~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Log Title: Wrecked Outside the Raven
Log setting: Outside the Raven. Duh. And it’s afternoon.
Log Cast:
Bailey
Trace
Jean-Batiste
(Plus assorted walkthroughs, Wendy, Arthur, ect..)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wendy opens the door just enough for her too-slender form to get through as she leaves.
Bailey is lounging in front of the Raven, his arms holding his knees to his chest. His hair is slicked back in the drizzle, chin resting on his hands.
Wendy makes her way through the drizzle towards the curb. There she waits patiently for a cab to stop.
A beat up, non-descript grey van squeals to a stop in front of the Raven. The door opens and two people inside, an older man and a girl with spikey pink hair help Trace outside. "Sure this is close enough..?" The man asks softly, still hanging onto him, and Trace just nods. The pair assess him a moment longer, then climb back inside and the door slides shut. As the van rattles off, he stands a moment and then settles down in a tiny heap on the curb. Whump.
Bailey scrambles to his feet and leans over Trace, grabbing him by the shoulders. He sits up and pulls the kid back to the wall, away from pedestrian traffic. "Jees, man, y'okay?"
Wendy's head cants to the side so she can study the person so disgracefully dropped off.
Bailey’s Desc:
Lanky but graceful, this young man has the piercing eyes and strong features that should have destined him for fame and fortune. His skin is tanned and dark, and his hair is black, cut close to his head. His eyes are crystal blue, standingout all the more for his weathered skin. His age is difficult to guess, but he can't be much older than eighteen. He has broad shoulders and stands straight and proud. His station in life is easily read on his clothes and his hands, both of which are worn and permanently paint and dirt stained. He's wearing a pair of olive cargo-pants, pockets bulging, a white t-shirt, and an aging leather jacket. Over one shoulder is slung an army surplus backpack, which probably holds mostof his worldly possessions. His feet are clad in a pair of new-looking combat boots, and when he speaks, it is with a strong Cajun accent.
Jean-Batiste comes out of The Raven, the sounds of a classic blues tune drifting out as he enters the world of the mundane.
Trace blinks owlishly as he's hauled to his feet and dragged over, making a lame attempt to nudge the other boy's hand away and slur, "Sure, sure, m'fine.." But apparantly he's dragged all the way to the wall, so he leans against it. Mm, comfortable wall. He smiles a little at Bailey, eyes of glass, and chuckles. "Saw you yesterday." Observant lad, yes?
Bailey nods, sitting down next to Trace, "Yeh, saw me yest'rday. Jus' sit here f' a bit, man..."
Jean-Batiste wanders out of the Raven as well, his ballcap now attached to his beltloops instead of topping his head. He's holding a drink in a large plastic cup, slurping thirstily from the white and red-striped straw.
Sitting, yes. Sitting's better than standing. Trace slides down the wall, and lands half cross-legged, one leg tucked under him, the other stretched out. He blinks as he sees Batiste. Ooh.. "Hi," he calls simply. Wait, wasn't the whole point of getting dropped off here to get some coffee and clear his head before coming home? But home's coming to him. Huh.
Bailey just leans against the wall again, confident that Trace isn't going to die. Yet. He looks up at Jean-Batiste, "Ya' frien' got dropp'd off here."
Wendy ignores the drizzling rain to study the sitting boy for a few moments longer. Then she's turning away to step into the cab that pulled up.
A taxi pulls up, picks up Wendy, and spirits her away.
Trace’s Desc:
Peeking out from beneath blue braids bound at the ends in rubber bands of various colors, you catch a glimpse of strikingly youthful hazel eyes, large and widely set. He's a disturbingly slender, slight child, sixteen at most and only 5'3" in height. His arms are bone-slender and knobby at the joints, his angled face gaunt, with a look of longtime malnutrition.
He's got a multitude of piercings up and down both ears, as well as a slender silver hoop through the nose. He's garbed in baggy, tattered jeans that are caked with colorful chalk smears on his upper thighs. His t-shirt looks fairly new, though not expensive at all, just a plain black one. It 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.
