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Log Title: Dusk on the Castle

Log setting: It's dusk, Saturday, January 12nd, 2002 on the playground.

Log Cast:
Trace
Jason
Morgana
Log (don’t ask)

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Almost dusk, and the dying sun has silhouetted the tops of the surrounding trees in a smoldering sky fringed in the purples and blues of oncoming night. Trace sits up in his fort, legs and undone shoelaces dangling. One arm supports his leaning frame, while the other pinches half a joint. It's gone out again, but the bluecap hasn't noticed yet. Wistful and content at once, his gaze is lifted to the treetops nearby, studying the fruit suspended there among the dark leaves.

Morgana steps in from the park.

Morgana is soaked from the rain, but the borrowed (obviously, since it hangs to her ankles) gray rain-coat keeps her torso dry. She walks in quietly, looking around the area.

Jason's been looking for awhile now, but that's not necessarily a ad thing. He hasn't been enjoying the atmosphere of the Walker-Ashley household very much since the return, so a stroll is kinda nice. As long as when he /does/ find the object of his search, there's nothing to freak out over. Frankly, though, Trace is probably the only one Jason doesn't expect trouble from lately. Anyhow, once the blue-headed one's found, looking to be in a rather comfortable state, Jason gets a little smile and quietly slips up behind the castle-structure. It's not until he's just under the kid that he makes any noise, calling up quietly, "'N what if *I* wanted in on that?" Teasingly petulant, though in the subdued manner that has been his lately.

Morgana doesn't see Trace up in the tree, nor Jason behind the castle structure, since she doesn't tilt her head up much from the ground when doing her little scan of the park. She walks quietly over to a pear on the ground and picks it up, wiping the little bit of mud from it onto the borrowed coat. Satisfied with the cleanliness of the fruit, she takes a bite of it noisily with a little 'mm' and a slurp as juice drips down her chin. She seems to think she's alone, and wanders over to one of the swings with her pear, plopping down on the leather sling seat and squeakily rocking back and forth gently.

Trace looks down at Jason with surprise, but a slow and happy surprise that doesn't look all that startled. Entirely not jumpy, this one. "Then I'd say..." he thinks about it, and then holds the unlit joint up with a stoned and in love smile. But wait, that's not saying something. Oh well. He motions for the redhead to join him on top of the castle, smiling, "Jason. C'mere." Oh yeah. That's what he'd say. It isn't until the noisy crunch that the bluecap finally realizes the two boys aren't alone, and he looks over confusedly, but from where he sits on his lofty perch he can only see the upper half of the swings. One of them has jostling chains, though. Check that out. He regards them seriously.

Atop the castle, should Jason take him up on that offer, one would see the wooden boards littered with two other roaches, as well as Trace's sketch book and some tiny stumps of scattered colored chalk. One page has been torn from the book, and lies crumpled and into a wadded ball. The book itself hasn't been moved from it's spot since the colorful etchings were spilled over its open pages. They start in the center and spiral outward, rainbow swirls that shift and blend and race for the margins. And upon reaching the barriers of that page, they break free. They spill out onto the rough wooden boards joyously, on and on, and finally the starburst streaks of color burst from the castle top altogether.

Jason grins a tired little grin, then pads around and clambers up to flop down beside the blue-braided friend. "Remembrin' the wonders of doobage, huh?" he murmurs, gently prodding the smaller kid with his elbow. But at the sound that draws Trace's attention, Jason lifts his head and peers over as well. Brows furrow, a little frown, but then he just shrugs and looks down to the stuff on the castle-top. "Whatcha een doin?" he asks softly, even though it should be plainly obvious. A faint smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.

*crunch* Pear bite. *squeak* Chains of the swings protesting as they rock. *mm* Girl enjoying the yummy pear. She really must be distracted.. she hasn't heard the voices of the boys. Maybe her chewing is muffling their noise. Kind of like when you're watching TV and eating doritos.. the crunch covers up the tv and you have to turn it up real high, you know? *squeak* *Crunch* *pause* "Guh.. sick." *thump* The pear is tossed into the bushes as a rotten part is bitten into. It's hard to tell if a pear is good in the dusky light, after all. Morgan's voice is pretty memorable. Such a low and throaty sound.

Trace looks away from the mystery of the jostling chains and back to Jason. His smile blooms sweet and shy, and he drops his eyes down to the chalk streaks he's drawn all over the castle's rooftop. "I jest... been colorin'," he decides. "An' smokin' an' thinkin'. An' guess what else? I cleaned out my fort. So there ain't nothin' to remind me of nothin'. I hung out with Caddy awhile. She took the bag of trash off my hands, t'throw it away. An' look." He scoot-crawl-drags himself forward (probably smudging some of his drawing into a blur; yet again, Jason's caught one of his sandcastle works prior to destruction) and peers down over the edge of the castle on the other side, to his canvas bag. Ooohhh wait, he put it away. So he's just pointing to his bag. "In there, my present. My Christmas and Junk Free Day present from Caddy. Well, it's waaaay down there, so I'll show you later."

