He stands alone beneath the stars.
The entire sky ignites into flames, as if a new sun is being born. People shreik and scatter. But he stands there, unable to move, unable to breath. He want to run, but his feet are like lead. Then he sees the tree, darker then a shadow aginst the flaming sky. It's burning branches writhe like deadly serpants. They reach for him. The firey branches come closer. He tries to run, he tries to escape, but his legs are made of stone.
My face is burning! My eyes!
He hides his eyes, he screams.
My face is burning! My eyes! My face is burning!

He awoke, persperation stung his eyes. Blinking, he wiped his face with his handsThey felt cool aginst his cheeks. Streaching his arms, he felt again that ever pressant pain between his shoulder blades. Still there! He wished it would go away. It'd been twelve years since he'd washed ashore the beach of Whales. The wounds to his head had long since healed, though he still remembered nothing of his life before being thrown on those rocks. Why should this wound last longer? He shrugged, like much else, he would never know.

He began to shuffle his hands around his bed. The bedroom wasn't so much a mess as it was simply clustered. His room mate had moved out, leaving a bed empty. His hands found what he'd been looking for, cigarette. Sweet, cancer causeing reliefe. He picked up his matches, yes, too cheap to buy a lighter last week, and sat up. He'd fallen asleep in his nondescript black pants from the previous night and so needed only to pull a long black jacket over his bare chest and leave the dorm room, sans shoes. He placed one, slim and scared hand on the gaurdrail, his room being on the second floor and found his way down the steps.

The young man walking slowly across the doorm campus towards the ash can was thin with coal black hair. His skin was darkly tanned but his eyes, one could not see for they were hidden beneath a black length of cloth tied about them like a blindfold. when he'd finally reached the much desired ash can, he struck a match, slipped a cigarette between his lips and lit it.

The blind man took one long drag on his cigarette and then leaned back on the wall, exhailing a cloud of white smoke. He stood in silance on the empty campus ground. Why did that dream continue to haunt him?

Cough.

Cough, cough.

He's not being a jerk. Swear. Promise. He's just maybe got a cold, and now there's smoke in the air. Seriously. It's a cold.

Cough.

Cough.

Duck isn't enough of a bastard to try to sneak up on a blind guy. Seriously. Even if that wicked blindfold-thing looked sort of custom-made, maybe, and he probably had some money. He saw Daredevil. Do most blind guys keep their money that way, maybe?

It was a little early for Duck to be awake. I mean, it was early-early. Still pre-noon. That's early, right? Just barely, but still. So he's kind of out of it. All blonde hair and old jeans, chewing cinnamon gum that's really hard to cough with, and he's trying not to suck it into his lungs on the inhale-stroke.

He was supposed to meet someone. For something. Uh. Sarah, maybe? Study? Oh, he has.. he has a test, later. That's bad. That's super-bad, because he can't remember if he studied. He should maybe be asleep right now. But.

Cough.

His head had been bowed so that his chin nearly rested on his boney chest, the hand with the cigerette hanging by his side. He lifted his head only slightly and turned it to the direction the series of coughs was coming from, as if to look at the approaching someone. A cold would be common about this time of the year, the snow having only recently melted and cold still clinging to the air. But the smoke was a common cause of such a cough.

He was trying to quite. Really, but every time he felt he was close, every time he'd go for a two week without one of those cancer-causeing sticks, he'd have that nightmare. That damened haunting nightmare.

He didn't put the cigerette out. If the guy couldn't handle smoke he shouldn't be in the smoking-area. Maybe he should put it out, he was trying to quite after all. And just because he had a nightmare didn't mean he should take frustration out on a stranger.

"Evening." He murmured when the coughing and footsteps got closer.

Shift, shift. Duck has the mannerisms of a two-year-old.

"Wow. Evening. Or, uh, morning? Maybe?"

Guy is blind, after all. And sort of has that sweat-sheen like someone who just took something spiked, had a hard fuck, or maybe hasn't slept in three days. Smells a little off. Duck's good with smells.

"So."

Foot scuffs the ground.

Should he try a conversation? Maybe, uh, get the guy to go eat something? Good Samaritan, and all. I mean, anyone who looks like that? Needs some real food in his system. Maybe he can even get the guy to treat.

