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Log Title: TooFar on the Playground

Log setting: Playground, mid December at night.

Log Cast:
TooFar
Trace
Morgana

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It's night, the playground otherwise deserted under the cold new wind of December. Except for TooFar, who's leaning against the castle, cigarette perched on his lips, hands kept in the sleeves of his feathered duster for warmth, and his eyes on the weird fruit tree. He seems to be studying it.

Trace’s Desc:
Frazzled blue braids fall in a dandelion mop around this urchin's gaunt, angular face. Youthful hazel eyes, large and widely set, peer up at you over a strong nose pierced once on the right side with a slender silver hoop. He's a disturbingly slight, slender child, sixteen at most and only 5'3" in height. His arms are bone-slender and knobby at the joints, with a look of longtime malnutrition.

If his braids are swept away from his thin face, a shiny spangle oof silver hoops and studs can be seen lining both ears. Right now he wears a worn, threadbare grey t-shirt, probably once a concert t, but whatever band logo might have once been displayed across the chest has long since been cracked and faded to the point of being unreadable. A finely engraved silver pentagram circled with leaves dangles from a delicate silver chain around his neck, seemingly the only object of any worth on the boy's person. Baggy, tattered jeans cling to narrow hips, caked with colorful chalk smears and the occasional spattering of paint. The t-shirt leaves his arms bare, revealing ugly, bruise-black track marks on his inner forearms. All in all, he looks fragile, dangerously skinny, and ultimately lost.

"It blooms all year, y'know," calls a familiar voice. The bluecap can move silently if he likes, but now he heralds his presence with the quiet words, as his shadow-dappled silhouette approaches, hugging the high foilage that surrounds the playground as he makes his way closer. "This is a special place."

TooFar’s Desc:
He seems an amicable fellow, harmless even, nearly five-and-a-half slouched feet of bemused ease. Reddish-blond hair cut in a ruffably haphazard way fall to his shoulders in shaggy disarray. It has a faintly greasy sheen to it, giving his locks that slightly dark tint pecular to unwashed fair hair. Sleepy skyblue eyes gaze out through thick lashes and kohl makeup, somehow both smug and smiling at the same time. His build is thin, almost androgenous, and likely a couple inches taller than his slouch would imply. Elfin, one might think, and the thought wouldn't be too far off.

Almost draped over him like a cloak, an strange old duster hangs from his sparse frame. The three-quarter length jacket seems to be made of weatherbeaten hemp dyed charcoal grey, with a monochromatic rainbow of birds' feathers woven into the cloth. Crow, seagull, raven, whatever; a random and chaotic collection of feathery blacks, whites and greys seem to grow from the duster, thickly covering the shoulders, thinly sprinkling the rest. It's several sizes too big, nearly dragging along the ground as he walks. The sleaves are rolled back a couple times to leave his hands free. Under this is a simply designed shirt of rough-knit cotton, dyed red. The top couple of buttons are left undone, exposing his neck and a couple inches of chest. Faded black jeans accompany this outfit, with a matching pair of scuffed and scraped army boots, the sort that of shoes that anyone can pick up for cheap at the Army/Navy store. The leather on the toes of the boots has worn away, exposing the gleaming protective steel cap.

With a slow nod, TooFar draws a hand from the shelter of a sleave to tap off ash from the cigarette, then using the butt as some form of presentation pointer, a cherryember dot following where ever his hand is gesturing, "That tree is really screwin' with m'head, man," is the featherwaif's response, not seeming suprised to be joined from the shadows by another, "I jus' can't figure it out."

The blue-haired boy shrugs. "Not pose'to." He looks up at the tree with no small amount of affection touching his lips. "That'd spoil it." He takes up a lean against his castle, thumbs hooking into his pockets comfortably. Hazel eyes trail up to look at the moonlit fruit hanging there, glistening with the recent rains. "Ain' it better jest to enjoy the fruit than pick apart everythin' magic about it?" He chuckles and looks over at you.

