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Log Title: A Garden in Jackson Square

Log setting: It is a Wednesday afternoon, August 22nd, 2001. The scene takes place in Jackson Square.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace
Ruby
Starlight
Drew
John Black
Nimue
Ain
Lafayette

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Trace is entirely lost in his own world, oblivious to the pedestrians that slow as they pass to regard the work at his feet, oblivious to his cup which makes a home to perhaps eight or nine dollars in scraggly singles and change, nearly spilling over the rim of the cup, with a coin or two scattered along the base on the concrete. He's chalked himself out a magic garden, and it pans across a good four squares of walkway. Green leaves, nearly too green to be natural, bursting with bright gem-like flowers and vines and life. Little critters peek out from leafy shadows and from behind flower petals. Gnomes creep along stalks or swing from vines, and tiny butterfly maidens elude their greedy grasp, flitting to the safety of the air. He is hunched, chalk-smeared, a picture of rapt attention. His pile of chalk is beside him, as well as the box of pastels, and he works with the softer utensil now, adding highlights and details unobtainable by blunt chalk.

Jean-Batiste stays leaned against the railing for a long while, catching his breath until it's still quickened but controllable, then straightens up to stre-e-etch and take a look around the Square, the Who's Who of streetlife. All shapes, all flavours, all sizes - Batiste recognizes a few of them, waves, but doesn't approach. He's looking for familiar faces, -friends-, not just casual acquaintances. And lo and behold, after some searching, he locates one. Sandals carry him silently towards you, though the jangle of change behind your shoulder might alert you. He pours his silver change into the cup, stuffs in a fiver deep enough you (hopefully) can't catch the denomination, then crouches down beside you. "Hey," he murmurs. "Great picture." He smiles at you.

Trace starts visably, pulled from his muse with a jolt, and when he turns and sees you a big grin lights onto his face. "Batiste..! Hi. And thanks." He blushes a little and sets down the violet stick of pastel, then shifts his position so that he's actually sitting rather than kneeling and hunched over the work. "Oughta join me sometime. Way too long since we drew together, y'know..?" He glances back to grab up the cup and gawks in surprise at it for a moment. Whoa. He picks it up to better peer inside. "Huh. Shoulda emptied it more often," he mumbles around a grin. "Best not t'keep more'n two bucks or so in there." But it's obvious that he's tentatively proud of himself, allowing himself the small pleasure of accomplishment.

Ruby�s Desc:
You see a woman in her thirties, broad shouldered, around five foot four, her jet hair silver-shot, worn in loose curls down her back, attractive, with a certain grace and dignity in her demeanor. Her eyes are a dark brown, nearly black and piercing, her skin a delicate cafe au lait, her race hard to tell exactly, her features smooth and pleasing, if not quite memorable. She's wearing a lightweight black sweatshirt with a stylized picture of the St. Louis Cathedral, jeans, and steel-toed workboots. A denim jacket, somewhat worn, covered in various kinds of buttons of the protest sort, peace signs, mostly from the sixties. She's carrying a large, black gymbag on a shoulderstrap, fairly full looking. A ring, white gold, with a small diamond, cut in a slightly irregular oval, is on her left ring finger. An antique silver necklace with a small but prominent crucifix hangs at about the level of her collarbone.

Ruby walks on past, smoking her usual cigarette. She talks to an old man for a while, gives him a cigarette and lights it for him. A pat on the shoulder and he shuffles off with a nod.

Jean-Batiste is crouched beside Trace, admiring the fanciful garden-mural his friend is creating upon the sidewalk. He's looking winded, but happily so, and drapes an arm around Trace's shoulders to murmur encouragingly to him.

"You're familiar," Batiste murmurs to Trace, nudging his shoulder with puppyish affection. "So they recognize you, and come by to see what you're drawing this time. You do such great art. You really do." He casts another admiring look to the mural, then draws back enough that his friend can continue drawing. "I'd love to help you out sometime. Just say the word, twist my rubber arm, and I'll do it." He grins.

Ruby stands looking at the mural with an indefinable expression. She smokes her cigarette, watching, for some reason her eyes welling up. She walks on, quietly. "It's. very ....nice..."

Trace grins at Batiste, flattered but protesting firmly, "Nuh-uh, they do *not*..." He blinks a little at the woman's reaction as she passes; no longer enrapt in his work, he can notice passerbys once more. He puzzledly looks down at his picture, wondering how it might be in any way melancholy, but shrugs it off and grins back at Batiste. "Alright. You wanna now? Could start another one together.. Or wanna do something else?"

Ruby takes a last look. "Re-read Grimms sometimes. You missed a few points," she says cryptically and walks on. Sadder and darker than when she arrived.

Ruby crosses St. Peter to Pontalbo Apartments.

Jean-Batiste pushes himself up to his feet, and stre-e-etches again, glancing at Ruby over his shoulder as he sighs and slumps back down from the stretch. A little bit of pacing, cooling-down after the jog. "Huh," he comments, wondering about Ruby's reaction as well. He frowns thoughtfully, then shrugs a little and looks back at Trace. "Yeah, you want to? I have to watch for someone, but it'll only take a second once they're here, and I'll be right back."

Starlight and Drew enter the square from St. Peter.

"'Nother job fer Marco?" Trace wonders quietly, something of a non-question really, looking back down at little mural from where he sits on the sidewalk, filthy and chalk-smeared. "It's cool yer runnin' everywhere these days. Gonna get all in shape an' I'll hafta pant 'n wheeze t'catch up with ya..." A little grin.

Jean-Batiste's standing near Trace's side, pacing around absently. For those fitness-minded people, it could be noticed that's a cooling-down pace, not a predatory I-pity-da-fool sort of pace. He seems to be in a thoughtful but smiling mood, casting frequent, admiring glances to Trace's fanciful garden mural.
Jean-Batiste nods simply to Trace. "Yeah. Same guy as usual, it'll only take a second." He shrugs casually, then takes his turn to be flattered and sheepish. "Well, you could be running with me, you know? Get you all lean and sexy for the girls..." He dances back a step, expecting a swat for that.