Massacist shifted slightly and turned his head back to facing the pavement in front of him at the suprised 'wow evening, or morning." response. He shook his head, sucked at the end of the cigerette slowly, held it, savored it, and blew out.

"Not quite morning yet."

Good with smells, Emrys can smell himself too. The smell of shower, of bedsheets, and of persperation. And the all time smell of confusion. He understood his horrable visions, what he didn't understand was this nightmare. He'd been listening to the other man, as now he was sure it was a man. He stopped walking, shuffled his shoe across the ground. So.

Emrys looked his direction once again and pulled a half full pack of cigerettes from his back pocket and held them out to him, his hand thin and gloved in scars. "Want one?"

Immediate step-back, balanced really badly like a horror movie where someone turns and falls down the stairs. He could use some stairs right now. Maybe.

"Wow. Uh."

Looks at the hand, the pack, the hand again. Duck's already listing prognosis's in his head, cutter, chronic vegetable-chopper, dude put his hand down a drain disposal system - still a little jittery from the initial offer.

"No. No. Trying to, uh. Trying.."

Trying to not get addicted? He'd had one yesterday. One was bad. Paralyzing fear of addiction, here we go!

"Wow. Uh." was enough to tell Emrys that the man was staring at his scars, his awful, embarassmental scars. The steps, like stumble backward, hurt him more and he took a long drag and exhailed. "No. No. Trying to, uh. Trying..", with that he quickly withdrew his hand and stuffed it into his pocket with the pack.

"trying to quite?" He finished the sentance sure that he was right. He never thought about addiction. He wasn't really addicted, he just couldn;t stop. If the nightmars would stop, so would the smoking.

Awkward flush at the guy's recoil. He hadn't meant it like that. Just.. y'know, whoa.

"Well. Trying not to, uh, have to."

Shift. Shift. Duck's brain has split itself off into three neat sections (more than he can usually manage). One is screaming for pizza, or juice, or sustenance of any kind. The other's trying to think of a decent ice-breaker.

The third's detailing escape routes for if he were to leap forward, snatch the guy's wallet, and run. The third segment is the most interesting, and occupies him for long moments at a time.

Emrys nodded. "I see."

A thought that should be flipping through Ducks mind was 'does he even have a wallet?' In Emrys case, no. He did not. What blind man would be dumb enough to leave his home with out the protection of a seeing eye dog with a wallet or anything of value? Since Emrys didn't have an eye dog, he relied on his pet sea hawk, a merlin breed, to guide him out of trouble, he carried his money in his shoe but since he wasn't wearing shoes he had no money on him.

"It's late." Stating the obvious. "If your not out for a smoke then what are you doing?"

Duck prefers to believe in the best of others. And since the best of others is generally located in their wallets or purses, he prefers to believe they might have one. Somewhere. Maybe.

Anyhow. A blank, honest look (suitable wasted, but truthful), and he does another twisting little side-step.

"Dunno."

Cracks his neck.

"I think I was going to go do something."

A sage nod. Also wasted. His hand comes up and scratches at his hair, which is doing its best impersonation of an tumbleweed. He really doesn't remember why he's here. Outside, sure, he was going to go study, maybe, but here-here is beyond him. But there must have been a reason.

Ponder. Ponder.

"You don't know?"

God. Why did he always run into the skitzo's, freaks, and air heads?! He lifted one foot up slightly and scuffed his toe across the ground lightly. Then he flicked some ash off the end of the cigerette.

"Well, it's late, you must be tired to have forgotten." He smiled slightly.

Jaw clenches a bit at the dude's tone. Man has a right to forget! You know, theoretically. As long as it was an unwritten contract.

"Well. How about you, then?"

Silly question, as the fellow's sucking away on a stick of nicotine.

"Isn't it a bit late for you to be out?"

It doesn't occur to Duck that this could be taken as a jibe at the man's blindness. He meant it as a jibe on his character and morality, possibly with some implication on the merit of his trustworthiness. Some things are just hard to predict.

Emrys turned his head in the direction of the other man, looking, it seemed, at him. He'd located the position almost all to acuratly for most peoples comfort. He held out the cigerette and flicked a bit more ash off the end, though there was hardly any to be flicked. He did it as a slight indication why he was up so late.

"Nightmares."

