The blade of a shovel makes a very distinctive noise when it bites into cold, gravel-filled earth. The good, solid sound it makes as it digs into sand or laom doesn't compare. The metal of the blade doesn't bite all the way in on the first go. It dings off of large stones and skitters around bits of gravel, crunching into frost-bitten clumps of dirt and slicing through gritty clay nodules.

Someone has been digging here for some time. The rings of the shovel in motion echo through the dark, chilly forest clearing, bouncing off the trees to be eventually swallowed by the night. The shovel is digging a hole, deep in the backwoods. And it isn't digging it alone.

Six feet down. Is that enough?

A weakly struggling sack is hefted into the whole. A child-sized weakly struggling sack.

The shovel eats dirt again, filling the hole in. It crumbles around the sack, covers it, buries it.

The shovel and its handler go away.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

How long can a person hold their breath?




Silence.

And then something moves, in the darkness of the forest. Not the shovel. Not the shoveller.

Azrael.

Dark and shadowy, he moves in, kneeling a bony knee down next to the impromtu grave. Leaning over. Leaning down. One skeletally thin arm reaches through the dirt in a way that would make the shovel envious, and comes back up again holding a small, faintly glowing ball of white light.

"Bastard," he mutters, pocketing the child's soul.

Scuffed and battered tennis shoes branded with every colour Sharpie marker available drag their way through twigs and fern and general bracken. The shredded cuffs of four-size too baggy cargo pants; faded, black, old, providing some cushion on the worn soles. The pants are held up only by a black belt strung heavily with chains, and one gets a peek of chili-pepper boxers from the back. Simple black long-sleeve t-shirt unable to be seen beneath a hooded sweatshirt eblazed with a snake and rose. Also black, the decal snake a leering ice blue as it chokes the red rose.

I'm tough. I swear it.

Skin so pale is suggested rice paper white clung close to the bony features of the lowreed-head young man on a meander through dark trees at night. Even hard to see where he was going, for the silver rims of his prescription sunglasses are forever balanced on his fine nose.

Rodney Culliver. No, just Culliver. Rodney was not remotely a name he wanted to be addressed by. Yes, Culliver needed the air.

He kicked a fallen branch and ran a hand through his equally pale flaxen hair. Long, he hadn't cut it in years, it fell to his shoulder blades. It looked like a full head of straight hair, but the layers hid a different style. He kept it down, though, for now.

Culliver noticed no one immediatly as his strides carried him toward the God and the death.

A second time down into the dark. His long, thin arm reaches through the dirt again, as though it were nothing more substantial than water. Comes up again. He's holding, in his white, bony fingers, a small ragged toy that would be called a teddy if it weren't for the fact that the animal bears more resemblance to some sort of sheep.

Saying nothing, he moves this, too, into the pocket.

Wasn't there? Naw... couldn't have been. The dependable human instinct to explain everything unexplainable was functioning just fine in Culliver's brain. Of course, he hadn't been holding or pocketing anything. It was a trick of the light, or more likely, the darkness. It was the sunglasses, no doubt.

Culliver eyed the appearingly empty pocket for a brief moment, and then replied with a lazy shrug.

"Nothin' better waiting for me at home. What about you?"

The smile broadens.

"Hey. A little late for a walk in the woods?" the stranger comments. He rubs his pocket, and the bulge that was the stuffed animal dissapears like a wrinkle that never existed.

Culliver eyes Azrael right back. He wasn't afraid, no way. Not even if he should be. Any kinda person wandering around the woods in the dead of night was probably crazy and to be pitied.

Haha, what in the hell was he holding? Why not make the first move? Couldn't hurt... well, it could... but Culliver needed a thrill or two.

"Hey."

He said plainly and clearly in a low but not unpleasant voice.

Azrael stands and moves as if to walk off... and then pauses. Raises his head like a wolf sniffing the wind, like a fish testing a new current. Like Death sensing a new life.

One moment. Two.

He turns and looks in Culliver's direction. No, scratch that... looks at Culliver.

His teeth, exposed in a grin, flash white.

He shuffled and jingled and dcracked twigs and muttered under his breath. Not at all steathly. Of course, Culliver was under the impression that he walked alone. That is, until he saw movement.

"What the fu...?"

