the crook of his arm as he protected his tiny flame from the wind. "Man in the bar--" the local started as he reached the door. "Yes Eamon, that happens a lot as it would turn out," Rowan interjected mildly. Eamon pushed through, throwing him a look but not giving much pause. "--Not from around here." "I figured that much, thanks." "Englishman." "Thought the air smelled a bit staler than normal." "Private investigator." Rowan stiffened, sharp eyes turning to look at the door, like he could bore right through it and pierce right through the stranger that sat inside. His chest tightened, stomach filling with a thin coating of ice. Really, he wasn't surprised. That didn't mean he was any more keen to deal with it. He snuffed out the remaining stub of his clove cigarette and tossed it into the trash, shuffling inside while giving Eamon a casual wave. The brass bell ran and the barman turned, calling out to Rowan in greeting. He flashed the man a grin and continued his casual saunter to the bar, hands pushed deep in his pockets. "Here I am, almost standing at your bar and not a pint in sight," he quipped lightly and he swung himself into a seat. The barman gave a grunt that could have, in some settings, been considered a laugh as he was already at work filling a fresh glass with stout. "Been a bit busy around here," the barman replied, sliding the dark liquid towards him, giving a tiny twitch over his shoulder in the direction of a sparsely occupied booth in the corner. Rowan could have spotted him on his own--someone so well-dressed, proper, and sipping from a tea cup stood out like a busted nail in a board--but he gave the man a nod of thanks and gave him a glance. About his height, from the looks of it, maybe a bit over. Thin, not out of shape but certainly no weights for that one. Strapping as hell, which was unfortunate considering he felt predisposed to dislike the man already. He took a few minutes to nurse at his stout and let the room settle before getting up and walking in the direction of the corner booth. With no decorum and no permissions, Rowan slid himself and his pint into the booth across from the stranger. There was a small and amiable smile on his lips, but there was a keenness behind his half-lidded blue eyes. "This isn't much of a tourist town," he started, head at a light tilt, "though I've heard tell you aren't here for tourism. Always thought it was better to get it straight from the source."
  8. At three o'clock on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, a black cab pulled into the Derry square, carrying with it a tall stick of an Englishman, his single, well-packed suitcase, and a wide blue umbrella which he opened just outside the cab door before stepping out onto the street. Such an uncommon occurrence was this that before he ever set foot in Widow McShaney's little boarding house, all gossip had spread before him like a rampant wildfire born from the sparks of intrigue and Widow McShaney -- whose real name was Annie, but she liked to play the part -- had already in her head a whole manner of speculation as to his motives on their little town. He was tall, she could give the rumors that much, and while young Mary, her linen maid, had described him as handsome, the Widow herself found something unpleasantly pointed about his face and the sharpness of his cheeks. Thin lips, she thought, were the markings of a sour man. An unhappy man bearing unhappy news. Mary the linen maid would later tell her young beau, Bobby Dougan, that the handsome Englishman's name was Wesley St. Clair, and that he had thanked her for bringing him clean pillows and bowed his head to her while doing so, and young Bobby in his recitation of the event would mimic her smitten tones to the fat barkeep while sweeping the pub floor. "Did you ever hear something so sophisticated? she says to me," the boy's nose curled into a sneer, "I got more sophistication in my left foot!" The barman rolled his eyes, wiping a glass clean with a dirty rag, "But what's he here for, boy? That's the wonder." "Oh." Bobby shrugged. "Well, that Matheson fellow, I figure. One that disappeared out in the row? Mary said he had a badge." The old barman's lips drew tight. The Matheson fellow in question had been yet another Englishman, a writer according to gossip, who had rented an old cottage just outside of town and had not been heard from since the day he'd set foot there. The barman, like many others in the town, was fairly certain what had become of him, but it was a town matter, not some Sherlockian mystery for a foreign officer to stick his nose into. "Only trouble will come of that," he grumbled, setting down another glass. The Widow McShaney was many things -- a nosey gossip, an elderly flirt -- but a decent cook was not one of them. At the suggestion of young Mary the chambermaid, Wesley found himself seated in a corner booth at the local pub, his cell phone lying impotently face-down on the worn table and a bowl of mutton stew steaming and untouched in front of him. Unable to access anything resembling wireless, Wesley had resorted to the scribblings of a small, soft leather notebook over which he was currently bent, brow furrowed in concentration broken only by the heavy, thudding steps of the pub's barman. "Anything else I can get ya?" the man asked, looming over Wesley as he set a mug of dark tea in front of Wesley's bowl. Wesley sat back just enough to pull a photograph from his inner pocket, flashing it up at the man. "You haven't seen this gentleman around, have you?" he asked, almost sighing, as if exasperated by the answer he had not yet received. "Mr. John Matheson, aged fourty-seven, short, balding, somewhat stout. Fancies himself something of a writer." "Not recently, Sir, no. Come through maybe six weeks ago." "Come through here?" "No." "So you didn't see him?" "Not myself, just heard 'round." Wesley snorted softly and returned the photograph to his pocket, dismissively lifting the mug as if to indicate his interests had now shifted. "Thank you." "Certainly." The barman ground his teeth as he stomped off. It seemed to be a common response from what Wesley had seen so far. Everyone he talked to had heard something about his disappearing writer, but no one knew what had become of him. Perhaps his little sabbatical to find his passion had simply been a cover for the age-old adulterous elopement, or perhaps Mr. Matheson had simply run away from a life he no longer wanted. Perhaps, Wesley thought, sipping his over-steeped tea and glancing at the door as it opened to the brass tinkle of the bell overhead, these people knew more than they had heard.