One word said it all. Not many people could have a nightmare like that, wake up in a cold sweat, and roll over and doze off again. No, with each time this re-occuring nightmare would visit, Emrys got less and less sleep, more and more unwanted visions.

"It calms me down a bit." He said holding up the stick of cancer-waiting-to-happen to show what he spoke of.

Duck's tired enough not to reign in instinctual responses, and his response comes out fast and airy.

"Sex calms me down."

A pause, as he considers the words and doesn't regret them. Mano a Mano, and all that.

"Try that. Or food."

Food is, after all, easier to find. Sometimes.

He doesn't seem to be unnerved at the dude's almost-visual target practice, since he's used to people looking at him through sunglasses all the time. Sure, this is a little different, but hey. It's late. Blind guy with blindfold, guy wearing sunglasses, same thing. Duck does get a little distracted by his own suggestion, though, and his stomach manages a weak rumble before he muffles it with an arm beneath the ribs.

"Sex huh?"

He shrugged. Not very many women want to have sex with a blind man. It seems that eye contact has a lot to do with that particular activity and staring into a blindfold, or the one rarely anyone sees, his own whitened eyes and scars, dosn't seem to be appealing. His eyes are often hidden and when not they're un nerving.

"Food sounds better."

Now that he thinks about it, he probably could use something to eat. But if he ate now he wouldn't eat breakfast. Stomach growl, obviously not his own.

"You hungry?"

A snorting laugh at the 'food sounds better'.

"Dude, you're.."

Tactical word-choosing, here. 'Scrawny' is accurate but could inspire hostility, 'small' has too many connotations to be taken lightly. 'Skinny' is still a bit harsh to say to a semi-grown male, but the sentiment is, after all, truth.

"For a guy that prefers food over sex, you're.. you're skinny, dude."

Elbow digs in deeper, but apparently the guy's all with the astute uber-hearing.

"Ah. Yeah, starving."

Hands into his pockets - not a humbling, shy gesture but a vague estimation of monetary value. There's a bill in his left pocket - he always puts change in his right - so it's probably at least five dollars. Hopefully.

"Wanna go eat, somewhere?"

Possibly not the most socially-acceptable thing to say to another male in the middle of the night, but he's still exhausted. And hungry. So, hey, coffee for all and one for coffee.

Skinny. Yes, Emrys was that. A small crooked half smirk appeared on his lips as the words are spoken. He nodded and pushed himself off the wall standing up straight.

"For someone who likes food more then sex," he retorted, "I don't eat very much eaither." The cigerette had been hanging limp between his lips, he inhailed once, exhailed.

"Yeah, I'm hungry too."

Stub out the cigerette in the sand of the ash tray. Then his hand returns to his pocket.

"Lemme run up to my room and get some money. Know any place open this time?"

Yep, a bachelor, a teen who dosn't eat out on a daily basis. Now thats odd.

Considering tilt of his head.

"We could hit Monroe's."

Left knee tightens, untightens. He's about to fall asleep on the spot, even with the upcoming promise of coffee. His left hand hooks around a belt-loop on his jeans, hanging and swinging. The fabric tightens and stresses.

"S'cheap. Diner-type place."

Sway.

"Monroe." He repeated. He nodded. "I'll be right back." He turned and made his way back across the grounds an up the steps with good accuracy, one scar-covered hand held slightly up in front of him. He entered a room, then reappeared, a hawk floating on the air above his head, then soaring upward to perch on the roof top.

After a moments he was next to the companion again. "Lets go then."

He now wore boots that weren't laced up and a different shirt, one that covered his skinny frame rather well.

Eyes the hawk with some nervousness (the bit he saw of it made it look more like a vulture, circling prey), sliding his posture into something that could support his own weight.

It takes Duck a minute to orient himself - he's terrible with directions, and the dorm buildings are a mess. Towards his left, in the distance, is a massive office building. That way lies Monroe's.

Quest! Quest!

"They have the best coffee."

Said as he begins walking, a quiet admittance to the other man. They do, too, even if all Duck's ever tasted is that stuff and Foldger's canned.

He followed the other man's voice and footsteps. Often if he were to venture out of the college campus, he would have taken that old staff but this time he had Duck's sounds.

"Good. I'll need it."