Familiar voices. Batiste looks over towards Bailey and Trace, his earnest iced-coffee-slurping stopping mid-slurp. Blink. Blink. "Trace, hey..." he replies, and takes the few steps necessary to bring him over to the two of you. "Got dropped off here? By who?" he asks, looking at Bailey for a second before peering intently at his blue-haired friend.
Bailey shrugs, "Som' folks 'n a van... chick wit' pink hair, 'n 'nother guy..."
Trace nods, pleased. Wow, a lovely explaination from Bailey. Doesn't even need elaborating on his part, the way he sees it, so he just smiles a little and nods to Batiste. "Jest gave me a ride home." Not that the Raven is home.
Jean-Batiste's eyes darken for an instant, frown furrowing up his brow. "Pink hair?" He licks his bottom lip, watching Bailey again for several seconds, considering. "Okay. Okay...thanks." He crouches down and reaches a hand out to touch the back of a loosely-curled hand to Trace's cheek, tipping his friend's face up so he can look in his eyes. "You okay? Want some iced coffee?"
Trace's eyes... wow, they're really gone. Teensy tiny pupils, yep. But he smiles blithely and nods. "Yeah, yeah... iced coffee, cool." He reaches up to touch Batiste's cheek back. "S'nice to see you, s'really nice. You okay too?" He's all wondering innocence and bliss right now.
A suddenly short-haired and poisitively impish looking Rumour Simplemoon Sunchild makes her way uptown, with her head bobbing low and hands in her pockets. What is this strange magic?
Jean-Batiste tips his head one way and the other in a sort of undecided gesture, but says in a soft murmur, "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm glad you're okay." He takes another long drink from his milkshake cup before handing it over to Trace, making sure he's got a grasp on the cup before releasing it. "Here, you have some of that, it's great. Not healthy for you at all," he adds with a weak, teasing smile. He looks back to Bailey, then, and asks, "So you're a friend of Trace's?"
Bailey just smiles, watching the two interact. He looks up at Jean-Batiste and shrugs, "Ah know 'im, sorta. From 'round, ya know? We ain't really *frien's*, or nuthin." He pauses, then remembers, "Ah'm Bailey."
Rumour wiggles her hand out of her pocket, and gives a little wave to Trace, half smile, even.
Trace nods faintly in agreement with that. "Jest' seen 'im round, s'all. More before I was livin' at the fort even, let 'lone Walker's. Didn' even know 'is name." Small hands wrap around the cup, and he takes a long sip and sloshes the milkshake about in his cheeks before swallowing and looking over at Bailey and grinning a little. "Well... do now, I mean." He settles his head back against the hard brick because it's just so heavy.. Too much imput, and he doesn't see Rumour yet.
Jean-Batiste relaxes in his protective crouch a little, and settles back flat-footed instead of poised right on the balls of his feet. He nods a little, wiping his forearm against his face to rid it of drizzle-drops, then flashes a weak, shy smile and murmurs, "Bailey. I'm Batiste. Good to meet you."
Rumour steps into the Raven, the sounds of classic blues drifting out onto the street for the time that the door is opened.
Bailey nods back, rubbing his hand back through his soaked hair, "'ey. Goo' ta meetcha. Ya gon' make sur' he's aright?"
Jean-Batiste bobs his head in a nod, looking back at Trace with worried, fond eyes. "Hey, you have some more of that..." he murmurs, poking Trace's shoulder in a gentle, playful manner. "It's shitty if you let it melt too much." Another nod, as his eyes return to Bailey. "Yeah. Yeah, I will. He'll be okay."
Bailey nods, "Yeh, ah'm sur' 'e will. Seen 'im worse off, m'self, ah have." He smiles a little, looking up at the slowly darkening sky.
