Welcome to Gaia! ::

He sits at the end of the bar sipping his drink and looks up slowly looking at her with a quizzical look " you don't drink, yet somehow managed to wander into a bar?" stare

Walking upstairs into the VIP lounge, the young fox sat on the musty old couch and waited for a waiter. He was in reality only 16, but his looks made him seem of legal drinking age. A bartender finally visited him, and he placed an order for two shots of uzo. She brought them up, and he drank one quickly. After she had left he spoke to the full shot still laying across the table.

"You always used to come here... and I still can't see why. The drinks are good, but the place is a dump... maybe that's why you liked it, brother..."

He snatched the shot up and drank it, it's effects finally hitting him.

"Urgh... let's hop I can get hum widout getun arestid..."

He staggered back down the stairs before resting at the bottom of them. He looked around at the rest of the people in the bar. He mumbld to himself "Loogat all dese scum...".

He suddenly stopped, horror in his eyes. He could of sworn he saw his brother playing darts, but when he looked back nobody was there.

"wadda hell izz goinon no..." He whispered to himself. He went over to the dartboard and picked up three darts. Trying to see straight, he threw one. He missed the board. He threw the second. He hit the outermost edge. He closed his eyes and said "Bartender, get a shot for me and my brother..." under his breath. He threw the third dart, and he hit a bullseye.

"An people say goats dun exits..." He went and sat in the chair in the corner of the room, thinking heavily.

He grins and spoke just loud enough to hear "today you have ran into a drunk with split personality and a mysterious figure from the outskirts, tomorrow you could very well run into three happy cheery brothers who walk around town at night and come down here looking for a good time with lots of their alcoholic friends, the day of the week determines the company you keep."

A younger, Grey Wolf walks into the bar from the windy night, and slowly unzips his black windbreaker as he approaches the bar. It's been a long, tedious day of work. He looks at the bartender.

"Boshlevik, please."

The order is not understood. He leans over the bar, and names the ingrediants, counting them off with his paw.

"So, pretty much it's a White Russian with Irish Cream Liqour instead of Cream," he finishes up.

"No, not really," He says, "Just the booze I drink."