Those kohl-ringed skyblue eyes drift on over, a brow arched in bemused interest. What a fascinating way to look at it. How... profoundly limited. The eyes say this. Not in words, of course, but touched by expression and TooFar's crooked smile, "Y'gotta friggin' great big tree growin' it's own farmer's market, an' you don't even think t'wonder why?" The featherwaif streetgoth seems amused, in that golly and gee whiz sort of way, "Ain't ya even slightly curious?"

Amusement is echoed right back when hazel meets skyblue. "I doan' gotta be. So someone planted a whole buncha' fruit trees together, an' maybe there's some great fertilizer here 'r somethin'." He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "Borin'. But satisfyin' t'most people. Better t'say s'the magic of this place. And who's t'say who’s right? So maybe you don't believe in magic, but I have more fun with my answer." He almost giggles, but purses his lips and casts shining eyes up at the trees again.

He seems the sort of person who's perfectly able to believe in magic, that perhaps the tree was planted by biotanically inclined aliens with a fruit fetish, or even that it's a spontaneous genetic abberation. But not on your say-so, no, not TooFar. His curiousity is hungrier than that. He has to find out for himself. It's questions like these that go through his mind before being interupted by something a little more mundane. He breathes deep of the nicotine, flicking the now spent butt into a nearby trashcan, asking in exhale, "You're Trace, right?"

Under the cold light of a December's new moon are TooFar and Trace, chatting on the playground.

Morgana walks slowly in, limping slightly. She watches her feet, but looks up when she hears voices. Without seeing who it is, she starts turning around, not wanting to disturb anyone.

The boy's smile creases his cheeks, and he nods, "Trace Anderson, yeah." He drops down into a crouch and picks up an apple at his feet, but turning it over reveals a rotten patch, so he pulls a face and tosses it off into the brush. Something small and meek nestled there makes a hurried scurry to find new shelter, and he chuckles and murmurs a soft apology before picking himself up and returning to his lean against the castle. A glance to you, and his expression has been replaced with something smoother, warm but now unsmiling. "Still livin' with Grace and them?"

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. It would be rather soft and silky if she were to run a comb through it, but it apparently hasn't seen one in a day or two. 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. She wears a black leather collar with metal studs and a steel ring at her throat. The navy colored, knee-length pleated skirt she wears hangs just low enough on her hips that you may notice the bodysuit she wears has a thong bottom, and the neckline of the bodysuit is a little indecent as well. It seems big on her, with a sleeve falling off her shoulder on occasion. She's quite underweight, though only upon second glance, since the lingering babyfat on her softly rounded face might indicate otherwise. She looks to be in her mid to late teens, and doesn't stand a hair above five feet.

Also of note is the bruise on the left side of her cheek and the puffy eye accompanying it. It looks as though her lower lip is healing from being split as well.

Morgana pauses, her hunger getting the better of her shyness. She walks to the edge of the clearing and bends to pick up an apple of her own, picking through three or four before she finds a good one.

The featherclad streetgoth bobs his head in a nod of acknowledgement, shaking some cancer candy out of a bruised and near empty softpack. "Yeah," says TooFar, after sucking back some biclight to ignite the cigarette, "That's where I crash. No one's tossed me out yet." He grins as that's said, his eyes darting over at that damn tree again for an instant, "Where 'bouts you stay? Some other squat?"

Morgana straightens up, turning to go now, but hearing what might be a familiar voice. She pushes the hair from her face on the unbruised side, habitually leaving the curls hanging over the damaged half. One might wonder how long they've been there for the gesture to be so instinctual. She looks over towards the pair and bites into her apple.

"Naw, Walker's place. S'on Moss street, just like two blocks away..." Trace makes a vague gesture out towards the park's entrance, but this makes his gaze catch on Morgana with faint surprise. Somewhat distractedly he murmurs, "S'like a ten minute walk." He draws his gaze back TooFar and says, "Anyway, can't 'magine nobody tossin' ya out there. They're all way cool, mostly. Anyway, I was wonderin' if you could spread somethin' to 'em round there, specially t'Grace, an' Star if ya see him. Though I guess he's staying with that one guy..." The bluecap's lips purse into something like an undecided, very faint frown. Verdict's still out on Gideon. He shakes it off, and sneaks a glance back towards the little bruised girl haunting the fringes of his playground.

