From deep within an alley, just off the center of town, there comes a sudden buldge. A racoon, searching for scraps of food amoung the trash cans, watches on in fear and confusion. Reality, as mortals understand it, steps aside with a whisper and a soft glow.
A short and furred figure arrives from a place that can not logically exist. In its arms is a small wooden box, deep red in color and with intricate carvings on all of its sides. Not even stopping to look at the surroundings, the newcomer bursts with amazing speed into the street, down the road and along the country lane. There it disappears into the forests surrounding Miles Cross and into the night.
Unfreezing from it's terror, the racoon slowly starts to move out of the alley, not wanting to be anywhere near this place any longer. It moves carefully, lest it disturb something its most basic instinct insists should not be disturbed.
Before the racoon completes its retreat from the narrow passage, reality again looks the other way for a moment. A broad shouldered figure the color of lead drags itself along and back into the world. It moves wearily, pulling itself along the cracked and ruined asphalt of the alleyway with its fingers. At the sight of this, the racoon gives in the urge to flee, and skitters out into the street towards another alley. The latest arrival takes no notice, but kicks and crawls away from whence it came. Its movement are pained, and taken only with the greatest of effort. Out into the street it goes, grunting and cursing.
Finally, the figure's energy depleted, it falls heavily against a random door. The door nearly cracks as if struck with a great mass. There it succumbs to fatigue, not knowing if it is house or apartment or store that it has laid at.
((OOC: Open to all.))