Faolan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
reticence) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2016-03-17 04:12 pm
reticence) wrote in undergrounds2016-03-17 04:12 pm
Entry tags:
[open] if you pinch me i swear to god...
A. GRUMPY IRISH LUNCHTIME
Being an Irish ex-patriot for reasons Faolan really tries not to get into in everyday conversation if he can help it, Faolan puts a lot of effort in being nothing more than the average Londoner. And for the most part he can just blend in and hardly anyone bats an eye when he opens his mouth and continues to sound like he is who he is despite having lived in the city for over ten years now (that is to say, a boy who grew up on a farm in the suburbs of Belfast).
But today, he can't get away from it. It's assaulting him on the streets, in the form of the drunken revelry of the pub-crawlers, who started just before noon and seem to still be going strong. In the amount of green and shamrocks and "Kiss Me I'm Irish" that had been thrust in his face on the way in to work that morning. Even the plate of soda bread that someone had brought in and placed in the communal kitchenette area at the offices gives him pause. (And no, he doesn't take a piece. He learned his lesson with free food after the fiasco with the tea.) The first person to comment to him on the holiday in the building itself nearly gets their head ripped off, never mind the fact that he's drinking coffee out of the mug Sylvia had gifted him a few months ago.
By the time that lunch rolls around, he's worked himself into such a mood, he knows he needs to step out and take a break. And so he does, grabbing his leather jacket, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and hitting the streets to hopefully walk it off. It's about the time that he's passed the same storefront for the third time that he realizes he should probably get himself something to eat if he doesn't want to return to the Council building in an even worse mood than he'd left it.
In retrospect, he probably should have given a bit more warning before he'd stopped dead on the sidewalk as he'd done. A lesson he learns the hard way as he finds himself nearly bowled over by the person traveling behind him...
B. GRUMPY IRISH PUB CRAWL
At some point during the day, Faolan gives up not only on holding back his temper, but he gives up on trying to avoid the holiday as well. And so he follows in the footsteps of many an Irishman before him, and finds himself seated at a bar, a drink in his hand, and absolutely no plans for the rest of the night save several more drinks and a drunken stagger back home, or back to Hillingdon House, or god knows where else the night may bring him, he really hasn't thought ahead that far.
What he has thought about is that he'd like to get himself drunk enough so that everything should start to fade around the edges, so that he can forget about any romantic struggles he may or may not be having, and so that he can forget about being Faolan O'Neill, Head of Hillingdon House, or Faolan O'Neill, Guardian of the Night Council. He figures he's owed at least that much by this point.
There just so happens to be an open seat beside him, if anyone cares to join. Though he's hardly giving off that welcoming of an aura, truth be told. Just because he's given in to Saint Patrick's Day doesn't mean that he has to like it.
C. HERE COMES TROUBLE
What better way to end such a day than with the feeling that one is being followed. And with as much alcohol as Faolan had consumed trying to forget his troubles, he's rather slow on the uptake. Unsure as to whether he's actually really catching on to something or whether his senses of perception are just skewed thanks to the drink and thus a sense of paranoia settling in. He attempts to make his way down the street in as calm and collected a fashion as he otherwise might do, which is to say that he's got his hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the cool of the night.
But Faolan doesn't exactly make an imposing picture. Standing 5'6" tall at full height on a good day, he's built lean and wiry, for speed and dexterity. Not necessarily for taking a man down in a fight. And certainly not another creature besides that.
He could chance a glance over his shoulder, but he's pretty sure that if he spots anything he's entirely not equipped to handle it at the moment. He digs through his pocket in the vague hope that he might find something of use -- a knife, his gun -- but he's left it all back at his flat for the evening. The only thing his fingers clasp around is his mobile, which he holds onto like a drowning man to a life raft, as it very well might be the only thing to save him, if this all goes pear-shaped.
He thinks about splitting into a run for a second, but he's hardly sure he can walk in a straight line anymore, let alone sprint. So he settles for the next best (or possibly worst) idea.
"I know you're there."