Morgana lingers, waiting to hear TooFar's voice again. Haunting is a good word for it as she lingers there at the very edges of the playground area. It almost looks as though she's hiding there so as not to be noticed on purpose. She takes a step closer even before hearing the possibly familiar voice, figuring that it might not be so bad to have a little company on a cold night like this.. and by the youngish sounding voices.. and the fact that they're hanging in a playground makes them seem pretty safe.

In following the direction Trace is indicating, TooFar also spots Morgana, grinning and waving at her, "Hey Mo'!" and, back in conversational tones, "Walker, he's that guy who got hitched th'other day, right?" The discourse is punctuated by another sip of nicotine, "Sure, man, what's the scoop?" The perkigoth doesn't know Gideon at all, so that inference of Star's roomie doesn't go anywhere.

Morgana almost jumps in surprise when TooFar addresses her. It gives her the confidance to join the pair though, walking slowly as she seems to limp on both feet. TooFar might notice that she carries no bag, and once she gets close, he might also notice that the gaunt little woman has yet another bruise on her face.

Trace lights up a little as TooFar refers to the wedding. "Yeah! Yeah, 'zactly, that's him. Did you go? I didn't see you..." He chuckles softly and admits with embarrassment and pride hand in hand, "I was the flowerboi." He looks back to the standoffish fruit gatherer, and smiles a little, lifting his hand in greeting as she approaches. The bruises are noted, hazel eyes running over them briefly, but he doesn't comment.

Morgana finishes chewing the bite in her mouth and finally says something, "Hi." Well not much of something. It almost seems as though someone else entered the playground and said that, for the voice is rather low.. a bit like Kathleen Turner.. not something you'd expect to come out of those lips. It doesn't seem she's a little girl after all.

"And this here's Morgana, by the way," TooFar interjects into the running conversation, "And that's Trace." Both are obviously said to the party that would best benifit from learning the information. Streetgoth continues, "Nah, I tried t'get in, but I didn't have the offician invite." That recollection seems to grate a little, but he perks up as he turns those skyblues back on Morgana in a grin, "Y'find more happiness? Looks it."

Morgana looks from TooFar to Trace, eyes doing a similar up-down and dimples crease her cheeks, though she doesn't smile that much. Doesn't want to stress her lip after all. The dimples disappear and her brow furrows when TooFar asks that though. "I was fucking mugged." she says flatly. Seems to be the truth.

Morgana sits on the low edge of a walkway of the castle, needing to get off her feet. She sighs slightly, mumbling, "Lost everything." Her voice cracks a little, then she swallows audibly. "I went to the house.. Grace was there. Um. She said I could crash there again, so I did. But when I got out of the shower she wasn't there.. just some chick (describes Nadine rather well).. I needed some more..uhm. Bandages, so she got some. I pissed her off somehow though, I think."

Trace don't buy it. She coulda been nominated for best actress with that alibi, and he still would just nod a little. Yeah, sure thing. Because that's what *everybody* says, and there's been this weird flux lately in his friends getting the shit kicked out of them lately. So yeah. Sure thing, girlie. Damn muggers getting to everybody. "Nadine's cool. But she's jest, y'know." Well no, you probably don't since that was about as vague as you get, but he doesn't explain further. "They'll take good care'a you at Jill's place, f'sure. Grace 'specially. She's good at playin' ma." He grins fondly at that, but saying her name reminds him.. He looks to TooFar and says, "Hey, um. I need to get on back soon, but you gotta tell Grace and them I.... I'm gonna be outta sight for a few days. Well, like. Ten days. Or so." He looks down at the grass with a flush creeping up into his cheeks.

"Ten days, man?" TooFar repeats in question, frowning around that lip-perched cigarette, "Where ya goin'?" Mo's woe's haven't been forgotten, just momentarily paused, as it were, in TooFar's mind. Trace is heading off, Mo is staying put. Thus whatever he needs to find off Trace has immediate priority in that odd headspace that the featherboi occupies.

