*glower*

[hazlogs]

It is currently 19:28 Pacific Time on Thu Mar 4 2004.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is partially cloudy. The temperature is 45
      degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in 
      from the southwest at 13 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.01 
      and rising, and the relative humidity is 68 percent. The dewpoint is 35 
      degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (89% full).
Harbor Park -- The Meadow(#194RJ)
One of the last bastions of green left in the city, mottled and withered grass
      and weeds covers the earth like a badly stained carpet, with the 
      construction work turning what is left into just bare dirt. The 
      vegetation seems marginally healthier the further it is from the river 
      and much healthier towards the central area of the park around the 
      fountain. Construction work is ongoing here: a raised earthen berm about 
      five feet tall is being built all around the park perimeter, with two 
      breaks each at the Bridge Street entrance and the First Street end. 
      Wooden posts are being erected at regular intervals all along the earthen 
      wall, while tasteful iron gates and fences are being added at the 
      entrances. Overpowering the scent of living vegetation are the exhaust 
      fumes from a busy street to the west and an unpleasant stench from the 
      Columbia River to the east. From the street view or river view, the park 
      is now isolated, as if it existed apart from the city. People in tall 
      buildings have an excellent view of any goings-ons for now, though. In 
      the center of the park, a small glade of six tall trees and a flower bed 
      surrounds the fountain.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the
      park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. 
      Claire.
Contents:
Dakota
Anthony
Jeremy
Quentin
Obvious exits:
Bridge Street  Fountain  First Street  River  
"Neo wishes he could be dope like me." Jeremy says behind mirrored glasses,
      striding over towards his friend. "Whats up man? I'm glad to see you back 
      again. I guess you couldn't help yourself after the last visit, eh'?"
"Peace, love, and automatic weapons." Dakota says quietly with a lopsided grin
      on her face, but loud enough to be heard by anyone happening to listen.
Anthony stuffs his hands in his sweatshirt pocket and hangs back from the other
      three a short distance, looking a bit uncomfortable as re-introductions 
      go around.
"Neo smokes dope? Well, that'd explain why he always looked so fucked up
      confused..." Quentin's lips crook upwards a bit at one corner, stepping 
      over and reaching out a hand to clasp Jeremy's shoulder... and then to 
      muss up his hair, unable to resist the urge. A tip of his head, then, 
      quirking a brow Dakota-wards as he observes, "I see Jeremy's infected you 
      with Goth Syndrome."
Crocuta wanders into view from the direction of Bridge Street, hands stuffed
      into her coat pockets, shoulders hunched, boots kicking at the grass as 
      she walks.
"pff.. infected." Jeremy says with a smirk on his face as his blonde and black
      hair gets ruffled up. He gives his friend a light punch in the tummy, 
      then glances up at him. "This is Dakota, you already met Tony." He says 
      with a smile. "Kota is Alicia's cousin."
Dakota nods her head to Quentin, chuckling. "Yeah, he's contagious, it seems."
      She holds out a hand to the blue-haired Walker, "Nice to meetcha."
The seventeen year old girl, in just a few months, has gone from a gawky young
      girl to a proud young woman. Though only 5'4", her slim athletic body is 
      well toned with tight, sleek muscles. Her skin is a pale cream, left free 
      of most cosmetics. Faded lines of white mark her wrists and arms, barely 
      seen on her light complexion. Noticeably, however, is an ash-darkened 
      scar running the length of the top of her right hand - though lately it 
      has been covered with fingerless black gloves. Naturally dark brown eyes 
      have been given contacts to alter their color, changing them to a warm 
      sort of grey. From her childhood, her hair has been long and wavy, a 
      rich, dark auburn brown. Now, it's been whacked short, up to the back of 
      her head. Straightened, it hang down in spiky bangs over her face. It's 
      been dyed an inky black. Clothing, normally casual, has taken on a gothic 
      twist, and pants dripping with chains and shirts with smartassed saying 
      now appear on her person. Around her neck, on a golden chain, is a thin 
      gold band of a ring.


Here stands a young man nearing the age of twenty-one, thin, pale, and not much
      to look at. When once he was a shy, mild mannered and ignored computer 
      nerd who couldn't weigh much more then a hundred when wet, now stands the 
      exact same person, yet, gothlike. The glasses on his face reveal the pair 
      of blue eyes he bares. His black hair still sprawls out over his face, 
      but no longer dipped in blonde about his bangs, just a solid darkness.

His clothing has changed dramatically as well, having abandoned the button down
      shirts and slacks, replacing it with baggy dark jeans, a solid black 
      shirt that simply reads: "Chicks dig scrawny pale guys" A long, ankle 
      length trenchcoat billows about his thin frame, nearly cloaking him like 
      a cape. Upon his feet is a pair of heavy steel toed boots, those which 
      travel halfway up his calf. Chains adorn his jeans, three hanging off his 
      wallet, and two more simply embedded into the fabric, jingling and 
      clanking as he walks. To finish off his ungodly apparel, there is a 
      leather collar bound around his neck, with a small metal skull dangling 
      from the end of a steel hoop.