Caddy comes into the square from St. Ann.

"Yeah... yeah, right," Trace grumps with a quirked half-smile, delivering the expected thwap with intent to miss, even if Batiste hadn't stepped back. "Shit, jest' what I need's ta get skinnier!" He chuckles and shakes his head. "Naw. Naw, yer a runner, you got that runner look even, y'know? I ain't never gonna look like that; I'm all scraggly an' no energy." No energy? This from the puddle-jumping, couch-bouncing, tackle-hugging boy? But today he's rather subdued and un-chipper, though not frowning either as he looks up to his friend with faint amusement still tugging at his lips. Trace the track star. It paints a funny picture in his head.

So it's finally not raining. And even sometimes, brightness pushes it's way through the blanket of grey that seems far too comfortable over this stinkin' city. And coming around a corner, Drew and Star. Kid looks like he's not totally pissed or something, too. Woo. Fingers tangled together, Star is chattering away about something, not really giving Drewberry a chance to respond. He has a cigarette in his free hand, but also uses that to gesture, thereby adding to the intensity of his little story. See, it's important what he says, to him anyway. The two cross the pathway, heading toward the center of the square, but punky-goth pauses, peering down at a homeless man with a scrappy lookin' mutt by his side. "Yo, Toad," the boy says, quietly, in greeting. The guy looks up, giving Star a toothless grin. "Sup, Glit?"

Caddy pushes her way through the crowd, not attempting to be particularly polite as she shoves against people. Her sketch pad falls from her hands...and she bends down to pick it up with a scowl. Not like it needs to get anymore dirty. She darts around a bench to come to rest under a clump of trees, where she sits...waiting for a prospective customer, maybe.

Words to bind her and keep her together. Drew simply listens, as she always does, and only offers the silent contribution of a nod or two to the conversation. Black eyes, dulled and half-lidded, roam about lazily with little care for her surroundings. Oh, we've stopped? Bare interest is given to the homeless man and his dog.

Caddy�s Desc:
Wan and fair cheeked, this one looks to be hardly more than a girl. Her lanky, sinewy body reaches about 5'9"...and her slight form seems to disappear under the clothing she wears. A black skirt, hanging off her hips because it's too big...and a mismatched shirt with VELVET UNDERGROUND printed on it. Fishnets weave their way up her legs from under black, lace-up, knee boots. The ensemble is completed with silver rings on each of her fingers, and a torn piece of black lace tied around her throat. A necklace also hangs there, another ring on the end of it. Her face is less dramatic than her attire..two huge, crystal green eyes peering out from her round visage give her the appearance of a sweet child. Red eyebrows cap them, and matching red freckles are flecked over her pale skin. There's even one on her bottom lip, probably just looking like a speck of dirt to the casual observer. Her hair is the same fire-engine red color, and is worn long. It hangs down to the small of her back, surprisingly shiny and well kept. She isn't radiantly beautiful, or anything close to it, she is..at best.. pretty. Her movements are always languid, graceful, and quick....and she holds herself well.

Jean-Batiste paces all around the outside perimeter of Trace's mural, holding his hands out like a tightrope walker, grinning back at the blue-haired boy every few steps. "Nah, you wouldn't get skinnier, you'd put a bit of weight on. Muscle's bulk, you know? It'd make you look..." He gives Trace an appraising look. "Sleek. And exercise gives you energy. Seriously. Gets your body moving." The closet jock in him has decided to come out, it seems. He shrugs easily at the end of his spiel, though, and says, "You don't have to, though. Maybe you can sit on my toes when I do situps sometime. Exercise through...uh." What's the word? Remember your science classes, Batiste. "Exercise through osmosis." There.

John Black has arrived.

Caddy glances around at the Square, stretching her legs out...maybe if someone trips on her they'll want to buy a picture, too. Her eyes linger on the mural, dancing across the garden scene with some appreciation...but a bit of sourness, too. This kid's giving it away for free. She picks up her book, making sure to hold it in front of her at all times so people can see what she's all about. 'C'mon, gimme money', her look says.

Trace grins with humour, squinting at the older boy and itching briefly at his forehead where some stray hair tickled it. It leaves a green streak. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." (Trace's 'yeahs' tend to come in pairs.) "I'll try that osmosis, that's some good shit." He chuckles and shakes his head a little. Hold Batiste's toes while he does sit ups? What *is* this? When's the meet? But he's not going to be discouraging, not when Batiste smiles so sunnily. He just says, "You be the sleek muscley guy, kay? I'll be a scrawny runt, I dun' mind." Interestingly enough, the blue-haired boy isn't giving his work away free, not really... The way they're positioned, Trace's own sitting form obscures beyond him, close at his side, the cup with his token scrawled, stylized 'Donations!' etched around the concrete at the base of the cup, fanciful but legible words that nearly qualify as art in itself.

The homeless man, sitting on a bench, lifts a dirty hand, offering Star something dark and small. Looks like it might be a piece of licorice? Hard to tell. And the child smirks, then takes it and examines. "..the fuck is this, Toad-man?" He laughs, and puts it between his teeth, biting down. Stupid kid. Makes a face and tosses it back to the guy. "Tastes like shit, man." And the old guy laughs, "Tha'cuz it's fer tuh oil'ya boot." And motions to Star's boots. Little waif shakes his head, making this positively horrible face. "Why'd ya fuckin' let me taste it, man?" Tugs Drew away, "Fuck, Toad, ya tryin' to kill me??" Guy just laughs, even as Star's wiping at his mouth. Sick fucker. Okay, that put a damper on his mood. Dark eyes scan the area, skimming over most the people here, but look, there's Trace. Down there on the ground. Chalkin' away. Oh joy, looks who's with him. Batty makes Star's face bulldog out, instant challenge. Yep. "Fuckin' rat, man. Fuckin' rat." He glances down to Drew, giving her one of those 'Keep me calm' looks, then shakes his head and takes a pretty intense drag. Something calm me down.

