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Title: Encounter with Paris

Log Setting: Bourbon and Conti -- Vieux Carre
Jazz gives way to blues here, most of it coming from the Absinthe House Bar, while the clubs become less respectible and begin to advertise topless (or even bottomless) dancing and female impersonators. Barkers try to lure passers-by into their establishments while half-naked women are often hanging off of the balcony railing, offering an incentive. The street smells distinctly of sweat, beer, and urine, while garbage piles up in corners due to the lack of proper receptacles.

Log Cast:
Paris
Trace

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Paris watches the barely dressed women standing on their balconies as he makes his way down the street. He comes to a stop before the Alley Staies as some tourist leaves a only half smoked cigarette on the ground, casting a glance to the immidiate area around him, then bends down and picks it up.

Trace is hunched over on the sidewalk, sketching with a piece of nearly worn-down charcoal... His strokes are small, worrysome, and he must have been here for some time because his work trails over five or six feet of the sidewalk around him. His fingers are blackened, and there's a smudge of charcoal on his left cheek as well.
There's a styrafoam cup out near the boy, with the word "DONATIONS" written beneath it on the sidewalk, scripted fancy, near-calligraphy.

Paris brushes off the burnt side of the cigarette idly, and glances down into your cup to see wether you've gotten lucky so far.

There's perhaps four or five dollars in the cup; two bills and the rest change.

Paris searches a pocket, but comes up with nothing but a few matches, crouching down before the painted sidewalk and covers the cigarette with his hands as he lights it. He points to one side and comments, "Looks messy."

Trace looks up with a start (kinda jumpy, ain't'ee?) when you crouch down beside him and speak, meeting your gaze with fevered hazel eyes. "Uh... hi," he says softly, glancing at his cup, and then you. He purses his lips. "Yeah, that one sucks. I smudged it when I tried to fix this one part I didn't like, and it just got worse..." He trails off with a twitch of a shrug.

Paris�s Desc:
The first thing one would notice with Paris, is his eyes. They are certainly something to lose oneself in. Just like the colour of his hair, falling back to reach his shoulders, they range somewhere between very dark brown and black. He's about eighteen, nineteen years of age, and stands nearly six feet tall, but thin, long limbs helps add to the illusion of an even taller frame. He wears a pair of city camouflage pants, dark boots and a green open shirt above a t-shirt. Fingerless black leather gloves are worn over his hands, and a dark bandana helps to cover his neck. He's quite handsome despite the rather rugged nature of his clothes. A black chain is tattooed around his right wrist.

Paris trails your work to the side until reaching the cup, and comments, very perceptive, and with little emotion, "You ain't getting much."

Trace looks around.. "Yeah, this isn't the best place to work, I'm figurin' out." He scritches at his hair, mindless of his filthy, charcoal-covered fingers. "All these guys lookin' up at the ladies.." He glances heavenward. "Nobody's gonna take time to look down, y'know?" He shrugs. "I should move, but I nearly got enough and I've got a lot done here, and it's just, well, fuck it." He glances down again at his work.

Paris closes up the remaining space between himself and the wall, lifting one of his shoulders in a shrug, "I paint walls sometimes. But noone pay me. Except one time.." He doesn't finish what he started saying, but instead asks as he once again look to the cup, "Is it for food?"

Trace looks up at you needfully, crossing his arms to hug himself a little. "Naw, man, I ate yesterday, I'm okay there. I'm just.. I'm sick."

Paris wrinkles his nose, walking across the painting, "That sucks, man." He gives little warning as he suddenly bends down, picking up the cup and turns around to depart. Quickly.

"Hey!" Trace calls, before abruptly abandonning his work, hauling himself to his feet and running after you. "Please, I need that!" A part of him argues.. what the hell is he doing? Even if he DID catch this guy, he couldn't force him to give it back, shrimp that he is... Besides that, most of today and yesterday's intake is on his own person. Only an idiot leaves all the money in the cup; better for sympathy and all that. But he runs on anyway, though he's probably not half so quick as you.

Paris dodges tourists and prostitutes alike on his way down the street, clearing the cup of most of its contents, tossing it onto the street with a metal-against-stone sound, scattering a few remaining coins as well. Some people watches the two of you curiously, but of course, noone cares to get involved.

The blue-haired kid finally gives up, falling to a stumbling halt. He looks after you a moment before turning back to gather the few coins you dropped. "Fuck..! he breathes.

Paris slows down as he notices you're no longer breathing down his neck, and ducks into a dark alley, viewing the contents in his hands.

Trace scoops them up carefully, mindless of others glances, knuckling at his burning eyes. Goddammit, he really needed that, he thinks to himself... ultimately just feeling very sorry for himself. He needs it *really* bad... He stays stooped there for a moment, just panting, furious at Paris, furious at himself.

Paris heads downtown.
Paris has left.

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