Miles Cross ST (milescross_st) wrote in milescross,
Miles Cross ST
milescross_st
milescross

The Streets of Miles Cross, In The Wee Hours of The Morning

All things are quite silent on the streets of Miles Cross. It's that hour where even the streetlamps seem tired, and dawn is yet a long ways off. The air is cool and misty. Here and there, perhaps a stray dog or cat might pad quietly from one alley to another, but even then it is only for a change of bedding. It's the hour ruled by insomniacs and night owls, and no one else. So still is the air, one can hear the distant roar of the ocean even on the furthest edges of town.

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.))
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  • 141 comments

  • Afternoon, overlooking the Hawthonre Farm

    From a bluff not far from the Hawthorne Farm a lone figure looks down searching for signs of life. He leans with one hand clutching the trunk of a…

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