DIR Return Create A Forum - Home
---------------------------------------------------------
The United Roleplayer's Guild
HTML https://unitedroleplayers.createaforum.com
---------------------------------------------------------
*****************************************************
DIR Return to: New Orleans/London Story Arcs/Story Updates (Not RPs)
*****************************************************
#Post#: 20444--------------------------------------------------
New Orleans Story: Dark Fire Rider: A Robert Jones Story
By: Raven Tepes Date: October 19, 2025, 12:39 am
---------------------------------------------------------
The hum of the Harley broke the silence of the Louisiana night.
A storm was gathering over the bayou — not rain, not thunder,
but something older, darker. The kind of storm only the cursed
could feel in their bones. Robert Jones felt it deep in his
chest, beneath the ribs that had once been broken by silver.
He rode with his leather jacket open, the wind tearing through
his hair and the scent of wet earth and jasmine thick in the
air. New Orleans shimmered on the horizon like a mirage — a
crooked crown of neon, sin, and swamp mist. The city always
called him back, no matter how far he tried to run.
Robert wasn’t like most werewolves. The change didn’t rule him —
he ruled it. The dark fire pulsing in his veins burned hotter
than any moonlight curse. It had come to him in the chaos of a
bar fight gone supernatural, when he’d killed a demon that
refused to die. It left a mark on him, a black flame that obeyed
no god or man.
Now it flickered faintly across his knuckles as he throttled the
bike, the faint glow lighting his face in flashes of hellish
orange. The locals whispered his name like a ghost story — the
Fire Wolf of Orleans Parish, a drifter with eyes like burning
coals and fists that left ash instead of bruises.
He slowed as the lights of the city gave way to the long stretch
of Highway 90. The sign read Welcome to New Orleans — The
Crescent City. The moon hung low, blood-orange and swollen over
the wetlands.
He wasn’t here for pleasure. He was here because the Covenant of
the Crescent, a hidden circle of supernatural enforcers, had
sent word: balance in the city was breaking. Vampires were
organizing. Witch covens were disappearing. And now, word was
spreading of a new gang on the rise — The Wild Cats.
Robert had heard of them before. Werelions, tigers, leopards —
the feline kind. They ran guns, protection, and dark rituals out
of the lower parishes. But their leader, Thomas Payne, was
something else entirely. A werelion with control, charisma, and
the kind of strength that made lesser beasts kneel.
Robert parked his bike outside an old roadside dive bar. The
sign read Lucille’s Roadhouse, the ‘L’ flickering in the dark.
The parking lot was half full — mostly old trucks and a few
choppers that didn’t belong to the locals. The smell hit him
first — oil, beer, and the metallic tang of predatory musk.
Cats.
He swung his leg off the Harley, his boots crunching gravel, and
muttered to himself, “Guess we’re starting early.”
Inside, the bar’s light was dim and smoky. Country-blues played
from a dusty jukebox in the corner. The bartender — a wiry old
man with a glass eye — looked up and froze for a moment before
nodding slowly.
Robert didn’t have to look long. A group of men and women in
leather sat around two tables pushed together, laughing too
loudly, their pupils just a touch too narrow. The Wild Cats.
One of them, a tall, lean man with braids and sharp cheekbones,
rose from his chair. His nose twitched. “You smell like wet dog
and gasoline,” he said.
Robert smirked and walked to the bar. “Guess that makes you the
litter box.”
The laughter stopped. Chairs scraped the floor.
The man snarled, his skin rippling — claws half-forming at his
fingertips. But before things could explode, a deep, steady
voice cut through the tension.
“That’s enough, Malik.”
The crowd parted. Thomas Payne rose from his seat, all power and
poise. In human form, he was massive — a wall of muscle and
quiet fury, his dark skin glistening under the flicker of neon.
His eyes were amber — lion’s eyes.
“Robert Jones,” Thomas said, his tone smooth and cold. “I
thought the Covenant burned your name off their lists. Guess
they couldn’t keep a good dog down.”
Robert turned, slowly, his dark fire eyes meeting Thomas’s. “And
I heard the Wild Cats stopped chasing their tails and started
building an army. Guess I had to see it for myself.”
Thomas smiled, all teeth. “You think you can burn us out, Fire
Wolf?”
Robert’s hands twitched — the dark fire pulsing in his veins,
whispering to be unleashed. “I don’t think,” he said softly. “I
know.”
The first move came from Malik — a blur of fur and claws. Robert
didn’t flinch. His left hand ignited in black flame and met the
pouncing cat midair. The impact sent a shockwave through the
bar, bottles shattering, tables splintering. Malik screamed as
the fire spread — not natural flame, but shadowfire that
devoured essence instead of flesh.
Chaos erupted. The bar exploded into violence — claws, teeth,
roars, and fire. Robert moved like a predator unchained, his
strikes a rhythm of destruction. Each motion was trained,
deliberate, almost ritualistic.
He grabbed a Wild Cat by the throat and slammed him through a
pool table, flame coursing up his arm. Another came from behind
— a blur of leopard-spotted fury — but Robert ducked low, swept
her legs, and unleashed a burst of dark fire that sent her
skidding across the floor in smoke and ash.
Thomas Payne stood still through it all, watching with the cold
patience of a true apex. When the last of his crew hit the floor
groaning, Thomas stepped forward.
“You’ve got power, Wolf,” he said, rolling his neck, the sound
like cr@cking bone. “But you ain’t the only one blessed by
darkness.”
His skin rippled. The air grew heavy. Thomas’s roar shook the
room — a sound that shattered glass and made the rafters quake.
His body expanded, bones rearranging, muscles surging. In
seconds, the man was gone — and a lion-man stood in his place,
golden mane bristling with supernatural light.
Robert grinned. “Good. I was getting bored.”
He let go. The black fire surged over his body, consuming his
form — wolf and flame becoming one. His eyes flared white-hot.
The Fire Wolf and the Lion King clashed in a storm of violence
and magic.
Outside, Lucille’s Roadhouse burned. Shadows of two titans
fought in the inferno, one wreathed in fire, the other in
radiant gold. The highway stretched empty and silent, save for
the distant rumble of thunder.
When the smoke finally settled, Robert emerged from the ruins,
his jacket scorched, his knuckles bleeding light. Thomas lay
among the wreckage, half-man, half-beast, his breath ragged.
“Finish it,” Thomas rasped.
Robert knelt, the fire dimming. “Not tonight,” he said quietly.
“This city needs balance, not ashes.”
He stood, walking to his Harley. “Tell your pride to stay out of
the Quarter. If they don’t…” He let the fire curl around his
hand, the air hissing with heat. “I’ll come back.”
Thomas’s eyes burned with defiance — but also respect. “Maybe
we’re not so different, Wolf.”
Robert kicked the Harley to life, the growl of the engine
echoing through the swamp. “That’s the problem,” he said, and
rode into the storm.
In the heart of New Orleans, legends burned like fire in the
night — and somewhere, in the darkness between the bayous and
Bourbon Street, the Fire Wolf rode again.
*****************************************************