He trailed off on the swear, his hands stuffing into the front pouch of his sweatshirt. He moved a little closer to the tree in case that weirdo up ahead had a gun or knife or something. What person is hanging out in the forest at night? Culliver, that's who. He watched the figure, shadowed by his sunglasses, confused but not even bothering to really hide.

"Oh, just.. clearing up some business." The stranger shrugs, stuffing his hands casually into his pockets and wandering towards Culliver.

It should probably be pointed out that Azrael is probably at least as pale as the albino.

"Business? What're you... a boy scout?"

He smirked, raising a fair eyebrow. He leaned bck on his left leg, stiffening his eye. Odd, odd, shadowy person. He lifted a lotion-needing hand to his sunglasses and pulled them down enough to blink over the upper silver rim. His sight was reduced to blurred images shifting and melding with each other. One such blob was paler than the others.

Should he say something? What did you say? Hey there... I noticed you have no pigment.. me too. Heyyy.. did you get a look at that sunset? I sure hope not. Hell, he wasn't even sure if the guy just avoided natural light. He pulled his glasses back up, sending everything spiraling sharply into focus. The guy was much closer than before.

"Er... this prowling a regular habit of yours?"

Watch him say yes. It would be just the luck...

Watch him say yes.

"Yes."

He brushes a finger down the seam of his sleeve, idly, white-on-white eyes watching Culliver carefully.

Culliver's lips pulled into a brief grimace. Wonderful. A prowling boy scout. What freaky eyes. Man, I hope those are contacts.

"Okay.. whatever works for you."

He shrugged slightly while trying to think of ways to ditch the stranger. In the meantime, he kicks at a twig or two, keeping his hands buried in his sweatshirt pocket.

The edges of the eyes crinkle up as he smiles again.

"And this prowling that you do-- not so much a regular habit?" the stranger says, probing mainly in retaliation.

"No.. I just can't sleep.. Got that insomnia.. or whatever they call it. Or is it narcolepsy? Er.. no, it's insomnia.. yeah.."

He wrinkled his nose and watched a stick flip up from the toe of his worn sneaker.

"But being out at night isn't so bad... peaceful at least.. You headin' anywhere special?"

Maybe he could follow along. Or invite this guy somewhere. He seemed decent enough and certainly had not tried to mug, rape, or otherwise assault Culliver yet.

"What's your name anyway?"

Last question first. "Call me Az. You?"

He shrugs and slides his fingers into the tight pockets of his jeans. A smile. An intruigued look.

"I'm going nowhere."

"... Culliver."

No, no Rodneys here.

"Nowhere, huh? Wanna go somewhere?"

No idea about what somewhere was... such a petty detail, a specific destination. Whoa... he didn't just sound like a male hooker did he? His luck again. He furrowed his brow and tried to look as uninterested as possible. No officer, I don't swing that way.

A nod, acknowledging the strictly platonic tone of that invitation.

"Somewhere sounds good. It's getting cold out here in the backwoods."

"Yeah..."

He agreed slowly. Guess he was safari guide now. A full circle, spin, spin, which way to go indeed. How did he even get here? Why was he leaving with a scary boyscout in tow? Why were those crickets so loud over there?

"Let's go this way."

The knot on that tree looked familiar. He set of in a southeasternly stride, his hair bouncing. He glanced over his shoulder once quickly to see if Azrael was following.

"We can just walk until we find a place or whatever."

He commented with pale face pointed toward the maple and sycamore canopy.

Azrael, is indeed. He's good at following. he follows some people for their entire life.

"You looks a bit lost." Handy observation.

it's not said in an unkind tone.

"Yeah, just a little."

He replies, sending a dirt clod on a one-way trip into the nearest ditch.

"Unless you know the way?"

He nodding to indicate they he would continue walking unless told otherwise. Hell, everywhere had to go to somewhere. Somehow.

"I always know the way." a bit of a bold statement, perhaps.

nonetheless, the pale stranger points in a direction off to the left of the way Culliver was travelling. He seems certain.

"Okay then, lead on."

He turns, preparing to follow Azrael. Who cares where it went...

Azrael moves to take his own advice, following the path his finger had pointed-- not much of a path, really... merely a direction.

He raises his arms to push low branches out of the way, moving forwards in a casual but determined manner.

Culliver follows almost blindly. The glasses had to go. He pulled them off and cursed colourfully at the branch meeting his mouth. He tore leaves away, spluttered, and jammed his glasses back on. It was too dark, damnit.