John Black wanders slowly around the outside of the garden area, surveying the square with quiet satisfaction. Watching the frenzy of artistic activity and the milling crowd of tourists, he nods to himself and drawls, "Ahhh. I did so miss New Orleans."

John Black�s Desc:
His features are narrow and sharp, with high cheekbones and a brow that speak of some Native American ancestry. Something about his lean, rangy build, his sun-darkened skin, and the look in his startlingly blue eyes make him seem kin to a bird - not a bird of prey like an eagle, but something more patient and watchful. His hair is long and black, and hangs loose around his shoulders, framing the angular lines of his face. He has the fingers of a piano player, a surgeon, or a thief.

His clothing is simple, its only remarkable feature being how appropriate it looks on him -'this is who I am,' it seems to say, 'take me as you will.' Old, faded blue jeans are tucked into equally worn Southwestern-style black leather boots. He's wearing a heavy-weight white button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, under an open black vest. When it's raining, the whole lot is enveloped in a voluminous black longcoat. All in all, it looks as though both the clothes and the man have been weathered together for several years, worn down into a single whole that is quite comfortable with itself.

Jean-Batiste giggles a moment, then crouches down again by Trace's side, jostling his shoulder affectionately. "S'some killer shit, maaan," he utters in his best pothead croak, then laughs more. "So, what d'you want to draw, huh? Got a theme in mind? Let's do something." He glances up and around, an appraising look despite his cheeriness, scanning for...something. Tourists are heedlessly ignored, visually tossed aside. He doesn't find what he's looking for, but - what's this? He nudges Trace's shoulder again, nods in Starlight's direction. "What crawled up his ass and died?" he wonders, frowning curiously at him.

Oh, come on? How can one keep from smiling just a little? Drew's mouth curls up faintly at the corners when the homeless guy informs Star that his snack is actually stuff for boots. Heh. She knows enough to keep it at that, though--just a restrained grin. No wise-ass comments; no snickering. She ambles away from the scene as Mr. Angry-Pants tugs her along, the girl not picky about where they go. Lovely day for a stroll afterall. And when the kid spies Trace and Bat? Well, she can practically feel the anger rolling off him like heat. Peering over, she glances at the two boys before she gives Star a very subtle bump with her hip. Hey there. Chill.

Mule enters the square from the riverfront.

John Black leans on the wrought-iron fence, soaking in the ambience of the busy Square and watching it with half-lidded eyes. Long fingers tap out a complex rhythm on the metal rails, and his head nods slightly in time, though he hardly seems to be paying attention to what he's doing. It's hard to tell, but the artists seem to have more of his interest than the tourists.

Mule makes his way up from riverside on foot, slipping across Decatur and into the Square. Terse nods and brief raisings of his hand are sent to the few who seem to know him. A face or two draw particular attention

Caddy flashes her eyes across Starlight and his companion...OK, whatever. Kid's got issues. She folds her legs under herself, and curses as her fishnets snag on a twig. She fishes it out, flicking the stick across the Square for someone else to deal with. Well...business probably isn't going to be booming today. She tosses her pad to her side, fumbling around in her skirt pocket for something. Ahh..a cigarette. She withdraws it like a priceless relic, then begins to search for a light.

Jean-Batiste's crouched easily by Trace's side, peering thoughtfully at Starlight and Drew, as if trying to figure some mystery out about the pair. "Huh," he murmurs to himself, and glances down a second to procure himself a licorice clove from his windbreaker pouch. Time for a little nicotene worship. He lights up in a cloud of spiced smoke. Bliss.

Trace lifts his eyes to follow Batiste's gaze and starts a little to see Drew and Star. Hmm. Those two come here often these days. But Bat's words alert him to the vehemance in Starlight's expression, and he sucks in his lower lip to further abuse the little tasty-strange bump from too much biting at it. "Dunno," he finally offers helpfully, and his expression hints that perhaps he takes the boy's anger to be aimed at him too. "I dunno, but he looks pissed." He's so good at stating the obvious. He looks back down the mural a final time, wishing it a silent farewell. The tourist tide will wash it away soon. Then he starts to gather up his chalk and murmurs, "I dunno what we should draw. Let's find a good spot, n'then maybe with a concrete canvas in front'a us, somethin'll sneak up on us and rush out t'fill up the space."

Mule slows his walk down to a meander and looks out over the Square, watching groups of people meeting for whatever purpose. Again he seems to seek out specific faces.

Starlight's dark gaze has settled on Bat. Kid wants confrontation, it would appear. Wants it bad, that is until JB looks his way. Then, just cause it suits him, his eyes dart back toward Drew. I'm cool. I'm cool. Good thing Drew was here, otherwise Jean-Batiste would have had a /bad/ day. Tough-guy, ya know. Whatever. Anyway, the boy heads toward a bench and climbs up onto the seat, sitting with his ass on the backrest. His narrow gaze flits to and fro as people pass, watching each with resentment. They're why he's here, see. It's everyone /elses/ fault. Yep. But inevitably his attention shifts back to Bat 'n Trace, and the child just glowers. Right, it's hard to tell from a distance to whom the bitterness is directed, but it's one of the two or both. Mutters something to his companion before jump-starting another smoke. The first is flicked away, a smooth arch that lands close to the statue.

Starlight mutters to Drew, "... cool,... He... better... his... is... Better not... face or..."

John Black straightens and begins to walk along the fence, trailing his fingers along it and idly keeping up the rhythm. His pace is worked into the pattern in short order. He's wandering slowly towards the edge of the Square, and then most likely out onto the street.

No lighter. "Fuck," Caddy murmurs to herself, her hands coming up from both her pockets empty. She stares at the stick in her hand...without fire it's about as worthless as trash. She looks up and around desperately. Surely someone is smoking. The first person her eyes alight on is the kid at the mural, with the sweet smelling clove. She gets up, tucking her pad under her arm, and begins to take some tenative steps in that direction. She might turn around and sit back down..but God she needs some nicotene. That's it...she starts to jog in the pair's direction.