Jason giggles softly. Colorin'. An' Smokin' an' Thinkin'. Trace's stoned good-humor is infectious. "Ain' that kind of her. An' what do /you/ give /her/ fer Christmas? Trash." He wrinkles his nose playfully at the blue-topped one, then peers curiously down at the bag that's /waaaay/ down there. Phoo. He wants to see it, but that would mean getting down. And he just got up here with the thought of getting some of that action that Trace still has left. He even brought the lighter! "What is it?" he asks, in the hopes that just a telling will satisfy his curiosity.

The mystery at the jostling chains makes itself noticed again. Morgan might be stoned as well, because you get the feeling she's not the type to try and get attention this way. Her voice imitates the squeak of the swing as she idly rocks back and forth, matching the pitch almost exactly, to the effect of an almost feedback like sound. Very bothersome. She gets tired of it after a moment and starts singing. Her voice alights to the tune of Scarborough Fair, but it's not in English. Gaelic maybe? Damn, she's got a sweet voice. Loud too. She belts out a line or two with opera-singer volume, then falls to a whisper. Her pretty voice sings its angelic melody with embellishments that Simon and Garfunkle never took, and the rhythmic squeak of the swings is her metronome.

"It's a new sketchbook!" Trace informs Jason, cupping his hands and whispering it secret-like, as though it were *Jason's* present and he were cheerfully ruining it for him. "Coz mine's near full. And it's shiny new, an' *purple*. Coz..." Trace trails off, peering baffledly towards the josling, SINGING chains. Whoa. Time for more scoot-crawl-dragging to get himself over on that end to look down. Guess Jason won't get to be enlightened just yet about the mystery of why Trace's new sketchbook is purple. The blue-haired boy looks down at her, tips his head a little. "Morgana," he greets, as casual as anything. He could have carried her here and looked more surprised. But she's, um, singing. So he won't say more. Just peer.

Morgana’s Desc:
Morgana somehow first gives off the impression of an innocent school girl, despite her dress. Her hair is light brown, and a little tangled and windblown looking. Wispy bangs cover her forehead and the rest of it hangs in fat curls down her back to end below her shoulder blades. Her eyes are slanted slightly and a bit feline in appearance with the muted blue-gray eyes framed by dark lashes. She has the cutest little button nose that would undoubtedly be spattered with little freckles if her pale face had ever seen any sun. Her complexion is unusually pale, though she blushes at the drop of a hat, giving her an almost feverish look at times. Her face is delicate and round, and her slightly pointed chin only adds to the terminally 'cute' image her features form. That schoolgirl image is shattered, though, if you stop to look at her attire. The black, thigh high stockings she wears are a bit shorter than her black skirt, so their lacey tops and the straps of her garters can be seen when she moves. Her sleeveless top is reminiscent of a medieval bodice. Stiff green corduroy laces up the front with black ribbon to just past her breasts while the scooping neckline of the top makes the most of her well supported cleavage. An off the shoulder, sheer black shirt with billowy sleeves beneath the bodice does a little to cover the fading track-marks on her arms, but anyone examining the bony things probably wouldn't miss it. She looks to be in her mid to late teens, and doesn't stand a hair above five feet.

Close look at her face would indicate that she seems to be healing from some nasty bruises on her face. They're nearly faded though.

Jason oohs! and grins crookedly, genuinely at the ruined surprise. "Purple? Purple's a-..." He pauses and looks back over his shoulder, brows furrowing. Whoah, the auld tongue. He crawls over with Trace and peers over the edge of the castle towards the swings, two emerald points poking over the wall. Oh. Morgana. "Erin go braghe 'n all that," he mutters quietly.

Morgana trails off mid-cadence, the sylable she holds changing to a short scream as Trace's voice startles the daylights out of her. The air hangs heavy with the silence after the little shriek, and it's somehow irratating that she didn't finish the melody. It's left unfinished and seems to hang there, waiting to fall like a cartoon character looking down at the cliff below after he stepped off. The absence of her voice rings a little before she speaks. She was really good. That voice will probably stick in your head for quite a while. Who would have thought such sounds could come from that tiny little girl-woman. "Jesus christ, you scared me!" her hand touches her lips, face flushing. She's embarassed to have been caught doing that.

"Sorry," Trace says simply, smiling a little. "Was pretty, tho." He looks to Jason. "Is that Irish?" He blinks. Wait, Irish people speak English, they just talk all fast and funny. So he corrects, "I mean Scottish?" Wait, uh. He's oh for two here. Fuck it. "What *is* it?" he finally demands with a giggle, looking between the both of you.

Jason smirks a little to Trace, wrinkling his nose. "Sumthin' like that," he murmurs, completely unhelpfully. But then he looks back to Morgana, chin being propped in his hands. "Yeah, sorry ta intrude. Didn' know it was open mic night on the swingset." He waggles one brow slightly.