A shock of electric blue hair spills down just over this teenager's brow,
      whispering at the nape of his neck as well; slightly long both in front 
      and in back, a razor's work having shaved the sides just above and behind 
      his ears into a buzz-cut haze of cerulean. The features of the night-pale 
      face shadowed by that hair are slightly angular in their lines, high 
      cheekbones leading down to a sharp chin matched by the straight line of 
      his nose, the eyes to either side of it a startlingly bright shade of 
      green that gleams almost emerald in the right light. He's a rather 
      slender young man, in height just a few inches shy of a full six feet, 
      although a touch of leanness to his limbs hints at the recent development 
      of muscle to strengthen his frame.

He's dressed in a rather casual fashion, with a few flares of individuality to
      make him stand out. A hooded jacket of waterproof nylon taffeta falls 
      over his upper body, midnight black in sheen with streaks of deepest blue 
      to add a bit of colour to the garment, its large velcro-closed pockets 
      bulging slightly with a variety of hidden contents. Beneath that can be 
      seen, when the jacket's open or off, of a less glossy black -- a 
      sweatshirt of a warm cotton weave worn slightly loose against his slender 
      frame, but comfortable. His hands are gloved, black leather and polyester 
      mesh offering more of a stylish commentary than actually protecting the 
      fingers within from the elements. The black velcro band of a Coleman 
      'Night Sight' watch wraps about his left wrist just behind the glove, its 
      metallic-blue ring circling the time display. A pair of black jeans cover 
      his legs, the tough denim fabric scraped to a paler white at his knees 
      and a few spots near the cuffs where they brush over the edge of hi-top 
      sneakers crusted with mud and dirt from walking outdoors.