Jean-Batiste chews on the inside of his bottom lip for a few seconds, still frowning thoughtfully. "Yeah, okay. Let's try over there?" He waves at a spot about a quarter-ways around the square. "Near the musicians, if we do something related, maybe, we'll both cash in." He glances back to Star and Drew, considers, then waves to them and calls, "Star, Drew, hey!" Not exceptionally cheery, just a greeting. Half-expecting to be glared-at or ignored. No need to pretend he doesn't see the glower-power Star is capable of, after all. Still, this way he can say he tried to be friendly.

Jean-Batiste senses Mule's been watching him.

Christ. Does -everyone- smoke? One of these days, Drew's going to march everyone down to the morgue to watch an autopsy of a person who had lung cancer. Smoke that, you bunch of nicotine junkies. Disgusting habit. There are much better ways to kill oneself .. like pretty little pills. If you're going to go down, you might as well slip down the slide of sedated bliss. See? Like her ... the girl is pretty much half out-of-it at the moment, her manner lazy and slothful. Taking a seat on the bench Star has directed her to, she stretches out like a cat lounging in the sun. Mmmn, veg. What was that line? Be still like vegetables, lay like brocolli. She nods a bit to the boy's whisper, watching the pair of artists because .. well, just because.

John Black heads out to St. Peter.

Well, Drew's sprawled and zoned, so there's a one-for-two ignorance. Shall we go for a nice clean 1.000? Batiste glances away for a moment, looking around. Tourists, tourists everywhere, nor any brain to think. His restless scanning comes to a halt as he spots Mule. He watches the man for a few seconds, glancing aside to exhale towards the sidewalk and drag harder on his clove.

Trace is faintly startled when Batiste calls Star and Drew over; it wasn't something he expected. "Sure, near the musicians," he acknowledges, but is further distracted when Caddy jogs on over. "Um, hi?" he asks shyly, shoving his thumbs down into the big pockets of his too-baggy jeans. When he sees the unlit cigarette she holds, he guesses what it is she wants, but is unable to help her. In fact, his own thoughts on the matter run more towards Drew's line of thinking. So instead he nudges at Batiste. Check it out. A girl.

Mule's lips turn down at the corners, like from some peptic disorder. Steely hook slips inside his jacket and comes back after snagging his own cigarettes. A flick of the pack and he walks away as he draws a single Pall Mall from the pack with his lips. He looks no happier nor grim-faced than his arrival as he heads toward the side of the Cathderal.

Peyotr enters the square from St. Peter.
Peyotr walks along with his head hung low

Mule enters Pirate's Alley.

Caddy licks her lips, "Hey.." she says, in a subdued voice..shifting her weight from foot to booted foot. "I..just...uhm..kinda needa light, I guess." She looks over at Trace's companion...the one that's got what she so desperately needs. Man's red flower. "Uhm..I'm sorry. Do you think I can get one? It's really stupid of me to forget my lighter...but...whatever. So..huh?" Is he even listening to her? She sighs...scoping the rest of the crowd for another smoker.

Peyotr pauses and looks to Caddy a moment, pulling a zippo out of his pocket as he passes

Jean-Batiste gives Trace a little counter-nudge. No, -you- look, it's a -girl-! "Hey," he murmurs to the nervous, shifting girl. "Sure thing. Not a problem..." He digs around in his windbreaker, the fabric rustling noisily as he pulls his little cheap Bic out, and offers it to her. He glances distractedly towards Pirate's Alley. Trace eyes up Caddy's sketchbook as Batiste lights her cigarette. No competition in his eyes, just idle curiosity. Checkin' out who's playing on his turf without means or motive to protest.

Peyotr shrugs softly, and slides his Zippo ino his jacket again before turning to move along

Starlight shakes his head as Jean-Batiste offers his greeting and looks down to Drew. "Let's get outta here, baby. Ya wanna go home? Ain't shit here today." But look, there's people all over the place. Child stands up and deposits his smoke between his lips as he jumps down off the bench. Kid has fire, yeah, but doesn't look very approachable. He sits down on one heel, and begins to re-tie his lace. His words are distorted as he begins again, with the stick still in his mouth. "'r we can get sumthin' to eat somewhere?"

Caddy smiles, reaching out to curl her fingers around the plastic lighter. She flips the cigarette in her mouth..(had to practice that, no doubt) and fires up the lighter. She puts the torch to the end of the smoke, inhaling deeply. Ahh...can you feel the cancer? She reaches back out, offering the boy his lighter back...."Thanks, Thanks..." she murmurs, exhaling as she speaks. Her eyes dance down to the mural again, and she says to either of the two..."You did this? I mean...wow...good with chalk, huh?"

Peyotr heads uptown.

Drew nods a bit, dank curls swaying about her face as her head bobs. Go home? Head off someplace to eat? Skip barefoot across broken glass? Suuure. This girl is agreeable to anything. Okay, body, up we go. Effort is forced upon a lazy manner and she pushes to her feet. Upright, vertical and ready to go. "Wherever ya wanna go." she comments, quiet and slow.

"Chalk's my favorite," Trace admits quietly, glancing down at the work briefly. A glance to Star and his girl. Well, Bat did try, anyway. Maybe they were scared he'd offer more flowers? Well, no, only flowers he has today are etched onto the concrete at his feet, soon to be smudged and faded into oblivion by the spiteful rain and clumsy trodding feet of tourists. Besides, magic gardens never last. Oh, bright outlook, Trace! He decides he needs to get into this new picture soon, keep himself up. He glances to Batiste, then back to this new girl with the sketchbook. "Whadda you usually work with..?"

And once again, Star is going to leave without giving Bat an explanation of his bahavior. Seems something always gets in the way. Always. And so the child straightens, snags Drewberry's hand and begins walking back in the direction from where the two came. Sure, Bat gets some attention. Sure. A glare or two. But, hrm. Wait a sec. The child pauses and the top part of his head brightens. An idea. To Drew, "Hold on, baby. Be right back." And the boy turns, heading toward Trace and co.