Morgana stands up from her swing, turning to face the castle, head tilted back to look upwards. Her hair isn't in her face for once, and her bruises are mostly gone. Her eye is back to normal too. She smiles cutely, though she's still blushing. "Irish Gaelic.." She walks towards the castle thingy and looks up at you both. She doesn't think she can climb up there. "Hi." She idly touches the pale cleavage supported by the tightly laced bodice. Kind of fitting she'd be in a castle, though. "No, I'm sorry.. didn't know you guys were up there. I didn't mean to be so loud.."

Log has arrived.
Log rustles through the brush near the bayou border.

You paged Jason with 'It's big, it's heavy, it's wood?'.
From afar, Jason giggles!

Log’s Desc:
Who, looka that. it's a log, floating a little under the water... no... wait. It's got eyes. Sixteen and a half feet later, you see the tail swishing, that tail and knobby skin, and wicked teeth that can mean only one thing to your soul. GATOR. Big gator, too. This one's big enough to chomp your leg and use your arm as a toothpick, must be at least 6 suitcases worth.

Morgana stands near the castle thingy, looking up at Jason and Trace who sit up there.

Log stays concealed, though. You could only see him if you were looking...

"Well, you were," Trace nods seriously, then adds thoughtfully, "Loud, I mean." He nudges at Jason and pokes out the tip of his tongue before smiling brightly and informing him, "I was half right, though, about the Irish." His gaze rests on the roach still held by the redhead. Wait, wasn't that going to get lit? Not like he really needs it, but even so. "But anyway, hey Jason." Nudge, nudge. Except he uses his head to butt gently at the redhead's shoulder. "I saved you a ball of art. I mean, it's in a scrunched up ball. Coz I scrunched it."

Morgana idly tucks tangled curls behind her ears as a wind blows and tickles her cheek with her hair. She looks down from gazing up at the two, seeming to feel rather dismissed by Trace, and kind of expecting it. With a soft sigh she tugs the borrowed gray raincoat closer around her shoulders. Her blush is fading slowly.

Jason clamps his hand over his mouth at Trace's affirmation of Morgana's volume, but nodnods in assent. Yup, loud. Amazing you heard either of them up there or something. He looks over and grins to the blue-top and winks. "Yer always half-right, Trace. The rest of ya's left." *thud* Oh! "Hey, yer best stuff's usually in a ball." The redhead ducks and nudges back into Trace. "It's all in the scrunchin'." And then /he/ notices the roach in his fingers. Hey, he was looking for that thing earlier...

Log seems convinces that nothing untoward is going on here, and scuttles through the brush some more.

Always an outsider.. Morgan's face has a conflicting smile and sad eyed expression on it for a moment as she glances up at the two boys. Of course, it's she herself who isolates herself. She figures Trace is pissed at her for some reason, and she scuffs her foot a little. Oh well.. it was nice to hear a few words addressed to her. She turns to go, calling an honest sounding, "Bye guys.. It was good to.. see you again."

Log decides to have some fun, and since the kids been smokin' that weed, he waddles halfway out of the brush, and says, "Don't worry. I ate yesterday." then promptly scuttles back.

You paged Jason with 'Wtf?'.
You paged Jason with 'This Log puzzles me.'.
Jason pages: Shall we ignore that?
You paged Jason with: Trace nods.

Morgana pauses, turning to look at the guy scuttling from, and back into the bushes. Wha? Er, not guy. Morgan, who hadn't smoked anything, figures she's having a flashback or something.

Trace isn't pissed or dismissing. He's just way stoned and has a cuddly fireheart beside him, and it's hard to be perceptive or emphatic to sensitive little street girls. Or talking gators, for that matter. Only a glance up at the voice, but it was all deep, so surely he imagined it. That, or Morgana just got REAL throaty. Heh. He giggles at Jason, bashful and pleased. "Scrunched up art balls just for you." He snaps at Jason's shoulder playfully, coming up with a mouthful of jacket. Hmm. Maybe out of the corner of his eye he DID see that gator. He shakes his head a little like a puppy with a new chew toy.

Log heads back to Lelong Avenue.

Jason lifts his head and peers towards Morgana. Well, okay, g'bye! He smirks and lifts his hand in a wave, but then he's snagged by the shoulder and yelps playfully, swatting at the blue braided-beast attacking him. "Scrunched up art balls gonna be all the rage! Everyone gonna want yer balls." And then he grrs back at Trace and tugs back. Tug-of-war! And completely oblivious to deep-throated talking 'gators. Cause everyone knows they don't exist. Sheesh.

Morgana has a rather strange perception of the world. She sees people angry at her all the time when they aren't. There's a big difference between ambivalance and pissed-offedness, and she hasn't seemed to grasp that. Weird little thing. She smiles at the playful behavior, wistfully wishing she could ever be a part of it. Her tongue moves out to wet her lips, then she turns and heads out of the park.

Morgana heads back to Lelong Avenue.

Trace makes a mighty effort to keep his grip on the fabric of the jacket, but finally loses it, busting up into helpless giggles that curl him up in a pitiful shaking huddle. "Hehehe... you said..." He goes as incoherant as a practiced Butthead. Cheap thrills tonight.

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