Morgana looks to Trace, her face flushing (What can be seen of it) and making her look rather sickly. She realizes she never really acknowledged the introduction so she does it now. "Um. It was nice to meet you." though she looks rather disturbed of the vague reference about Nadine. She still thinks she must have done something to piss the chick off.

Trace looks up shyly, and gives a smile that comes out more like a grimace. "Ahh..." A glance up at Morgana, and he nods to her, "You too," before dropping his eyes again. One black sneaker scuffles at the wet, packed sand, and by accident grinding an undone shoelace down into the gritty brown. "Dry out," he says at last, softly. His arms cross to itch at his slender, marked forearms self consciously. "Gonna try t'kick it. Doin' it at home, so, ain't really goin' nowhere. Jest... locked up an' sweatin' it out, I guess." His arms fold across his chest, managing a meek huddle while standing.

Morgana's eyes linger on Trace's arms when he touches them. Though she says nothing, it's clear she still thinks it's a good thing, even if she doesn't know the kid. She lifts her eyes to TooFar to see what his reaction will be.

A second glance to the railway of bruises on Trace's forearm help the perkigoth add those twos together, TooFar nodding with sympathetic wince, "I wish y'luck, man. That's pretty harsh." To perhaps calm his own nerves, lest the sleeping monkey start to suspect him of entertaining such thoughts, featherboi takes a long drag of his cigarette, flicking the spent ash away as he exhales, "Like, a whole lot harsh." TooFar seems to have some idea of what the bluehaired kid is in store for.

Morgana voices "Are you sure you want to do it alone?" though looks down, pretty much expecting an admonishment of some sort. She watches TooFar's ashes sprinkle the ground along the castle plaything, adding its scorched presence to the sand. She's hard to read just now, but she too doesn't seem clueless as to what braid-boy will be in for.

"Yeah." Trace agrees very softly. His gaze has lifted back up to the trees, and he keeps his arms hugged close to his chest. Morgana's words pull another duck of his head, a short nod. "Cain't go to no place... They try to contact yer folks. But I won't be alone. Got Bat 'n Jason t'help me git through it..." The southern in his voice creeps up to the forefront, a subtle shift in accent, pulled out by the thread of fear in his voice. "It's not really somethin'... you *can* do alone. I ain't.... ever really tried before, like seriously." He pulls in a breath and blows it out. "Fucked around with the idea. Tried to drop to one a day, or jest two mils a fix, or whatever. Lotta bullshit." His arms untangle, and rakes a hand through his braids, a jittery gesture. "Anyway. Tell'em what's up. But doan' tell that fucker Flagg."

Morgana says rather quickly, "I didn't mean that.. I meant friends.." She trails off, not finishing. He answered that part anyway. She seems bothered by something and she casts another long look to Trace's tracks, then lifts her eyes to his face.

"Sure dude, whatever y'want." Trace has been elevated from Man to Dude. "An' if I see Star, I'll tell him too, eh?" TooFar lightly punches the somewhat younger looking and shorter kid on the shoulder, "If y'need a hand or an'thing, jus' ask, kay?" As for Flagg, well, Flagg's Flagg. "Whatcha doin' with yer kit?" You know, your /kit/.

Trace's face flashes with surprise, because honestly, he hadn't thought of that yet. "I..." He looks down. Indecision. "Fuck." A little grin. "Guess I'm tossin' it." He drops down onto the ground entirely without warning, heedless of wet sand as he sits. One hand tugs up the left leg of his baggy jeans, and revealing his gear, syringe held to his shin with a comfortably tied rubber tourniquet. One hand touches the glass barrel, a gesture that's unnervingly fond. "S'nice one... Real glass, detachable head. Dunno, some people doan' like that, coz it's hard to get the hang of it, easy t'pop the head off an' lose yer hit if yer hands're shakin' or whatever... But those lil' plastic things ain' good fer more'n three hits, an' then it's all crudded up an' meltin' on you an' shit..." He looks up and blushes a little, realizing that he's gone off on this odd ramble, and Morgana's probably less than impressed with his works. He clears his throat and says, "Anyway. S'gonna be weird. Like... losin' a watch you always wear, y'know? I worn it tied right here for almost a year an' a half now.."