D. CHOOSE YOUR OWN (GRUMPY & IRISH) ADVENTURE
Have another idea? Feel free to go for it and/or plot it out with me via PM/PP at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
lycanthropy101! c:
Being an Irish ex-patriot for reasons Faolan really tries not to get into in everyday conversation if he can help it, Faolan puts a lot of effort in being nothing more than the average Londoner. And for the most part he can just blend in and hardly anyone bats an eye when he opens his mouth and continues to sound like he is who he is despite having lived in the city for over ten years now (that is to say, a boy who grew up on a farm in the suburbs of Belfast).
But today, he can't get away from it. It's assaulting him on the streets, in the form of the drunken revelry of the pub-crawlers, who started just before noon and seem to still be going strong. In the amount of green and shamrocks and "Kiss Me I'm Irish" that had been thrust in his face on the way in to work that morning. Even the plate of soda bread that someone had brought in and placed in the communal kitchenette area at the offices gives him pause. (And no, he doesn't take a piece. He learned his lesson with free food after the fiasco with the tea.) The first person to comment to him on the holiday in the building itself nearly gets their head ripped off, never mind the fact that he's drinking coffee out of the mug Sylvia had gifted him a few months ago.
By the time that lunch rolls around, he's worked himself into such a mood, he knows he needs to step out and take a break. And so he does, grabbing his leather jacket, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and hitting the streets to hopefully walk it off. It's about the time that he's passed the same storefront for the third time that he realizes he should probably get himself something to eat if he doesn't want to return to the Council building in an even worse mood than he'd left it.
In retrospect, he probably should have given a bit more warning before he'd stopped dead on the sidewalk as he'd done. A lesson he learns the hard way as he finds himself nearly bowled over by the person traveling behind him...
B. GRUMPY IRISH PUB CRAWL
At some point during the day, Faolan gives up not only on holding back his temper, but he gives up on trying to avoid the holiday as well. And so he follows in the footsteps of many an Irishman before him, and finds himself seated at a bar, a drink in his hand, and absolutely no plans for the rest of the night save several more drinks and a drunken stagger back home, or back to Hillingdon House, or god knows where else the night may bring him, he really hasn't thought ahead that far.
What he has thought about is that he'd like to get himself drunk enough so that everything should start to fade around the edges, so that he can forget about any romantic struggles he may or may not be having, and so that he can forget about being Faolan O'Neill, Head of Hillingdon House, or Faolan O'Neill, Guardian of the Night Council. He figures he's owed at least that much by this point.
There just so happens to be an open seat beside him, if anyone cares to join. Though he's hardly giving off that welcoming of an aura, truth be told. Just because he's given in to Saint Patrick's Day doesn't mean that he has to like it.
C. HERE COMES TROUBLE
What better way to end such a day than with the feeling that one is being followed. And with as much alcohol as Faolan had consumed trying to forget his troubles, he's rather slow on the uptake. Unsure as to whether he's actually really catching on to something or whether his senses of perception are just skewed thanks to the drink and thus a sense of paranoia settling in. He attempts to make his way down the street in as calm and collected a fashion as he otherwise might do, which is to say that he's got his hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the cool of the night.
But Faolan doesn't exactly make an imposing picture. Standing 5'6" tall at full height on a good day, he's built lean and wiry, for speed and dexterity. Not necessarily for taking a man down in a fight. And certainly not another creature besides that.
He could chance a glance over his shoulder, but he's pretty sure that if he spots anything he's entirely not equipped to handle it at the moment. He digs through his pocket in the vague hope that he might find something of use -- a knife, his gun -- but he's left it all back at his flat for the evening. The only thing his fingers clasp around is his mobile, which he holds onto like a drowning man to a life raft, as it very well might be the only thing to save him, if this all goes pear-shaped.
He thinks about splitting into a run for a second, but he's hardly sure he can walk in a straight line anymore, let alone sprint. So he settles for the next best (or possibly worst) idea.
"I know you're there."
D. CHOOSE YOUR OWN (GRUMPY & IRISH) ADVENTURE
Have another idea? Feel free to go for it and/or plot it out with me via PM/PP at