Scrub Mage

What Are You Listening To?

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@Dynamo Frokane Ah, a fellow man of taste I see.

What Are You Listening To?

What Are You Listening To?

What Are You Listening To?

What Are You Listening To?

The Rhythm of the Night

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“Decent day. Thanks for askin’ kid.” Grits murmured back to Jennie as she passed along his tap water. Honestly, it tasted the same as it did as home, so it wasn’t like he had to leave to get halfway decent water, but he was a creature of habits. He slid a dollar toward the bartender, the most he could spare for a tip, and gave a half-nod as he downed the glass. It didn’t burn at all. It was water. It was boring. Boring was worse than bad, he thought, and it made him scowl at the few droplets which remained on the glass.

While Grits’ interpretation of the Beat was the most irritating thing that he could imagine, there were a few sounds that came close. “Smooth as they can go.” Grits gave the response abruptly, with his conscious effort to remain patient tinting the words. Sure, Grits shouldn’t have been in a bar, but what excuse did Brandon have? Had he come to berate the other patrons? It was entertaining, to say the least, but Grits had never been one for self-discipline.

“It’s good you stay dry, kid. These drinks can really mess you up.” The words were genuine, but still stained with signature Grits grit. “Still, makes a man wonder why you hang out in a bar. Schitt, if I didn’t know better I’d say you came here to sweep ol’ Grits off his feet with that compliment of yours.” Grits was very deadpan in his delivery, being the type to internalize a laugh rather than share it with others. He was straight to the point when he spoke despite not knowing too much about Brandon beyond his attitude. He turned his body to face him a bit more seriously, but didn’t expect to keep the conversation very long. He’d had his glass, and he wasn’t big on chatter nowadays. But he figured he’d entertain the guy, since he’d approached him. Didn’t change the fact that Grits thought he had a very punchable face, but he kept that under wraps. Grits wasn’t the most menacing figure, slouched as he was, but he was big. His face showed a tired sort of interest, but his eyes were prepped to judge behind his glasses.

The Fumes of War- A 20th Century 'Punk' Nation RP

Interested.

The Rhythm of the Night

---

Grits had just woken up from a short nap, ready to greet the world with a half-decent demeanor, when he hauled his figure into the shower. He turned on the water, feeling it with his left hand as he supported himself on the wall with his right. It was ice cold, so he turned the single temperature knob closer to the H, being careful to creep slowly higher along the temperature to not burn his hand. When it stopped moving, it was barely warm enough to satisfy him, but he got in even though it would only be colder from here. When, halfway through his cleansing, the heat gave out, he pounded a fist on the wall, turned off the shower, and cursed it to high hell as he used his sink’s water to finish rinsing the shampoo out of his hair. “Useless goddamn hunk o’ schitt.”

Grits needed a drink. He dried himself off with one of his two towels, tossing it to the side of his bathroom haphazardly, and without a care. It was his bathroom, after all, and he’d clean it up when he damn well pleased. He threw on an old Hawaiian, slipped into some khakis, and put on his favorite pair of worn-out, cement-eaten shoes. They were his walking shoes, of course, and he didn’t have a spare pair anyway. It took him longer than it should have to locate his coat (it had been draped along the back of his recliner, as per usual), giving his hair enough time to fully dry. His keys were in the same spot as his glasses, so there was no trouble there.

Grits had trouble opening his door, not because of a faulty lock, but because he didn’t realize he had the deadbolt still in place. In his frustrated attempt to open the door, he almost ripped the lock out of the wall, only catching himself after loosening it. He mumbled some obscenities under his breath but took note that he’d have to fix it when he got home. Anyone stupid enough to rob him while he was gone would get what was coming to them, anyway. Already irked, he slammed the door behind him, no doubt causing more damage to its frame. The walk to his water hole was short, he’d been going there ever since he moved in a couple of years back. Friendly enough crowd, but it was more about convenience.

Grits entered the bar like an elephant trying to sneak into Buckingham Palace – he didn’t announce himself, but he swung open the door while muttering about how something or another was a complete joke. He shut his mouth as he waltzed into the place, remembering his anger management training, and trying to avoid screaming at someone who didn’t deserve it. He waved in the general direction of the patrons – less a wave, and more of an arm wave to symbolize the gesture. He plunked himself at a barstool at the end of the bar, and let out a sigh of relief. “I’ll have a, uh… schitt, just gimme a water.” He’d come here for a drink, but he knew he shouldn’t be drinking. He’d managed to stay dry for a year or so – the Beat couldn’t save his liver – but he still frequented the place out of habit. It was a routine, of sorts – come for a drink, remember that he needs to stay clean, order a water, get irritated, go out, do all the same stuff a drunkard would do, then go home to repeat it all (except on Thursdays, when his routine was changed slightly to accommodate his love for Mexican cuisine). He listened to the other patrons, but didn’t offer anything much of his own to the conversation, again recalling his anger management training.

The Helium Frightful

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The Witnessed Day stood half-awake in his own daydream as rocks conspired all around him to crush the bug. Full of hubris, he chose not to move – instead, he idly watched the rocks, attempting to divine a greater meaning to their being. There was none, of course – they were doomed to an existence of monotony, and this was their highlight. They simply lacked the capacity to aspire to something greater, let alone the ability to dream. He would mourn them, at some point to far off too see (but he could not tell whether that moment had long passed, or if it were yet to come). At the noise of Golby, he shushed his birdcalls, the thought of sustaining them having grown boring within the moment.

The Witnessed Day, tired, turned only one set of his eyes toward Golby. He cocked his head at the mention of teamwork but said nothing about how he was mostly unaware of the others. He had no mouth to receive doughnuts, so he did not gesture to receive them. It took him a few moments to gather the will to think his steps out, and he slowly lumbered his form toward the gathering. He took stock of his would-be comrades, measuring their worth in his eyes. In his arrogance, he only noted the Helium Frightful as interesting enough to study in its entirety, and watched as it swirled to the beat.

Swirls in the sky made him hungry for thoughts about flying. Perhaps he would dream himself such an ability when he was allowed to sleep, as it always seemed appealing. Maybe he’d go bigger, too. The living vessel had certainly been a force to be feared, and had he not been so focused on other thoughts (especially those annoying leg-thoughts he was forced to maintain), he might have reacted with the appropriate response of avoiding the situation entirely. He thought about being a flying worm – then he wouldn’t need to worry about legs anymore. A worm burrowing through the sky – such imagery invoked within him a feeling of nostalgia, and he found that he missed the Nebula Shaman he had once known (as loathsome (and inferior) as they were).

With that, The Witnessed Day turned his attention back to the group, and his mind acknowledged the announcement of Lucky. He was too tired for a proper introduction (and, after his nostalgic recollection, too unimpressed with the current lot before him), so his gesture was a lazy greeting used by the lower-tiered Nebula Shaman he had only seen a few times in this current consciousness – a simple nod of acknowledgement in the direction of the others. His arms sat limp at his sides, and he only let out one thought-utterance to commune his thoughts.

“The Witnessed Day.”

Such was the extent of his daydream that he half-retreated back into it, only partitioning a crumb of his mind to listen for the others’ introductions as his eyes tried to take in every aspect of the now-calm living vessel. The truth was that he had done nothing but follow a curious creature, and had not assisted in calming the Helium Frightful in any way, and he felt he had nothing worthwhile to contribute to the conversation for the time being – a mentality ingrained in him by the Nebula Shaman who had “raised” him.