you aren't born with strength, you cultivate it

RHYS | Go throw your sticks and those stones

Written/Published: 26 APRIL 2023

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Hah, you think you can rob a place with Rhys there? Think again.

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Oh OCs galore! Among two actual Roleplayed characters.
- I love building up lore despite it not being needed.

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"Go throw your sticks and those stones
Right here at my iron bones
'Cause I've taken more than you know
And you can not break me or shake me down
Go on, take a stab at my heart
Sharpen all the knives you got
'Cause I'm bulletproof from a shot
And you won't escape me or fake me out"
"Fearless" | Kat Leon

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TW: violence(obviously), beating, guns, mentioned cannibalism

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His truck rumbles smoothly to a halt in a parking space. Without a thought of possibly checking his parking job, he pulls the keys out of the ignition and exits. The door slams behind him, keys being neatly tucked into his left pocket. Humming a soft tune, he practically skips to the ragged-looking establishment, slipping past the glass door and into the hallway separating the bar and the outside world. He shoves past the second door, the smell of booze and sandalwood assaulting his senses alongside the smell of grilled and fried food. Gazes shift over to him, a few raising their glasses or greeting him with a nod. He could only cheekily tip his hat in return.

Focusing on the counter, he finds himself face-to-face with a woman nursing a glass of bourbon. Icy blue eyes lock onto him, scanning him from cowboy hat to leather boots. A few strands of her black-blue dyed hair fall over her eyes, resulting in her blowing it out of her face. As usual, he takes in the amazing art covering her arms, barely an inch of skin exposed. It was likely one of the only things the two of them had in common. Well, that is, besides their scarily strong tolerance for liquor. She swirls her glass, pierced lip curling into a sad excuse of a smile. It looked more like a snarl than anything.

"Mr. Valentine," she greets, her southern drawl tugging his name this way and that, "I haven't seen you around here in a while."

Her notation, while obvious, wasn't helpful. Rhys grunts, taking a seat on the stool nestled deep in the corner of the room where he could keep an eye on his surroundings and, most importantly, the door. "Ms. Savage," he follows her greeting, almost temped to mock her accent but choosing life, "a pleasure as always." He glances, almost nervously, at the new faces closest to the pool table, "I've been... occupied."

Despite their lack of conversations outside of the Yellow Jacket Inn, he could see the way the gears run in her head, spinning and swiftly identifying his problem. She notes the way he wears a leather jacket instead of a simple, breathable shirt and the way his eyes fail to leave the fresh meat of the Yellow Jacket. "Find yourself some trouble again?"

From two stools down, a pale man with short, messy black hair turns to the conversing pair. "Is it your truck again?" He jokes, purposefully cutting the pseudo-interrogation off. Rhys relaxes, not having noticed he even tensed in the first place.

Turning to the Irishman, he glares playfully. "That was one time, Ben."

Smirking, the man takes a large swig from his glass, "one time too many Rhys, that thing was trashed when you brought it to me last."