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Luke: *He squats and lifts her foot, checking the sole, making sure there are no punctures* "I got used to it, chica, like...Flintstone feet, man, shoe leather soles. You aren't, and like...be careful of tetanus, you know? It lives in soil." *He brushes her feet clear of debris*
David Fionndamh: The music he plays in the distance from them, though seeming again in tune with the nature around the area.
Luke: *Safely at a distance, he hums along to the music without thinking*
Rayne ~Tesla~ Preston: "Im not afraid of any illness.. " Rayne explained with determination. "Fine, i will put my shoes back on." Smirking and rolling her eyes then gives off a little gasped cry, and pulls her foot away, laughing, as he brushes it. "Gah! Ticklish!" He was lucky she didnt kick instead.
Rayne ~Tesla~ Preston: ((i need to go. falling asleep. :( ))
Luke: *He gives her an evil smile, as he hands back the shoes* "Ticklish, huh?" ooc: Okay. Maybe we can all meet again sometime.
Luke: *And they head deeper in....spend some time, etc. and leave later in the day?*
Rayne ~Tesla~ Preston: *that they do*
Raymond "Grey" Baxter: *a young man [Caucasian but Native American features are clear on his face/ late 20's/ about 6'6"/ around 350 lbs mostly comprised of lean/well toned muscle/ brown hair/ tanned skin/ midnight brown (almost black) eyes/ wearing a deer-skin jacket (with a tribal-style glyph on the back), t-shirt, jeans, sport-boots, fingerless gloves and an earth-tone satchel over left shoulder] appears at the edge of the woods in the early morning hours of Dawn and looks about noting others have been in the area, though they had respect and at least cleaned up afterwards it seems*
Raymond "Grey" Baxter: *since nature has removed almost all signs of their visit, and he can sense no other lingering in the area of the visitors, he smiles to himself before moving deeper again into the woods* [OOC: last posts of "Luke" & "Rayne" was over a week ago, and time out is 2017-05-29 @ 07:05/04:05 EDT/PDT]
: Sunset, dusk; a pleasant summer evening. A band of misfit, thuggish youths gather in the wooded park near the lake. Teens that no doubt are well-known to local authorities, and not in a good way. Long, greasy hair, skin eruptions and infections, dirty, ragged fingernails, and either famine-thin or oily obesity. Their dental work (or lack thereof) suggests meth. They gather without a signal, emerging from the woods near the lake, giving and receiving nods and grunts. Not many, maybe half a dozen, but enough and of a sort to set off warning bells for most visitors.
: They slouch through the park, narrow eyes darting left and right; seeking, inspecting, weighing. They linger near kids playing, till the mothers gather the little darlings up and pack them away in mini-vans decorated with stick-figures.
: The misfits stumble and lurch past other teens, watching them bond in social groups, grooming each other, sharing food and drink, practicing mating rituals. Although some of the males posture and flex, there's an awareness that these are not peers to be bullied; despite their greater numbers, they know the others are a danger on some level. The bonded teens gather their things and, in a display of bravado, saunter off, keeping the females in the center of the group. They are allowed to depart.
: The group continues on in a meandering course. There, in the gloaming, an old man sits feeding sky-rats; pigeons. One greasy, swollen-gut thug grunts, and the other fade away into the landscaping as the dark gathers.
: As the shadows grow, the bushes shift and rattle. The old man, out of popcorn, rises and begins to totter towards the trail and his home. The greasy, swollen-gut thug grins a rotted smile and steps into his path. "Hey, old man."
: "I ... I don't have any money." The elderly fellow protests softly.
: "S'ok, I don't want your money. You're invited to our party, Max. We're having a Wild Rumpus tonight, and you're the guest of honor...." Grunts and growling come from the edges of the trail, and shadows rise tall. Misshapen dark shapes, glimses of horn, scale, tooth, and tail; impossible outlines against the woods in the moonlight. The old man looks nervously from side to side, and the popcorn bag falls from his trembling fingers
: "That's right." The thug's voice has lowered, roughened, like a monster's. "Be very afraid.