Hands slightly held out infront of him, the merlin hawk leaps from the roof, wings spread, and glides on the air over their heads, letting out soft cooing sort of sounds, mostly to let Emrys know he's there.

"I don't believe I caught your name."

Trips over himself at the first coo. He may be bad with directions, but he's super-high-range-hearing guy. And it's a giant bird. That's.. following them. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. Straightens the hem of one jeanleg over a sneaker (there was nothing wrong with it), half-watching both the sky and the dwindling campus. He was going to trip and die. And then the other guy would die. And it would be all deathlike.

"Oh."

Pause. Duck isn't quite sure how to manage this. Should he stop, and turn around, and be polite and make eye-contact? Mostly he's walking next to the man, which seems polite if not condescending, and the guy's walking with his arm out. Now, he knows if he takes the arm, that would be bad. Unless he's supposed to.

Coffee first, logic later. He stops, half-turns, offers out a hand (rather quietly, though not intentionally), and nods.

"Daniel Houston."

Tilts his head.

"Everyone calls me 'Duck', though."

Nod.

The hawk really isn't too big, he's barely enough to call a hawk, enough to perch on someones forarm that is. And he's brown, with black wingtips and black beads for eyes.

Emrys dosn't intend for Duck to take his arm. He always must walk this way to be sure not to run head long into a light pole...or into Duck himself. It's not bad if he does take his arm, He's used to such a guesture. There's always been two kinds of people around Emrys. The kind that would pitty and reach out and take his hand and lead him and then the kind that are afraid to offend him by taking his hand and leading him.

"Duck?" Not a suprised tone, more like he's trying to see if he'd heard correctly. "Long standing nickname or something?" Not rudely spoken, he was careful to thread curiosity through his tone.

"I'm Emrys Damian."

((Sorry for massive delay.))

Self-derisive snort, fast and quiet.

"Long-standing. Yeah. Long story, too."

A shift of bodyweight, as if to dispel the subject entirely, and his hand rises up a bit. A moment of hesitation, and he presses the palm against Emrys's outstretched hand - were it an unwanted gesture the man could move easily away.

"Nice to meet you."

Casually strong grip, small shake.

Seeing the guesture as kind, Emrys accepted the hand aginst his palm with no hesitation. His own strong but thin fingers closed around Duck's, allowing his hand to follow the small shake and he nodded his head.

"You too."

He wandered behinde the 'long story' to the nickname 'duck' but he was too polite to ask.

Hand rescinds, finding shelter in a jean pocket, and Duck rocks back onto his heels. Toes. Heels. Toes.

Finally he turns, jabs at a crosswalk signal button violently, starts as the Walk sign almost immediately lights up. He ignores the 'pingchirpping' sound like he always does, somehow relating it to birds and flock migration. It makes living in a city easier.

"Right then."

Twist. Heels. Toes. Does the guy need help across? Will he die? Is he used to taking sidewalks?

Toes, again, a quick bounce that doesn't lead anywhere, and then he's walking forward a bit, face still turning backwards.

Heels step toes step heels. He's going to trip and die. Duck's going to trip, and die, and then the guy will die, and everyone will blame it on Duck, and he'll die without any coffee.

That little bell that always sounds off in the big cities when ever the walking figure appears on the cross walk sign was made for blind people. Or rather, it was really made for the seeing-eye-dog that Blinds were supposed to have. At any rate, Emrys heared it, Hesitated as always before he stepped onto the street and kept his hands out in front of him. Maybe he should have brought his staff or cane.

Emrys followed, silently, the bird overhead had ceased to follow them and remained hovering near. He glided as silently as Emrys followed Duck.

Nervous, gliding shufflestep, impatient to cross the road and reluctant to let the guy out of his sight. Part of him wants to just turn head and run, maybe go crash somewhere for the night, leave the guy alone. But he's stuck with him. For a while.

"Monroe's is just over there."

A vague point with his head, throwing the sound a little westward. He's up onto the sidewalk now, watching the kid and fidgeting anxiously with his shirt.

So Emrys followed him, stumbling slightly on the step up off the road onto the curb. He pauseed to be sure that he had his balance before following his voice.

"Very well,"

He was slowly getting the impression that eaither this 'Duck' was a very very quiet man, or he really did not want Emrys to be following him.