And, look at that, Drew is suddenly Starless. With drugged eyes, she looks at the empty space around her. Hrm. Then she lifts them to follow after the kid as he heads over to the group of artists. "Okay." she pipes up after him. Okay, she'll hold on.

Jean-Batiste takes the lighter back belatedly from Caddy, and slips it away, glancing restlessly around the Square again. He nods a little to something said in his direction, whether it was actually said to -him- or not, and eyes up Pirate's Alley. Mmn. Another glance to Drew and Star - two solid ignorings there, yes? But wait, Star's approaching, bringing his trademarked sunny cheer with him.

Caddy calms a little, shrugging as she drags on her cigarette. "Usually charcoal pencil..." her eyes weave over the garden, appraising it critically. "S'good..I could never do chalk. I tried a few times. But..uhm...ya know...I guess s'not my medium or whatever." Her eyes look back over the Square. Tourists. Good. "Listen...I mean..thanks for the light," directed at Jean-Batiste as she flicks ash off the end of her cigarette. "I..uhm..appreciate it." A shy smile, a tilted grin...and then the weird kid is approaching. Time to go. "See ya guys, eh?"

The blue-haired boy regards Caddy consideringly, then squats down by the pile of chalk and rifles through it a moment before coming up with a chunk of black charcoal. "Charcoal's my second favorite. But it ain't pencil. Even so, if ya wanted t'work in black..." A shy shrug. "We're gonna start a new picture. Ya really gotta run? Coz you could join us if ya liked. It'd be cool t'check ya out, see yer stuff." A fleeting grin, and a glance to Batiste. That'd be okay, right? His eyes ask for belated permission, inviting someone in on the mural.

Starlight's eyes remain on Bat, a silent challenge to the boy and yes, he's not happy. He's Star. And life sucks, so why the hell are ya'll smilin?? Win the lottery'r sumthin'? It's not until the child is about five feet from the chalk drawing that his gaze tugs away from Jean-Batiste to settle on Trace. The girl, however, goes unnoticed. It's time for business. And Trace actually gets a smile. Interruption. "Hey, bro," he says, quietly, then takes another hit off his smoke. Exhales and gives Bat one of those 'whatcha gonna do about it' looks. It's kind of obvious that the child has figured out that JB isn't gonna start anything, so why not have a little fun?

Jean-Batiste watches Star sidelong for a second, then glances back distractedly to Caddy and Trace. "Charcoal's great," he murmurs. "Charcoal and ink. Trace is amazing with chalk, though. He's gonna be famous some day." Yes, he raves about his friend at every possible opportunity. He takes a final drag off his clove, grinding the remnants out underfoot. "Sure, why don't you draw with us? It'd be cool." He offers a shy smile to Caddy, then glances back Star-wards.

Hmm...A glance back over the Square..then back to Caddy's two peers at the mural. "Well..I mean...if it's cool with you." But what's /with/ this little annoying kid? Caddy stares at him, obviously annoyed by his presence..sensing his want to disturb the peace. "I mean, yea...It'd be cool.." her eyes still on Starlight as she finishes off her cigarette and crushes it under her boot. Ahh..what the hell. She glances back over at Trace.."OK," reiterating, for the third time.

Drew just hangs back where Star left her, la-de-dahhhhh. Sometimes she watches the little group; sometimes she regards the tourists milling about. Attention is a fickle and fleeting thing. What an ugly hat. Why would anyone go out in public wearing such an atrocity? And just look at those shoes. Fine 'pleather' imported from Milwaukee, no doubt. Fat ass. Go buy a 'Buns of Steel' video. Oh yeah, she was keeping an eyes on Star. She glances back, making sure he hasn't flipped out or anything yet.

Trace is surprised by the greeting from Star, but ever-willing to be friendly when given the chance. "Hey," he responds quietly, just a 'what's going on here' half smile. "You... doin' okay?" No, don't bring up that wacky night *last* time he saw Star here. He shifts his attention to nod at Caddy. "Cool. We don't got ideas yet 'r nothin..." Shy glance to Drew. Too many people to keep his eye on, none of which he can entirely trust yet. Back to lip chewing.

Jean-Batiste shifts his weight slightly, half-turned towards Star so he can still see Trace from the corner of his eye. His thumb hooks in the tiny pocket in his bicycle shorts that's not meant to hold anything bigger than a locker key, missing the old, deep pockets of his careworn jeans. "How goes?" he murmurs to Star. Maybe he'll be able to figure out what's got him so belligerent(sp?). "Drew's doing better?"

Starlight just looks at JB as the older boy acts concerned for him and Drew, then shrugs and shoves his hand into his pocket, pulling out some green. "We're great," the child says, quietly, tone indicating it was a stupid question and therefore recieved an equally stupid answer. His dark eyes flitter down to the drawing Trace created even as the boy is leaning to place the cash in the cup. Big money. Forty bucks. And Star straightens, attention sliding back to JB. "Better watch my back around you, eh?" And the child offers a sincerely bright smile. And in all reality he should do it more often. /Completely/ changes his appearance. Might be good for business. Takes another drag and awaits Bat's reply.

Of course, Drew isn't paying enough attention to the situation to realize how much money Star is handing out. Good thing, too. She'd probably choke. She regards the boys as if she were watching shadows on the wall--a distracted observation of shifting shapes. What does gain her attention, though, is her nose. It, like, itches or something. The girl sticks her finger up one nostril, not caring about appearances whatsoever, and roots around a bit. Drawing it back out, she peers at her fingertip and then flicks the snot off it. Ahh, much better. Sliding her hands into her pockets, she starts to amble over to the little party. Tra la la. Jean-Batiste's eyebrows raise up a little, as he eyes up the money. Big money, indeed. A mildly bemused glance to Star: what, are we one-upping eachother, here? He shifts his weight again, glancing around for something. Still not finding it, he looks back to Star. A frown, then. Confused. Maybe, -maybe-, a twinge of hurt. "Watch your back? Why would you need to do that?"

