- Messages
- 723
- OOC First Name
- Amanda
- Wand
- Olivewood 17 3/4'', core of Runespoor Fang
- Age
- 95
Retirement was not treating Valcan well. He was prone to nasty temperament and irritability that went hand in hand with his age. Anyone who had the stomach to call him a crotchety old man- or call him anything, really- would find themselves in the gutter. He'd been craving an assignment, but he had yet to commit murder following his leave from the Ministry. This was bad form. It was embarrassing, really. He did not wish to be the Death Eater who let the years rot him from the outside in.
Perhaps he would find something in London worth killing. The man traced his steps to an out-of-the-way pub. It had been a favorite of his and Bearse's during their earlier years, a place where their kind could fester in peace. Bearse was long dead. Not a day passed by where he didn't remember that, and where he didn't want to hunt down Rambolt and snap her pretty little neck. Unfortunately, that was not feasible for his time and location. He would pay homage instead to his friend with a drink and a smoke.
He tore through the tavern, his boots thundering on hardwood. The man squinted his eyes, seeking a booth. There it was. Unfortunately, some dolt going a different direction smacked right into him. "Watch where you are going," Valcan growled. It wasn't difficult to tell that he wasn't from England. His body was thick, but his accent was even thicker. He started for his booth again. If he was given any trouble here, well, cigars burned skin quite nicely.
Perhaps he would find something in London worth killing. The man traced his steps to an out-of-the-way pub. It had been a favorite of his and Bearse's during their earlier years, a place where their kind could fester in peace. Bearse was long dead. Not a day passed by where he didn't remember that, and where he didn't want to hunt down Rambolt and snap her pretty little neck. Unfortunately, that was not feasible for his time and location. He would pay homage instead to his friend with a drink and a smoke.
He tore through the tavern, his boots thundering on hardwood. The man squinted his eyes, seeking a booth. There it was. Unfortunately, some dolt going a different direction smacked right into him. "Watch where you are going," Valcan growled. It wasn't difficult to tell that he wasn't from England. His body was thick, but his accent was even thicker. He started for his booth again. If he was given any trouble here, well, cigars burned skin quite nicely.