[Etar Magnesen]

Drip. Drip. Drip.
Magne dropped low, slinking along an alley, his belly low to the ground. He was black and dark dark grey in his black leopard shape. In the dark shadows he was creeping through he was merely a barely discernible silhouette, all black with eyes so pale they were almost white. He was slinking towards the edges of the Industrial district, to a pub where he had hidden some clothes a while back. The stud in his ear that remained there on both forms glinted in the light of the dying day as he ghosted forwards.

He jumped up into a chink in the wall, a fairly large chink big enough for a person and shifted quickly, yanking on a shirt and a pair of pants He ran a hand through his hair,rings glinting as his hair fell right back in his face.

He swung his human legs over the edge of the crack in the wall and leaped down landing nimbly in the alley, skirting a puddle. He was certain no one had tailed him after his most recent job, and he was certain he hadn't left any traces of himself there.

He walked into the pub, sliding into the place at the bar with a wall to his back. He would feel safer, and would be able to relax, his eyes hooding lazily as he glanced around the place. He was fairly well known as an assassin that was good enough not to have been caught all these years, and he could never be to careful.

[Thorne Fenerial]

As the sun set Thorne made his way down the street, a scowl on his face. The day had not been a good one, and he was currently pressing his palm to a deep cut over his ribs. He swung around a building, snarling at someone too slow to get out of his way, and found the inn where he had rented a room. People gave him strange looks as he stomped up the stairs, bleeding on the floor. When Thorne got to his room, he opened the door and slammed it behind him. He hadn’t been wearing a shirt, so he immediately went to the washbasin in the corner and grabbed a cloth, putting it over the wound in his side. With a sigh Thorne leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes and holding the wet cloth over his lower chest.

It wasn’t long before the cut stopped bleeding, and Thorne knew it wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought. But it still hurt to move, and he couldn’t lift his arm over his head. When he tried, Thorne grimaced and gave a growl low in his throat. Huffing and growling to himself, Thorne wiped the blood off his skin and then went to wear his pack was, pulling a shirt and spare pair of black pants out of it. He kept on his boots, and when he was dressed Thorne was in all black.

This time when Thorne left he didn’t even bother with the door. Instead he swung out the window, down the roof and made the low jump to the ground. His boots made only a small sound on the ground, and Thorne bent his knees with the soft impact. Looking around, Thorne saw a pub with all of its lights on. He strode down the road, ignoring people in his way. Inside he went to the bar and ordered a drink, and when it came up he tossed a few coins on the high wooden bar, and stalked to a corner, where he stood surveying the crowd. His gaze briefly connected with another man’s, but he paid no attention. He gave the man a warning glare, but then went to looking at the other people, to see if there was anyone of interest. His gaze went back to the man. He didn’t look familiar, of that Thorne was pretty sure. He just had such an arrogant air about him that seemed to tick Thorne off, even across the room.

[Etar Magnesen]

Magne let his head lean back against the wall, a lazy, automatic smirk spreading across his face. He was a bit overconfident of himself but it came from the fear that most people had of him. He draped on arm on the bar, ring decorated fingers drumming on it in boredom.

As the door slammed open and in stomped a man with a presence that just radiated fight, Magne tilted his head, letting his blonde hair fall out of the way of his gaze. It rested on the man, his eyes (black at the moment) gliding easily to meet the mans.

He didn't seem to like something about Magne, and frankly he looked angry in a delightfully spitfire filled kind of way. Magne just let his head lean back against the wall, eyes not leaving the man. Maybe if he had the balls to, he would come over and talk to Magne. And if not, he wasn't worth the trouble anyway. Not that Magne would be terrible to him. The blonde's personality and looks and the way he acted all clashed. He wasn't nice, and he didn't act it, but his words tended to be easy going; and while he was confrontational, he rarely insinuated anything.

He slipped a hand into this pocket and dropped some coins on the bar, his gaze never leaving the strangers, though his hand opened with remarkable accuracy to receive the beer that was passed to him. That's the way he was: hyper aware, lazy, and arrogant in an obnoxiously sedated manner. And of course there was that glint to every killers eyes that was discernible when he got to emotional whether happy or sad.