Traveller. We have a date, if you have another year to spare.

[Saria Dragon of the Rain Wilds]

[OoC: Here's my call for Klick, good sir. Let's see how well he plays with others. ]

Twin moons rose into the fading daylight, one large, one small. No one cared much for their beauty and splendor anymore. Not around here.

Dusty streets were lined with dirty buildings. Ratty, unkempt stores, with crooked signs and faded curtains in every window. Aged, peeling paint blew alongside tatters of paper, bits and pieces that no one cared for. The air was lit an unpleasant yellow as the sun drooped and the town packed up for the day.

One man--at least, he seemed to be a man, at a second glance--swanned through an alley. The buildings towered overhead, crowding together, keeping the dampness and the darkness at a consistent state. With an a-line skirt to his ankles, it would have been easy to mistake him for a woman. Almost, but not quite, the skirt was reminiscent of a Scotsman's kilt, made of faded pine-green and black tartan crosshatching from the waist down. The Graham clan, for those in-the-know. But very few people knew. Not around here.

Dancing to a melody only madmen could hear, he erupted into the street in a swirl of dust and fabric. A young child's voice piped up, "Mummy, look at the silly man!". As the green-garbed fellow swiveled to see who called into the dusk, drawing attention to none other than himself, the mother dragged her son into a dilapidated house, shutting and audibly locking the door behind them. With an air of displacement, he gave a sniff, and a toss of his head, then the man tugged his dark green motorcycle jacket smooth while he sauntered on his way.

Dim sunlight glinted off polished silver buckles. Buckles on his jacket, buckles on his boots, buckles where there would never need to be buckles, but there they were anyway. And they were all polished to a glittering, glistening, silvery shine. So out of place in this dingy town. So very shiny and clean compared to the grime-filled surrounds.

The buckles inevitably made faint chiming sounds as he moved. Klink-klik-klink. Klink-klik-klik. They rattled together as he moved, and they added to the symphony in his mind. His hands rose before his face and began waving and gesturing, striking and pointing. He conducted his imaginary orchestra with passion and a strange, vigorous ballet accompaniment, turning pirouettes and darting forward with chassés in between slashing his arms through the air. The performance consumed his thoughts, an absolute delight, until a rotund gentleman stepped out into his path.

It brought the orchestra to a crashing halt. Mid-gesture, the green man froze, one leg outstretched behind him, arms held at different heights before his face. His eyes grew wide, and his lips turned to a perfect 'O' of surprise.

Wearing a battered and dusty old suit, which was the off-yellow colour of ancient newspaper, the short, round man coughed uncomfortably and wiggled his expansive moustache before speaking. "I'm not sure if you're right in the head, son. What's your name?" The man's moustache quivered once more: nervous twitch.

When he received no reply, the older fellow hiked his pants, coughed again, and repeated the question, "What's your name, boy?"

Bringing his legs together, the green man stood to attention, all but his paused conductor-arms smartly in place, very serious, all business. His arms refused to cooperate, just hanging there in the air between the two men. He gave a mimicking cough, though he lacked a moustache to wiggle in retort. "Countdown, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Out of time, Johnny." The fingers on his conductor-arms pointed like guns, angling downward, aiming at the uncomfortable older sir.

"That doesn't answer the question, son."

"Boom. Headshot." He motioned as if his hands had fired. "Spell it with me: aye, ell, eye, ess, tee, ee, arr. Alister Headshot."

The man's girth jiggled alongside the moustache this time, clearly fighting a response to run from the deranged skirt-wearing, green-clothed maniac before him. "Alister, you say? And where did you come from?"

Draped in his leather and tartan and bejeweled by silver buckles, Alister dropped into a sinuous fighting stance, grinning in a way that was by far more threatening than the pose he held. His voice grated out as a low, cruel rumble. "I come from the end of time."

He didn't give the pukey-yellow man a chance to respond, whether it be through words or a heart attack right there in the street. With a shriek, Alister spun away and pranced down the dusty road from the direction he had originated, leaving the fat old man behind. Back to the alley. Back to the edge of town.

He didn't really want to go further, anyway.

A dark doorway beckoned, a tall rectangle of blackness in a pool of shadows. They hadn't deemed it late enough to flick on the ancient neon sign above the doorway. Buried here in the alley, in the outskirts of the hellhole these people lived in, a neon sign wouldn't draw anyone new, anyway. Just the same old dregs, pouring into the same old bar, to drink the same old excuse for alcohol until the night was through. Alister strode towards it purposefully, strangely subdued for the time being.