  9. Phelan Derry Sories - Faol Samhraigh "Summer Wolf" - the main body of the Derry pack, made up of the active Alpha, Beta, and Gamma populations. Members of this group have voting rights, pack political influence, and are active members of the central community, living in the Derry itself. Gevies - Faol Geimhredh "Winter Wolf" - retired members of the pack who have chosen (or been forced into) a life of independence from the pack as a whole. Members of this group live outside the Derry, are devoid of political influence, voting rights, and have been sterilized, but are still considered part of the Derry pack for the purposes of fostering. Outsiders Player-created packs will be added to this list.
  10. Abilities & Transformation In human form, a mature wolf has a great number of natural benefits at their disposal, including accelerated healing, keener senses, and peak physical strength. In wolf form, these abilities are amplified and can be overwhelming to a young wolf, a turned wolf, or one that has simply not properly matured. Though they live in a village, most will feel claustrophobic if indoors for an extended amount of time, and it is not uncommon for individuals to disappear for a day or two into the wild. Transformations are difficult and painful in the early stages of maturation, and for a turned human can be unbearably agonizing. While a born wolf's body acclimates over time as the child ages into maturity, a bitten wolf can be suddenly and violently torn from one form to another. Generally speaking, a shift is triggered by an emotional change in the wolf, specific to the individual, which accelerates the heart rate and kicks the fight or flight response into high gear, resulting in a dramatic physical transformation from human to wolf. This can be the result of excitement, fear, happiness, arousal, or any similarly intense emotion. As a result, the ability to control the shift is tied closely to one's ability to control their emotions. A werewolf's appearance is generally that of any common wolf, though notably larger and proportionate to their human form. Markings, scars, and hair color are generally carried over from one form to the other, and eye color will remain the same in both forms. If a werewolf has gone feral, their eyes will turn yellow in wolf form. Born vs. Bitten All wolves in the Derry are born that way. Breeding amongst the pack is very highly regulated, and pack members are not allowed whatsoever to interbreed with humans, nor are they allowed to mix with members of outside packs without permission from the council or a pre-established arrangement. This does not mean, of course, that they cannot breed with humans, or that humans cannot be transformed into werewolves. Interbreeding - The purity of the bloodline is very important to the pack. As such, any children fathered by a wolf to a human mother will not be considered part of the community, and the mother and child will be socially shunned. Similarly, a child born to a wolf mother from a human father will be given to the Gevies or potentially sterilized after full maturation. Children resulting from interbreeding are not 'hybrids' as the werewolf state is carried among the population by a virus, and said virus is passed from mother to child in vitro. Chilren with human mothers will be human themselves, children with wolf mothers will also be wolves. Turning - Biting humans is entirely forbidden. Infecting a human not only introduces impure blood into the pack, but also carries the potential for dangerous attention from humans as a whole. A human, once bitten, only has a 10% chance of surviving the bite itself and the subsequent infection -- characterized by high fever, disorientation, vomiting, seizures, elevated heart rate, dehydration, and coma -- and of those survivors, only a handful will become carriers. If the individual survives, and the virus takes, the full change can occur over the course of a few months, during which time the person must be closely monitored for signs of their cycle. Since a bitten human will likely be an already mature adult, their first cycle is both more unpredictable than a born wolf, and more tumultuous. Of those few who are successfully turned, more than half will become feral during their first shift cycle. If a wolf becomes feral, it is the objective of the pack to hunt and kill it. A feral wolf has no control over their shift, their mating cycle, or their appetite, and the human mind will quickly descend into a rabid madness. Social Hierarchy Alpha - Male. Only a handful of individuals claim this title at any one time. These are the pack leaders, individuals who carry a high level of responsibility and have at heart the interests of the pack above any single individual. But like many positions of authority, they are not immune to corruption or political agendas and can buy their way into the council if they know the right palm to grease. This position can be inherited after the death of an Alpha, or a wolf of any other position may be promoted upon the nomination and vote of the existing council. At the very center of the council is the Head Alpha, a position held from election until death. The Head Alpha is generally, and affectionately, known as Grandda or Da, depending on 1. the age of the Alpha and 2. the age of the person addressing the Alpha. Currently, the Derry pack is without a Head Alpha, as this pack leader recently passed away, leaving the remaining Alphas (and even Betas) vying for the position in the resulting power vaccum. Beta - Male. Second in command, sometimes referred to by the title of 'lieutenant' or simply 'officer', each Alpha has as their disposal a number of Beta wolves for the purpose of keeping the peace and patrolling the borders. New Alphas are most commonly promoted from Beta positions, and Betas themselves are hand-picked by the Alpha they serve under. Gamma - Male and Female. Sometimes referred to collectively as "the Gammies", the Gamma population is the remainder of the wolf population, the commonfolk, if you will. All other wolves not in positions of authority carry the title of Gamma. Gender, Mating, and Families In the Derry population, females outnumber males 5 to 1. As a result, the pack has done away with the concept of marriage