The bruised girl tilts her face down, letting her hair hide both sides of her face now. She watches her knees as she swings her legs a little from her perch on the castle walkway. She feels a bit out of the conversation now, not knowing the people who are being mentioned and such. She just crunches into her apple. The crunch is unnervingly loud, though unintentional. She says nothing.. waiting for TooFar's comment before making one of her own. Her face flushes at seeing the kit strapped on to Trace's leg for some reason, though her hair hides the flush a lot anyway.

With a crooked grin, TooFar holds out his hand, open and ready. "Want me t'watch it for ya, dude?" He says, mildly, skyblue eyes bright and smiling in the new moon, "So's if this don' work, they're safe, an' if it does, I can trash 'em or give 'em t'someone else or somethin'?" It seems to him a reasonable request. Babysit the kit while Trace nurses the monkey. And when the cards are played, someone will still be happy.

It seems a reasonable request to Morgan too, so she doesn't say anything after all. She pushes hair out of the good side of her face, continuing to watch her knees as she idly swings her feet a little on her seat. Her toes don't even brush the sand she's such a short little thing.

Trace blinks and looks up before blooming a smile. You just solved *everything*. He lets his jeans fall back into place and takes the hand, helping himself back up. "You'd do that..?" he murmurs with appreciation. One hand is swatted absently over the back of his legs, to shake off some of the sand. "I... I'd be real grateful." Kid's definitely got a love affair going on with his spike and tie. "That way..." He stops himself. Wait. "I mean." A nip at his lower lip, brief. "I mean, I prolly' won't need it back. This is gonna be it, y'know? M'gonna make it. But, y'know, if..." He trails off and looks at you silently. Don't make him say it. After a moment he drops his eyes and smiles again, a few braids falling away from where they'd been tucked behind his right ear, swinging down to bat at his cheeks. "I need it for tonight. And tomorrow. And the morning of the next day. But that night... that's it. It starts. So, um. That afternoon I'll bring it over... Leave it in a package at Jill's place, an' leave it there for you if yer not home. L'tie it with blue string, so you know f'sure that's what it is, okay?"

A tiny little giggle comes from Morgan's lips. What exactly is funny to her isn't clear, but something in the enthusiasm of Trace's hand-over of his kit makes her smile. Her hand lifts up and goes to her face somewhere under the curtain of hair and a moment later she mutters a little 'shit' as she holds her hand back and looks at a red wetness on the fingertips. She turns from the pair of you and licks her fingers, sucking on her lower lip.

"What, you're not startin' t'night?" the feathered adrogynon asks in a most casual and gentle way, through closed eyes, like he'd misunderstood. Like he suspects Trace may always try going cold tomorrow, never today, "Why not tonight? Seems good 'nuf night as any."

Morgana frees her lip long enough to say, "Cuz he's got stuff to use up." guessing. She then returns to licking at her bleeding lip.

Trace casts the girl ont he swings a black look. Well, sure he does, but that's not it, apparantly. "Gotta do it proper. Gonna set up a room, like this doctor guy told us, an' get talcum powder an' piles a fresh sheets and stuff..." He folds his arms up, but this time it's defensive. "Sides that, Batiste's party's comin' up. D'wanna be hit with the Agonies f'that. So Jason tole' me we'd do it the night afta' Bat's party." He sighs, "Look, I gotta run... You guys take care, alright?" Maybe he's scared you'll press kicking tonight. "I'll bring you that package soon." He starts to back away.

TooFar nods with a quick bob, "Sure dude, I'll be lookin' out fer that package ina couple days, then."

Morgana doesn't look over, but she does lift her head up a little. "Goodnight.." and softer, she murmurs, "Sorry..." but it's quiet enough Trace can easily not hear it, what with his movement of turning to go.

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