He stomped after Azrael, hoping this went somewhere decent.

In fact, it did.

The forest got darker and darker around them, the trees towering above blocking out most and then all of the meagre light the sky has to offer. The branches recede until the two travellers no longer have to shove them out of their faces. The crunching of the dead leaves and earth beneath their feet quiets down to almost nothing.

And then, just as all is dark and silent like the inside of a closet, there's a slight creaking noise and a door-shaped rectangle of light opens slowly in front of them, Azrael outlined against the sudden blaze.

Halogen lamps. They're walking into the men's washroom of Faded.

From the forest.

Culliver lifted a pallid hand against the sudden blaze of artificial light and smashed into Azrael's slender frame.

"What in the hell...? Where are we, man? Is this some kinda joke?"

This was all too confusing. A little unnerving on the side. Nothig was making sense. Maybe it was that cold slice of Hawaiian pizza. Damn leftovers. Doors did not just appear, did they? He certainly had not noticed any establishments upon entering the laze of foilage and footpaths.

"I've been on some screwed up trips, but this tops 'em. Are we in a bathroom?"

Dazed, confused, what was that smell? He contemplated kicking Azrael to see if he was real. Looked real enough...

Azrael ushers the confused Culliver into the room and closes the door behind him. It does not disappear. It remains exactly where it is. This is because ot now opens into the main club.

"Yes, we're in a bathroom."

A light grin.

"This is gettin' really fucked up, man. There was no bathroom when I started walking. What's going on?"

Culliver was confusion and from confusion came agitation. He was contemplating kicking Azrael for other reasons now. Azrael was smiling and it did little to improve Culliver's demeanor.

"What's so funny?"

"The price of rice in china. Feckin' hilarious."

Azrael turns and opens the door they had come through. It no longer leads to dark forest-- instead to a dimly lit but reasonably smoke-free bar. A band is playing on the stage, and the music throbs into the bathroom.

"You wanted to go somewhere."

"Well.. yeah.. but seriously this is a little weird, man. How did we get here?"

He could not recall any blows to the head. Nor did any recent drinks, drugs, or any other risky behaviours that might incline him to believe he was in a forest, or believe he was in a club come to mind.

He paused and looked around, not recognizing the room or the music. The latter intrigued him somewhat.

"We walked."

Azrael waves his hand, indicating rather succinctly that Culliver should step out of the bathroom, as the club is a much more interesting place to be.

"Um... sure, okay, whatever."

He hesitantly stepped into the shadowed room, the lights washing across his almost white skin, feeling very out-of-element in his beat up clothing and muddy sneakers.

Culliver did not go to many clubs. He was not all that social.

"Drinks-- you buying or am I?"

Azrael takes the lead, seemingly in his elemtn here in the dark among people. He heads towards the bar.

Culliver follows blindly in more than one sense. How wise was it to trust anything in the presence of the very unconventional boyscout.

"I don't know how much I've got."

This was the truth and he was too busy looking unassuming to stuff a hand in his pocket and find out.

"Look I don't even know where we are or how the hell we got here..."

He was trying to find a way to explain his confusion, but in the face of this particular person it was becoming increasingly difficult.

"I'll pay, then. We're in Faded... you know? The bar downtown where they occasionally get the good bands?" a wave is made towards the people playing right now.

"They're usually about this caliber, of course... but occasionally they get something bigger and better."

He ignores the question of how they got there.

"I've heard of it."

He acknowledges and eyes up the band. Not bad. Not great, but he wasn't wholly repulsed. He was still, however, puzzled as to their arrival at the only mildly heard-of club.

So what from here?

"Any reason we're here?"

Azrael shrugs. reaching the bar, he leans forwards and rests his elbows on it, watching the bartender for a chance to order.

Still speaking to Culliver, he replies, "Because it's better than traipsing around the woods all night?"

He pulls up alongside his host.

"You raise a good point."

He nodded somewhat and tried to think of something he might like.

"Of course I do."

He nods to the bartender as he arrives. "I'll have a molson Canadian, and my friend here will have..."

he turns to culliver and raises a brow, inviting him to speak for himself.

"Uh..."

Now he had to pick as well?

"Just... a Coors.. in a bottle."

He couldn't think of anything that made him sound daring or cosmopolitan. Hopefully Coors in a bottle wasn't expensive.