and mated pairs, and things like gender preferences and romantic attachment are generally disconnected from the act of procreation. Mature males live as bachelors, either alone or with one or two others, while females live in communal family households. Each household is comprised of 2-4 mothers, together with their immature offspring and any mature females who have yet to breed. Once bred, a female must either move into another small household which can accommodate her, or form a new household with another unbred young female. It is not recommended for any one female to have more (or less) than four children in her lifetime. Nor is it recommended for more than half of a household's mothers to be pregnant at the same time, for the sake of the mothers and the household as a whole. While males do visit and generate relationships with their children, if they wish to, the mothers of the household are the functional parental figures. Both males and females experience a monthly rut or heat cycle. In males, this is activated by pheromones released by ovulating females in heat, and lasts anywhere from two days to a week. While all males can tell when any given female is in heat or ovulating, not all females will activate a given male's rut cycle. Males respond most often to females they encounter on a regular basis - friends, coworkers, lovers, etc. - with whose scent they are already well acquainted. For adults, this is a distracting state to be in, akin to the sex drive of a hormonal human teenager, but is not entirely unmanageable. For maturing teens, however, it is dangerously unpredictable. Maturation & Fostering Physical maturation in werewolves occurs generally between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, but can be delayed as late as the early twenties in rare cases. These years are crucial in the development of a functional adult, and failure to appropriately manage a teen's maturation can result in a feral individual that will endanger the entire pack. Because of this, the Derry pack have developed a fostering system, wherein as a teen begins to come of age, the family, and the pack as a whole, will do everything in their power to prepare the teen for the difficult years to come. Part of this system includes choosing a foster from the group of older, independent wolves living outside the community. Fosters are members of the Gevies, or "winter wolves", a subdivision of the Derry pack made up of older individuals who are either past their breeding prime, or who have elected to remain in the Derry, but prefer to live independently. The Gevies live, for the most part, in single cottages scattered through the hills and forests surrounding the Derry itself, and are not considered active members of the pack, but rather retired from the pack. All Gevies have been surgically sterilized. When an individual approaches the age of fifteen, the mothers of their household will choose their foster and make a symbolic offering - either of food or other necessary goods that may be difficult for one living outside of the pack to obtain. The teen themselves will meet the potential foster and either accept or reject their mothers' choice, based on their own potential gender preferences, innate comfort with the foster, or a number of other factors. Once chosen, the teen will begin to visit the foster as frequently as the foster believes to be necessary in order to cultivate an appropriate maturation. Upon the teen's first shift cycle, they will remain with the foster full time until control over the wolf can be achieved. Fosters are the oldest, most well-controlled of all the werewolves in the pack, and it is their duty, above all else, to ensure the emergence of a controlled, mature adult into the pack population. As such, during the fostering process, they are responsible for maintaining the emotional, psychological, and physical well-being of their ward, and this includes things like teaching them to shift on command, hunting, fighting, and maintaining the explosive nature of the immature heat or rut cycle. As such, unlike with adult mating, the gender preference of the maturing wolf is an important factor of choosing an appropriate foster. Since breeding is disallowed until the age of nineteen, most teens will continue to visit their foster even after they have left their official care. Attuning To be attuned is to have a very special, instinctive kind of bond with another wolf. It can happen at any time, for any number of reasons, and each pair of attuned individuals has a unique relationship cultivated between them. While some relationships are romantic, many also form very deep friendships or lifelong platonic companionships, and all are beyond the realm of explanation. Some become attuned over time, while for others it is sudden and inexplicable, and can happen at any time after the maturation cycle, at any place, and with anyone, though it does not affect the personality or desires of either wolf in question (i.e. you're not gonna change your sexual preferences just because you became attuned with someone of a certain gender). Most describe it as an itch, an inexplicable need to remain close to someone, to know them, and to be important to them in some social fashion. Those who become attuned develop something of a sixth sense for that person's emotions, a strong empathy that is not affected by distance or time spent apart. The death of one attuned individual is often devastating and can be felt completely by their companion until the end. It is not uncommon for companions to pass within a few years of each other. Once attuned to one person, you cannot become attuned to another, even after death. Attuning is also a mutual state, between two mature wolves, and as such one cannot become attuned to a human. Hounds While most animals will steer clear of werewolves in general, those of Phelan Derry have cultivated a very special kinship with the wolfhound. Most family households will have at least one of these enormous, shaggy dogs, and they make excellent protectors for immature children as well as close companions for bachelor males. They can be spotted walking clusters of children to school, standing guard outside cottages, or trotting along unleashed at the heels of their masters.
