Dust (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mithrarin) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thenearshore2017-10-11 04:08 pm
mithrarin) wrote in thenearshore2017-10-11 04:08 pm
Crash! Hundred Ice Cream Dash!
Who: Dust and OPEN
When: Early September
Where: The Near Shore
What: Dust has some downtime, and spends it wisely(????).
A.
[Down the road sprints Dust, his cloak and tail trailing behind him and purpose written in the set of his jaw. The sidewalk isn't empty, but he dodges past the people walking on it as if he isn't there -- which, being of the Far Shore, he might as well not be. No eyebrows raise in his wake, no one stumbles back in shock. He's just a passing breeze, one they find pleasant.]
[The light is against him as he reaches a side street -- no matter. He vaults over the two lanes of traffic as if it's nothing, landing lightly on the other side to resume his run. A truck juts out across the sidewalk, poorly parked in a driveway -- he barely breaks stride as he kicks one foot forward, dropping his body so his momentum slides him clean under it. And again, on the other side, he springs back to his feet and resumes his charge.]
[At the end of the block, Dust comes to a sudden halt right at the corner -- just in time for an ice cream truck to slow to a stop right in front of him, so that he has to lean all of an inch to the side to place his order.] A dipped cone, please.
[As the ice cream man turns to the soft serve machine, Dust scoops his phone out of his pocket to tag his thumb against it, his smile a little smug.] And that's number 57. 43 to go.
B.
[When he isn't chasing ice cream trucks around -- or intercepting them -- or, well, don't ask about that one truck with a slightly dented roof -- Dust spends his time on the roof of a neighborhood school, sitting on the edge of the roof with his arms folded on his legs. Something in the air makes him uneasy, in a way he associates with danger and trouble, but he hasn't seen anything yet.]
[Still, his senses are on overdrive trying to pick up any hint of an ayakashi.]
Wildcard.
[Hit me up.]
When: Early September
Where: The Near Shore
What: Dust has some downtime, and spends it wisely(????).
A.
[Down the road sprints Dust, his cloak and tail trailing behind him and purpose written in the set of his jaw. The sidewalk isn't empty, but he dodges past the people walking on it as if he isn't there -- which, being of the Far Shore, he might as well not be. No eyebrows raise in his wake, no one stumbles back in shock. He's just a passing breeze, one they find pleasant.]
[The light is against him as he reaches a side street -- no matter. He vaults over the two lanes of traffic as if it's nothing, landing lightly on the other side to resume his run. A truck juts out across the sidewalk, poorly parked in a driveway -- he barely breaks stride as he kicks one foot forward, dropping his body so his momentum slides him clean under it. And again, on the other side, he springs back to his feet and resumes his charge.]
[At the end of the block, Dust comes to a sudden halt right at the corner -- just in time for an ice cream truck to slow to a stop right in front of him, so that he has to lean all of an inch to the side to place his order.] A dipped cone, please.
[As the ice cream man turns to the soft serve machine, Dust scoops his phone out of his pocket to tag his thumb against it, his smile a little smug.] And that's number 57. 43 to go.
B.
[When he isn't chasing ice cream trucks around -- or intercepting them -- or, well, don't ask about that one truck with a slightly dented roof -- Dust spends his time on the roof of a neighborhood school, sitting on the edge of the roof with his arms folded on his legs. Something in the air makes him uneasy, in a way he associates with danger and trouble, but he hasn't seen anything yet.]
[Still, his senses are on overdrive trying to pick up any hint of an ayakashi.]
Wildcard.
[Hit me up.]