Caddy stares at the cup. 40 damn bucks? Maybe she /should/ try out chalks. However, Starlight just seems to annoy her more now that he's thrown his money away in what she perceives to be a foolish manner. And plus, she's standing around with a group that seems to have secret grudges and agendas she doesn't quite understand or care about at this point. Time to back out again.."Listen, uhm...it was cool of you to offer...but really.." she trails off, eyeing her two potential friends. 'You understand, don't you? I don't really fit in'. She takes a step backwards..."See ya."

Blink. Blink. Slowly too, with a blush working its way hotly up his neck and into his cheeks. Trace looks from the cup, to Star, to the cup. "I. Uh." A little confused, wondering smile. Maybe Star isn't pissed at him -- or at least eternally annoyed by his presence -- after all? "Um, thanks. And.. I mean, y'don't gotta watch yer back with Bat. S'like... he's too busy watchin' *other* people's backs to do nothin'!" Batiste gets a fond grin, but then Caddy's making sound of retreat. "Oh... Alright. I'll... see ya round, maybe?"

Jean-Batiste glances back at Trace, shaking his head fondly at the blue-haired boy. He doesn't argue, nor agree. Okay, so he's (mostly) secretly pleased by his friend's praise, but he tries to keep from glowing. A shy but warm smile is offered to Caddy. "Hey...take it easy, okay? See you around, we're here a lot. Draw with you some other time." He waves to her, a little finger-wriggle.

Nimue has arrived.

Nimue�s Desc:
Black, black and more black seems to be this ones theme. Black hair is pulled into a ponytail, a sterling silver clasp in a celtic knot pattern holds the thick hair off her neck. The mass slides down to her ankles, giving testimony toits length. Skin the color of almonds is at violent odds with the hair color, though the clear blue eyes seem to tie both hair and skin together. Thin, arched brows are fairly plain looking if taken by themselves, but with the added silverhoops they turn into something very pretty. In her left brow are four rings, asare in her right brow, each held closed by black balls.

In her right nostril are two very small silver studs, one on top of the other. Five silver hoops are in each ear, she didn't seem to go over bored there. Her lips are covered in a black lipstick, which she oddly enough wears well despite the fact she's not bone white in color. Blue eyes are rimmed heavily in black liner as well, more black for her.

Again the black reoccurs, as it has through out her form. A fitted black t-shirt covers her form, nothing fancy about it. In fact, the shirt looks rather plain once the fact she's wearing black leather pants is taken in. the sleeves on the t-shirt have been rolled up till it looks like a sleeveless shirt, on her upper arms are black celtic knot tattoos, wrapping around said arms. On her feet are a pair of worn army boots, the boots look as though they have actually been through a war.

Star doesn't really seem to notice he's annoyed anyone. Kid doesn't really give people he doesn't even know that much of his time. Better things to do, or something. But Trace and Bat, now those two are worth it. So, he takes another drag, narrow gaze sliding back to Drew and nods. "Yeah, police an' all. Anyway, I'll catcha later, man." Dark orbs slide over Bat, a silent offering of what was, most certainly, a condescending clarification and then on to Trace. Right. Star isn't pissed at Trace. As a matter of fact his resentment toward the older of the two has brought on a kind of fondness for the one who isn't the big 'S' word. "Yeah, man," he says, quietly, to Blue. "Anyway, I'll catch ya later, bro." Term of endearment?

"Sure. Some other time." 'Preferably when little kids who have too much money aren't around' her face says, as Caddy breaks away from the small gathering to push her way down the street. Caddy crosses St. Peter to Pontalbo Apartments.

Nimue wanders into the Square, humming what sounds like a marching song to herself. She seems to be hunched over a rather expensive looking camera, some Japanese job. Long fingers fiddle with switches and buttons over the sleek black thing.

Drew pulls in by Star's side. Now. The expected thing to do would be to say hello or something along those lines. Salutations and greetings. The hand-job of socializing. But she doesn't. Just just stands there, looking from person to person blandly.

Trace blinks some more. Police? What? He turns confused hazel eyes on Batiste, hoping for a look that's just as baffled as his own, and then back to Little Glitter who doesn't glitter anymore, "Sure thing. Take care." Now back to Batiste, obviously wondering, 'what was *that* about?"

Jean-Batiste glances down for a second, chewing on the edge of his tongue. He will -not- bristle at all this sudden cameraderie with Trace. He will -not-. He takes a deep breath, exhales softly, and looks up at Star with returned calmness. "Cops?" he murmurs, frowning. He shakes his head a little, bewildered, trying to follow the chain of logic that led from the last time he saw Star until -this- reaction. He gets lost pretty quickly, evidently, for he asks, "What are you talking about, Star? Is there something we need to talk about?"

Jean-Batiste frowns down at the sidewalk for a second. Hurt, yes. Not in the weepy-eyed, sniffling way, but the sort that makes you eager to withdraw and protect from further hurt. A glance up to Star, dark-eyed and intent. "I don't know why you'd think that," he murmurs. "Why would I offer to help you keep Drew well, if I was some kind of informant? Give me a break."

Nimue doesn't seem to pay any heed to the bustling crowd of people around her. She does indeed carry a camera, but definatly does not look like your normal tourist.

Starlight just keeps on walking. He's gotta get somewhere it would seem. JB's words are not responded to, and the boy steps up to Drew. "Ya ready, baby?" Takes the last of his smoke down and flicks it away, then slides his hand with hers. Hopefully not the booger-one.

Ain comes out of Pontalbo St. Peter.

Trace is confused, so he busies himself with stooping to collect his money out of the cup. It just isn't safe to leave so much unattended, he's pretty aware of that. He shoves it into his pockets and kicks the cup away. The heavy press of coins on his leg pleases him; a good day, surely. Celebratin' tonight. Forty whole bucks! "Bye Star!" he calls again, then ducks his head. Hmm? Like the goth boy? Nooo... not at all, Batiste, I only have eyes for you! A big sweet smile. "Mural now?" he offers.