  11. I. Be on your best behavior OOC. This means no bullying or bad-natured pestering, just general golden rule and everyone will be a-ok. In this same vein, please do not take things done IC by characters personally, unless you have some reason to think the player themselves are using their characters as a medium for ill-treatment of others. If you have a problem in Aduantas, please talk to Niki or Gin. II. There are no word count requirements. Long posts are fine. Short posts are fine. One-word posts are fine. We are not here to micromanage your roleplay. However, please be on the same page as whoever you're writing with, so there are no hurt feelings or failed expectations. III. Tag your threads. We have tags. Tags are awesome. When posting IC in Aduantas, you MUST tag your thread with the names of all PCs (full name, as separate tags) and any content warnings (mature content, violence, etc.) you deem necessary. Use your best judgment. IV. You must post an application/plot page in order to play. See here .
  12. WESLEY A. ST. CLAIR TAKE ME TO A PLACE WITHOUT NO NAME AGE Thirty-Six SPECIES Human PACK AFFILIATION N/A PACK POSITION N/A ATTUNED N/A OCCUPATION Private Investigator RELATIONSHIPS One older sister SEEKING People to look down on him as a nosy outsider and an Englishman
  13. ROWAN C. DARLING the bite that binds, the gift that gives AGE Thirty-six SPECIES Werewolf PACK AFFILIATION Sories PACK POSITION Beta ATTUNED No OCCUPATION Inspector for the Garda; pack inspector/law enforcement RELATIONSHIPS A ton of kids (most of which would be under 18 and therefore NPCs); Parents, deceased SEEKING Other cop friends, pack members (both in agreement with him and not in agreement with him), friends, enemies, perhaps a female he sort of preferred during mating cycles--nothing permanent or lasting here, definitely would play out in the kind of way you'd want a friends with benefits type of relationship to.
  14. Wolf Land Once, they covered the Emerald Isle. Once, they protected the lost, the weak, and the young. Once, they led men into battle and feasted on the enemy. Once, they were many. Once. Now, they cluster with the last of their kind who have not scattered to the wind across land and sea, clinging to the old ways like a dying glimmer of hope long since lost. The largest single pack of werewolves left in Ireland now make up more than half the population of the small village of Phelan Derry, and though they live amongst the humans they once protected, they no longer accept them as they once did. Now they are the bane of their species, the hunters of their dead, and even though a peace has settled on these streets, those who grew up in the Derry know better than to leave their homes after nightfall. Even the garda steer clear of pack matters. But all that is about to change. With the death of their head Alpha, the pack has begun to descend into political turmoil and the remaining Alpha leaders are now vying for the spot at the top, while below there lies a quiet stirring in the shadows. Phelan Derry County Leitrim, Connacht Province, Republic of Ireland Also known as Faoladh Doire ("Werewolf Grove") to the locals, Phelan Derry is a remote, rural village located amongst the hills and forests of County Leitrim, accessible only by a single road in and out of the town. Though it falls under the jurisdiction of the county council, this small population (just under 500 individuals) is, for the most part, entirely self-sustained.
  16. You do not need to wait for a character to be accepted in order to start playing. However, you cannot play in-character without first filling out and posting the following template as a new thread in this forum under the title of your character's name, last name first (i.e. Smith, John). If you are unsure how to fill this out, you're welcome to check out other applications or ask a mod for help. This will also function as your plot page. To copy the form, simply copy/paste the post below:
  • Create New...