i can be brown; i can be blue; i can be violet sky

[Laurel Booth]

I think Laurel counts... but this post is just plain retarded, blah.

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He hadn't left the city since he had met up with Poe but instead had set off to explore it a little bit better. Given that he intended to stick around for some unknown amount of time (at least until the itchy foot struck again, he believed), it probably wouldn't have hurt to gain a more intimate study of what the city had to offer. Laurel didn't doubt that they would be frequenting its crumbling buildings for things because it would still be a while before they were self-sufficent enough to do without wandering too far. The idea of being fixed some thirty-five or forty miles away from it didn't bother him any, he was well travelled enough to make good time no matter where he went.



So onward down the cracked pavement he roamed, olive-coloured eyes scanning the more squat buildings that rested against the backdrop of curving suburbs and lied before the sprawling downtown district. It must have been something, he thought, to have seen some holy hand take the top specie and wipe them clear off of the chess board. Cars strewn about, occasionally on sidewalks, rolled over and burnt to nothing more than the (now) rusty shells that they began as. But the smells of the city seemed to still remain one form or another, so it had never been very hard for him to pick out the various visitors to the area. From wolves to coyotes to stray dogs and cats, there was probably even a stray crocodile in the sewers, his nose picked through it all without a second thought.



Which had gotten him in trouble a time or two before, because for the same reason they could pick out one smell from another, they could ignore it as well. Another grime-caked window didn't mean too much to him as he approached it, unaware of another just inside, and promptly wiped it with his hand to peer inside. It was the grime on the inside that didn't let him do anything about really seeing in, so he went in, mindlessly flinging the door open and sending the dust flying every which way (to his dismay). Sneezing as soon as those doors were open had become his little accidental theme, as was either stumbling across folks or getting stumbled across himself. It was the sheets of music on the floor that caught his attention first, then the mustard-coloured hybrid who was reading over them.



“Musician?”

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