With a dull rattle, he shoved open the door and went inside The Last Stop. Place smelled like the cultural melting-pot of the drunks, the homeless, and the burnt-out locals who knew they would never make it any further than this awful bar. The Last Stop became their only stop. No way out of this town. No place else to go. Not around here.

Alister disdained to sit on the unclean barstool nearest to the door, and by extention, nearest to himself. It also happened to be one of the few available. He opted instead to sidle between it and the bar itself, managing to keep his leather jacket from touching the stained wooden counter. He sighed--he just couldn't help it, darn it--and raised a wary eyebrow to the middle-aged bartender. Greying stubble dominated the barman's bored-looking face.

"What are you here for, buddy?"

"Buddy?"

"Yeah, is that a problem?"

"BUUUH-DEE?"

"I think you'd better leave before any trouble starts." The bartender reached under the counter.

The patrons of the bar knew better than to watch. Any scene that erupted might involve them, if they were paying too much attention. Even so, when the shrieking started, most were compelled to look.

"SPOON DON'T GO IN YOUR NOSE, BUDDY. Whatcha doin' with it, eh? Whatcha puttin' it in there for?"

Alister had the barman in a tight headlock from where he squatted on the countertop. A huge silver spoon, fully as large as his forearm was clenched in his fist. The rounded scoopin' end! was grinding into the bartender's nostril, doing its absolute best to get wedged right up in there. Blood poured from the battered nose, splattering droplets with each screeched cry. The musk from too many years of spilled beer got stronger as Alister's heavily buckled boots skidded across the damp wood, mixing blood with the remnants of alcohol.

"You're not my buddy at all, buddy boy!" With a hoot, Alister sprung off the counter. A tight backflip brought him to the ground on his feet, crouched, spoon in hand, specks of crimson decorating his green motorcycle jacket just like miniature Christmas was being celebrated, local only to his clothing. Alister saluted with the spoon and gave a short little skip. He jumped at a table and slid across the top, ending in the darkest, dankest, and by far the funnest corner of the world.

Alister spun back to face the bartender, and the wary crowd of patrons, nursing their various drinks. "What am I here for? Me, one of them strange folk in your honest to goodness small town bar, what with his fancy skirt, and kevlar-lined jacket, and shiny ****ing spoons? Never did nothin' to nobody, and here he is, just wreckin' up your faces! 'Course, I'm here to see my friend." Alister gestured to the empty, unlit corner beside him. "Kilckety split."

He turned; it was some kind of rolling movement, as if an oceanic wave could change its path to face you. The great rotation of a boulder, or a bloated snowman, or just that unsettling thing Alister sometimes did with his body that suggested something wasn't right; something inhuman.

"How amazing to see you, Cherub. Not very sporting of you to be lurking back here, all invisible to the good folks in this here bar. They don't have the Eye, Kilckety, and they just don't see."

Alister leaned into the depths of the shadows, breathing into the face of the unseen. "I see you, Cherub." His eyes, unremarkable until now, flashed acid green. It was gone in an instant, settling back into the demure brown his eyes usually wore. But for that brief moment, there was a layer of secrets pulled back, a hint of all the things unsaid about Alister. All the potential hidden within his eccentric, and perhaps mad-as-a-hatter, body.

"Came all the way out here just for you. There's no question to it, Cherub, only thing left to decide is if we ruin the minds of everyone here, or if we take our biz-nis," he said with a pop of his lips, "outside and away from this no-where, no-how bar."

There was no discernable reply, but there was never a doubt in his mind that the seemingly-empty corner had heard him loud and clear. He had the Eye. There was no hiding from the infamous Headshot. Alister licked his lips, smearing a few specks of semi-dried blood with his tongue. The redness seemed brighter than it really was, but only one set of eyes could see it from this angle. The eyes of someone unseen.

"Do you still dance, my little Klickety?" He grinned and readied his foot long spoon.

[Heroine of the Dragon]

A most intriguing character, ESSDEE... *gives you marshmallows* I will be sure to follow this as the tale unfolds!!!

[Fairlight Excalibur]

OoC: Oh dear... this is going to be absurdly fun.

[Fairlight Excalibur]

The dust-lined streets and dilapidated buildings were a perfect match for the pair of faded brown

OoC: Okay... I cannot post my response.

[Loot]

TWITTER LENGTH BATTLE

GO

[Saria Dragon of the Rain Wilds]

NOW YOU CAN

!!!

[Fairlight Excalibur]

It is not finished yet.

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