Anthony apparently isn't that interested in talking, since he hasn't said a
      word yet since he got out of the car, and he looks to be trying to 
      continue the streak.
About five-foot-six and a touch on the stocky side, Anthony appears to be of
      Mediterranean descent, in his late teens. He has deep brown eyes framed 
      by bushy eyebrows and high cheekbones, and his curly umber hair is 
      close-cropped, a pair of thick sideburns running from above his ears down 
      the sides of his jaw. Most of the time, he's slouching or leaning against 
      something.
He wears a blue sweatshirt with "Emerson High School" emblazoned across it in
      capial block letters, a pair of loose, beat-up blue jeans, and 
      thick-soled hiking boots. A plain gold chain glints a little on the back 
      of his neck. On his head is a faded blue baseball hat with an ornate "NY" 
      embroidered on it in white.
He speaks quickly and in a gruff North Jersey accent, evidence of his ancestry.
Crocuta chews absently on a thumbnail as she looks over the park. She can't
      help but notice the group hanging around and talking to each other, but 
      she doesn't move to approach them. Instead, she pushes her hands back 
      into her coat and starts slouching over toward the river.
Quentin reaches out to clasp the offered hand firmly for a moment, quirking a
      smile, "Kota--" At the light punch, he swats a back-hand against Jer's 
      shoulder, "Hey. Don't make me kick your ass, gothboy."
"Pff. I think you can be just as Goth, smurf head." Jeremy says as he reaches
      back, sliding his hand into Dakota's, giving it a squeeze as his chin 
      lowers, eyes catching the street light somewhat. He looks amused for a 
      moment, then glances over to Tony.
Dakota shakes her head slowly, "Now, let's fight nice, gentlemen." She chides
      them both jokingly, a grin spread 'cross her face. She gives her head a 
      short toss, flinging back black bangs from her eyes as she squeezes Jer's 
      hand back.
Anthony notices he's being looked at, giving Jeremy a quick glance back of his
      own, then goes back to studying the ground.
"No such thing," Quentin replies with a grin, stepping back and tucking both
      hands into the pockets of his jacket as he regards the small group, 
      noting the clasp of hands with a brow's lift, "I was taught to fight as 
      dirty as possible." His gaze weaves then past them, a brow lifting, 
      "Anthony. How's it going?"
Crocuta, still out of earshot of the group, glances back over toward them, sort
      of watching in a sidelong kind of way, in between long stares out over 
      the river and regular scans of the park in general. Her hand comes back 
      up toward her face, and she chews on her thumbnail again.
Shifting his gaze about the park slowly, Jeremy gives Dakota's hand another
      firm squeeze, eyes searching, catching sight of Crocuta, but thinks 
      nothing of it. She doesn't look psychotically Russian. Time to time, he 
      glances around, searching subtelly.
"Um ... it's all right," Anthony replies, taking his hands out of his
      sweatshirt and clasping them behind his back. "They dragged me over 
      here," he says, jerking his head towards the pair.
Dakota falls quiet, glancing over her shoulder to Anthony and giving a soft
      'pfft' of breath. "Well, you didn't have to come, jus' though you might 
      want some fresh air."
"You sound entirely too thrilled, Anthony," observes the blue-haired young man
      in wry tones, a brow crooking upwards, "Don't, like, start dancing and 
      singing or anything, it'd be embarassing."
"C'mon Tony, lighten up some." Jeremy says with a smile. "We're all pals and
      shit, right?" He asks, letting his eyes linger upon Crocuta for another 
      moment.
Anthony doesn't reply, just shrugging slightly at Quentin.
Crocuta kicks at a bit of sod, then looks up again. For a brief moment, she
      catches Jeremy and Dakota looking at her, and she frowns and looks away 
      quickly, moving further off toward the river.
"Man, he's about as cheery as the boss," Quentin observes with a shake of his
      head, before with a brow's lift asking, "So how's everyone doing? All 
      that.. er.. trouble blow over?"
Jeremy glances back to Quentin and shakes his head. "No, it hasn't, but we can
      talk about that elsewhere another time, like maybe t'morrow." He 
      explains. "You back for good, need a place to stay at?"
Dakota squints her eyes slightly in the direction of Crocuta, before she turns
      her eyes back towards Quentin.
Anthony also turns his attention to Crocuta, for the lack of anything better to
      look at.
"Well, I don't know about for good... I could probably use a place to stay,
      though," Quentin admits, before trailing off... and turning 'round to 
      look over towards the river, brow furrowing, "What're we all looking at?"
"Nothing." Jeremy says with a shrug of his shoulder. "Just keeping my eyes out
      for people I don't recognize." He admits. "You want to come back to my 
      place? Its still practically home to ya, right?"
"We're gonna be staying up all night, drinking coffee." Dakota says to Quentin
      with a smirk. "Could bring a movie, some popcorn..."
Quentin's head tips back to look over past a fallen bang of cerulean-blue, lips
      tugging up at one corner in a sly grin at the suggestion. "That," he 
      offers easily, "Depends on whether or not my key still works, doesn't it? 
      Sure, we can head back there, you can catch me up on shit..."
"Your key doesn't work. I changed the locks twice.. once cuz.. I had a falling
      out with Renee, the other when um... the door fell down.." Jeremy trails 
      off a bit uncomfortably. "Wanna go back to my place?" He asks. "I got 
      some 'buisness' to handle for the family."
"When you guys head back, I'm gonna stay here," Anthony says, looking back to
      the other three. "I'm gonna take a walk, I think."
Jeremy frowns slightly. "Tony, that may not be.. wise. At least let us drop you
      off near home, you know?"
Quentin's head tips up, gaze sweeping towards the bright, moon-lit skies... and
      then he admits quietly, "Up to you, Tony, but it's a bad night to be out 
      alone in this part've town. Too tempting to go find some mugger to beat 
      the hell out of. Still. Not a bad place to walk and think."
Dakota nods her head slowly, "I agree with them, Anthony. We can drop you off,
      if you want, then... you could always go out if you want after."
"I'll be fine," Tony says, mostly confidently. "I'd rather stay out here, if
      it's okay. I just need some time alone, is all."
Jeremy lets out a soft breath and nods. "Well.. alright.. you got the number if
      you need anything." He says, head tilting to one side, then makes his way 
      for the car.
Crocuta leans against the wall near the river, facing and looking out at it and
      apparantly paying no attention to the others now.
Quentin quirks a half-smile over towards Anthony, suggesting with a tip of his
      chin, "Try the fountain. S'where I always used to hang out, when I needed 
      to think." He reaches out briefly to clap his shoulder, before heading 
      past to follow the goth twins towards the car.
Dakota nods her head softly and follows after Jeremy. "Take care of yourself."
      She says to Anthony as she walks past then heads for the car.
Anthony waves as the three head off back to the car, taking a seat on the bench
      Quentin had been lying on earlier and pulling his phone from his pocket.
Crocuta glances over to see most of the group split off, leaving Anthony
      behind. Her brows furrow a bit, but she shrugs and leans back against the 
      wall again. Her back's to the river now, her arms folded across his chest.
Anthony dials a number, and doesn't have to wait long for the other end to pick
      up; an animated conversation in Italian starts, causing Tony's mood to 
      brighten substantially.
Crocuta watches Tony for a bit, then sits down on the grass at the base of the
      river-wall and pulls a small journal, along with a booklight and a pen, 
      from her coat pocket. Soon she's absorbed in writing, with only an 
      occasional glance 'round.
Anthony eventually starts walking as the conversation proceeds, ambling
      casually towards the fountain.
Anthony makes his way towards the fountain in the center of the large, open
      meadow.