"He always does," Trace grins, and scoots to lean his head down on Batiste's shoulder. Bony as it is, it's more comfortable than brick by far. Rain trickles down on his cheeks and fall off his chin, but he doesn't wipe them away yet. He's not very wet yet, but his braids are starting to become a darker shade of blue as they get damp. He lifts the straw of the iced coffee up to his lips and slurps at it contentedly. Worse? That doesn't make sense to him, because worse implies things are bad already and they're not, they're *really* not...
Jean-Batiste smiles a little, though the expression doesn't warm his eyes. "Yeah, well," he murmurs. "We...have a deal going. I take care of him, and he puts up with me." He grins a little, and shuffles back to make himself comfortable as a Trace-leaning-post. "So you hang out around here?" he asks Bailey as he carefully gets an arm around Trace's shoulders.
Bailey grins, "Yeh, som'times. Ah'v had good luck w' it lately, so ah guess so. Som' coo' people come by here..."
Jean-Batiste nods to Bailey with a knowing grin. "Yeah. Yeah, definately. I know people who say it's better to hang in Jackson Square, but...I don't know. Never worked for me, too dangerous, you know? You get all sorts coming and going from this place."
"Pff.." Trace comments of Batiste's statement that he needs to be 'put up with'. Then his gaze languidly slides over to Bailey and he chuckles softly. "Dunno. I like Jackson Square okay. This place... Dunno, there's some... snotty folks what come in, and, and dunno, like that lady with the hair who smelled like piss..." He wrinkles his nose up. Still enjoying the use of his Trace-leaning-post mightily, the boy reaches up the iced coffee and clumsily tries to get the straw somewhere near his friend's lips. Ends up poking him in the nose, though, whoops! He giggles. "M'sorry... Here, have some. S'really good." Like Batiste doesn't already know that, having bought the coffee himself and all.
Jean-Batiste's nose is beeped - or whatever it's called when it's a straw that pokes you, and not a finger. "Hey, careful..." he murmurs, laughing softly. He reaches a couple fingers to the straw, helping guide it properly to his mouth and taking several large mouthfuls in succession. "I'm glad you like it. You still feeling okay?" He asks it casually enough, but it's likely obvious he's being his usual worrywart self.
Jean-Batiste sits with his back against the Raven's wall, one arm protectively around Trace. He's looking damp - but isn't that to be expected if you're a streetrat in New Orleans?
Arthur wanders in from the south, smoking a cigarette which he cups in the rainshield embrace of one hand.
Trace lifts his head just a little to bob it, then drops it back onto the Trace-leaning-post. "I'm really very much okay," he promises contentedly, and then yawns big and reaches up a hand to mop away raindrop. Mmm. Wish it'd cut that out already, damn rain. His hand's already reached, so instead of dropping it down again he plays with some of Batiste's braids. Tug, tug. Heh.
Jean-Batiste endures the braid-tugging in much the same way a big, gentle (and oft dumb) dog endures a toddler tugging on its ears. He smiles at Trace, worried eyes warming a little, and hugs his friend close. "We should get out of the rain soon," he murmurs. "Maybe we'll start walking when the iced coffee's gone?"
Arthur wanders up to the door of the Raven and sticks his head in.
Arthur steps into the Raven, the sounds of classic blues drifting out onto the street for the time that the door is opened.
Trace gives the suggestion serious thought. Rain sucks, yes. We ought to not sit in it. But walking sucks too. "I... Okay. Let's, um." He looks at the iced coffee. "Let's find a dry place. We can drink iced coffee in dry places. I jest, I need to get up..." He bites his lip. Not hard, right? He was doing it a minute ago, after all, just before the van dropped him off. Well, for like a whole ten seconds before he fell in an ungraceful heap of Trace, but it still counts. Yeah..
Jean-Batiste nods a little, and hugs Trace close for a moment. "Okay. Let's go find somewhere to get out of the rain." He stands up and moves to stand in front of Trace, then offers both hands to help his blue-haired friend up.
Back to the Roleplay Log Archive