Jean-Batiste, true to form, doesn't push it, and doesn't chase after Star. He can't force the kid to think things over, or re-ponder his logic. He gives a cool, hurt frown to Star's turned shoulders, then looks back at Trace, murmuring, "This is your brain. This is your brain on Kae." Shakes his head a little. "She must suck cock like a pro, huh?" He almost smirks. Almost. Smirks and winks just don't quite fit on him, though.

"You know," she starts as her hand's draw out from her pocket. Is it the booger one? Maybe. Heh. Drew's mouth curls into a crooked grin, slow in it's birth and conquering of her expression, and she nods to the discarded ciggie. Does she need to say it? Does she? Oof course not, but she likes to. It's fun to watch Star ignore it. "You shouldn't smoke. Those things will kill you." Trace and Bat are forgotten, such is a drug addled mind. Leaning in, she murmurs something to the boy at her side and then gives him a tug.

Trace chokes a little, and coughs to cover it. Er. He looks up and points out, "He has a girl, Bat. See?" A point to Drew leaning close, as though Bat couldn't see it himself.

Ain catches his lipring between his teeth, seizing the metal with a ghastly little crunching noise thatcan be seen as much as heard closeby. A smile tilts cyanotic-pale lips....well, almost a smile. The birth of one?...as dark-damp eyes lick over the lingerers in the Square.

Nimue drops her weight onto a bench, legs crossing as she balances her camera on her knee, must be a problem with the machine. She bends over it, teeth chewing on her bottom lip before she makes a triumphant sound and straightens, all fixed.

Ain�s Desc:
One of the ranks of sulky-looking gothic boys, just too darkly pretty for his own good. Dead-straight hair dyed the stereotypical blue-black falls like dark water to his waist, sharp contrast to the ghost-pale skin of delicately angular face. Eyes the colour of rain-dampened ashes, made even more solemn by the black pencil-strokes smudged carelessly around them. A silver labret spike protrudes like a delicate tusk beneath his lower lip, silver matching the tiny ankh dangling from one earlobe, and the tiny darts of silver studs in a dog-collar encircling his neck. A black t-shirt across slender shoulders reads "Membra Mortis" in letters styled like purple crayola-strokes, tucked into plain black jeans across slim hips, set off by the requisite boots; an intricate affair of chunky leather, buckles and heavy straps. The overall picture is strangely pleasing to the eye...if he didn't look so miserable...

Starlight smirks, cause he does it like a pro, and nods at something Drew says. The two are leaving now, leaving you all the bright rain-less day. Angst free square. Happy smiling faces. Yet, those words, Star's words to Bat linger with the weight they deserve. Not a good thing to be accused of. And the little gothy one seems sure he's right. The two disappear around a corner. Bye.

Starlight and Drew head out to St. Ann.

Jean-Batiste shakes his head at Trace, sad. Star has a girlfriend, the police are there to serve and protect, and the single bullet killed JFK. "Why else would he think that, Trace?" he murmurs patiently. Not facetiously, not at all. "You know he hangs out with her. You know what she's like." Another look back at Star. So sad. Such a waste.

Ain crouches suddenly, like someone dropped him with a stone. But nope....just a particularly boneless way of retrieving the errant end of a bootlace, it seems. Hunkered down, he fiddles with the thing impatiently, long fingers working through eyelets slowly.

Nimue returns to her feet, she loops the camera around her neck as she finally turns her gaze onto the Square. She rests hands on her hips, blue eyes searching for..something.

Trace sucks in his lower lip. "Mm. Well. I mean, yeah... yeah, I seen Mikaela hang out with Star before. But what's Mikaela got to do with all this?" He shakes his head a little. Confused, yep, and it's not getting any clearer for him. He scritches at his cheek, a blackish streak added to the green chalk-smear already decorating his face.

Ain swears softly, lips rounding an unheard syllable or two, as the bootlace snaps, his hand jerking off into midair like he's swatting flies. He gives up and leans his back against the railing, iron scrollwork that's gotta hurt down that spine.

Nimue spots something, her hands pull up her camera which she steady's. Taking a few snaps and she grins, all done. Love those fast shutters. She glances around, booted foot tapping on the ground absently, more photo oppertunities?

Jean-Batiste glances towards where Star and Drew wandered off, then frowns down at the sidewalk, kicking lightly at it. "Because I've kept you from messing with Kae...what, twice? Three times? She knows I don't trust her, and she keeps trying to fuck with you anyways. She probably has a grudge, and is telling Star all sorts of shit. I don't know. He's been hanging around her more, lately, and he's just getting twitchier. Didn't you see him today?" Protective, defensive, now. "Giving you all that money, acting all friendly to you and cold to me? Trying to cause shit between us, too."

Ain looks atthe frayed end of the lace in his hand accusingly, twiddling it back and forth. Hard to tell if he's eavesdropping or just enjoying the digging-in ends of that railing in some mildly masochistic way.

Trace starts at the flash of a camera, and he spins quickly and scans the square for the source. Might as well have blurted out an anxious "Kiley?!" to Batiste, transparant as he is. And upon spotting the goth girl with the camera, his eagerness melts off his features instantly. He doesn't know the girl. Ah well. Lots of shutterbug tourists and photographer locals frequent the Square. He tells himself that he needs to stop jumping at every flash. He focuses on Batiste's words, but dismisses them as gently as possible. "You don't know all that's coz of Mikaela. Could be jest, like, Star bein' Star, y'know? I *always* thought he was kinda twitchy... Calmed down a bit fer awhile, but now it seems like he's back how he was when I first met 'im, jumpy, maybe a little more angry than before, but..." He just shrugs. "Dunno. And if he did give the money t'me to cause shit between us, it ain't gonna work." A little shoulder jostle, encouraging, as he assures his older friend, "Ain' nobody who ever could. Yer my blood brother."

