Desperate times call for... [Active, Open]
Characters: Basch, all by his lonesome, right now.
Content: What do you do when you lose your epic-level hammer? You, um, scavenge.
Location: 42nd and Madison.
Time: Evening.
Warnings: Maybe some bad language. He is PG-13.
In New York proper, before the "accident", the noise right now wouldn't be worth more than a drop in the ocean. A concrete jungle sprawl filled with honking cars, squealing tires, yelling people, rumbling subways and a verifiable cacophony of street peddlers trying to sell their "music" would have easily overwhelmed Basch and all his meddling.
But this really wasn't that New York anymore, was it? Nope, no sir, negative, no it wasn't.
Basch cusses quietly under his breath, half-growl and half-mumble, then swipes impatiently at the beading sweat on his forehead with the back of a hand. His precious Francesca lost and gone, wherever she'd fallen he couldn't recall... but then again he couldn't recall much about the last twelve hours.
It was broad and obvious right now, considering the multitude of puncture scars in his plate armor, that being without a weapon wasn't just unwise: it was downright suicidal. So, with the distaste reserved for those who only allow themselves open standards about their weapons, Basch hits the chunk of cement again with his foot. The greave clangs against it, impotently, and only manages to chip a dollar-sized hunk off of the side.
Off to the side, just outside the mouth of a nearby alley, a fire made of an impressive pile of discarded crap -- some old deli store pallets, a few fallen tree limbs from a nearby park, thin papers packed with language that made no sense to him -- crackles invitingly, throwing a warm orange echo in a wide radius, stretching shadows against walls.
It looks like he's collected some food, at least.
Content: What do you do when you lose your epic-level hammer? You, um, scavenge.
Location: 42nd and Madison.
Time: Evening.
Warnings: Maybe some bad language. He is PG-13.
In New York proper, before the "accident", the noise right now wouldn't be worth more than a drop in the ocean. A concrete jungle sprawl filled with honking cars, squealing tires, yelling people, rumbling subways and a verifiable cacophony of street peddlers trying to sell their "music" would have easily overwhelmed Basch and all his meddling.
But this really wasn't that New York anymore, was it? Nope, no sir, negative, no it wasn't.
Basch cusses quietly under his breath, half-growl and half-mumble, then swipes impatiently at the beading sweat on his forehead with the back of a hand. His precious Francesca lost and gone, wherever she'd fallen he couldn't recall... but then again he couldn't recall much about the last twelve hours.
It was broad and obvious right now, considering the multitude of puncture scars in his plate armor, that being without a weapon wasn't just unwise: it was downright suicidal. So, with the distaste reserved for those who only allow themselves open standards about their weapons, Basch hits the chunk of cement again with his foot. The greave clangs against it, impotently, and only manages to chip a dollar-sized hunk off of the side.
Off to the side, just outside the mouth of a nearby alley, a fire made of an impressive pile of discarded crap -- some old deli store pallets, a few fallen tree limbs from a nearby park, thin papers packed with language that made no sense to him -- crackles invitingly, throwing a warm orange echo in a wide radius, stretching shadows against walls.
It looks like he's collected some food, at least.