Nimue doesn't notice the staretled looks from a few people that are near her at her sudden jump of the gun. It's true, she doesn't fit in, but then again she doesn't look exactly out of place. To herself she mummers something in a soft, lilting language, the words flowing together easily.

Jean-Batiste sighs, and leans into Trace for a moment, then turns and gives his friend a loose, affectionate hug, chin propped against the smaller boy's head. "Sure, sure, make me listen to that logic crap..." he grumbles good-naturedly. He hugs Trace closer, then releases him, and lets out a heavy sigh. "C'mon, let's draw. Something wild and bright, okay?" He heads towards a different section of the Square, near some food vendors and a cluster of street musicians.

Ain tilts his head again, the frayed lace heading mouthwards for an idle chew. Ashy eyes sweep the square, but don't seem to be taking anything in anymore.

You sense Jean-Batiste is rather distracted, his eyes pensive even when he's grinning or smiling. Did Star's words really hurt him that much? He's looking a little like a puppy who's been whapped with a rolled-up newspaper.

Nimue tilts her head to the side as she wanders in the direction of the old mural. She holds her camera in one hand as she circles said mural, looking at it from every angle possible.

Time to draw something bright and wild! Trace nods obediently, and regards Batiste's expression just a moment longer than necessary, before squatting down and scooping all the chalk and charcoal bits into the discarded go-cup. Then he puts the two or three scattered sticks of pastel back in the little box where they belong and tucking it under his arm. With his free hand he tugs at his friend's hand. "Sounds perfect. Let's get started!" Another slow flush claims his pale cheeks as Nimue starts taking pictures of his work, and he ducks his head very bashfully.

Nimue doesn't appear like a normal tourist in her picture taking, she moves rather professionally, brisk. She doesn't offer up any visible emotion other then appriciation for a fellow artists work.

Ain darts his eyes over the mural from his flattened perspective, watching the new developments with birdy head-movements. Ahh. Interest.

Jean-Batiste tangles his hand around Trace's and smiles back at his blue-haired friend, and together they head for a new and promising patch of sidewalk. His steps slow as they hover in a patch between a beignet stand and some street musicians that sound halfways decent - tourist fodder, both of them. "This look good? Why don't we do something...abstract. Like, like your idea for Utopia, but a different phrase? What d'you think of that?"

Nimue glances towards the pair before she calls out, "Rapture." he then goes back to her photographing, dismissing them from her thoughts once again.

An abstract, rapturous paradise. Trace grins and decides he can work with that. He trots on over to a nice patch of currently untrodden concrete, hand lightly clasped in Batiste's with no show of self-consciousness or insecurity, obviously very comfortable with the boy. He stops and untangles his fingers from Batiste's only after they've found the desired spot and crouches down, in a position that will best serve to block the flow of street traffic from trampling their soon-to-be mural. He spills the chalk out in a pile between himself and his friend, easy access for both, and opens the box of pastels to carefully set it down too.

Ain watches the pair with something akin to heaviness in his eyes. Their easy nonchalance obviously weighs on him as he licks eyes over the boys' chalky clasped hands, not moving from his railing-sprawl.

"You start with the purple, that's your colour. I'll start with the green," Batiste murmurs, eyes looking a little distanced already, imagining shapes and patterns already there. "We should draw the word, like cartoon letters, crazy and huge, and then draw them all differently, and draw around them, what d'you think?" He throws his own viewpoint into the mix, completely at ease with Trace shifting and twisting it around to his likings. Just along for the ride - the art is everything. He rolls the stick of green chalk in his fingers, filling his fingerprints with powder.

Nimue pulls back once she's finished with her picture taking, blue eyes scan the area as she surches for a new subject. She absently sbnaps a few pictures of the boys from the done mural, must have an autofocus?

Ain drops chin to knees as the work is planned out, expression hidden again. He lifts a boot from time to time as some roofgazing pedestrian kicks him, folding himself into a smaller and smaller knot by the railing.

Well, purple is apparantly Trace's color now, so he reaches for it with a grin. "I think it's perfect. Utopia. It's a beautiful word. I love how it feels in my mouth." He looks down at the spread of grey before him, ready to light it up with rough streaks of chalk and pasty, bright colors. Possibilities. He pinches the purple chalk between his already color-smeared fingers and touches it to the concrete. A hesitent line. Tentative. But as its lazy sprawl continues, it loosens up, allows for a wave, a spiral. Not part of the word, just a little test-squiggle near the bottom to loosen him up, get him thinking on the same planes of love, magic, and paradise.

Nimue steps back, taking in things once again as she wanders around, peering into shop fronts. She even seems to pauses to speak with people here and there. She seems to have stopped taking photos for the moment, her intrest lying in the speach of the city.

Lafayette enters the square from the riverfront.

Lafayette wanders into the square slowly like she's been wandering around all day in a kinda gloomy mood. Not the normal, 'who gives a shit' attitude she normally has. She glances overr at the street venders as she walks arround the square, sorta blending in for now. Her jacket's even zipped up. She kinda blinks when she sees the huge mural. Wow... she glances around for the artist. The kid with the chalk. Oh there he is. She grins and offerrs a thumbs up sign.

Trace is a ways away from the mural he made earlier, but his eyes catch on Lafayette, remembering her from the other day. Cat's friend. He blushes and smiles bashfully at the thumbs up.

Ain is hunkered against a railing, chin tilted atop his knees just enough to watch the proceedings, not enough to catch eyes.

Nimue nods to the elderly woman and wanders away, with out purchasing anything from her. She moves towards the blue haird child, perhaps in search of the new art work, definately a hotographic moment.

Lafayette silently wishes she had her stinking camera with her. Where is her brain today? she wanderrs along the Mural, catching its detail with a careful critical eye. She's good at seeing beauty. Even in her slightly upset mood she's tryin to hide.

Nimue has her camera, and she puts it to use taking pictures of the near mural. She moves around the Utopian image, never once betraying an emotion on her face.

Ain aims a listless kick at a pigeon that lands near his oversized boot. Perhaps it was tensing for a crap.....perhaps he just doesn't like birds.

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