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The night might almost be considered normal.

After all, on almost any given night, you could find groups of teenagers wandering the dark streets, doing various things, some legal, some less so. Traffic was largely absent on nights like this, but never completely gone. The traffic lights, too, were perfectly normal, having switched from their usual routine of red-green-yellow to a flashing red one way and a flashing yellow the other. Convenience for those late-night and early-morning drivers. Here and there, one could hear dogs barking. Lights still gleamed in the darkness; like most nights, there was always someone awake. No, for the most part, this night seemed like any other night. And, at the moment, most people would not find anything strange about this night. That would change very soon, when a veritable avalanche of unusual sights and sounds and actions would rock this sleepy city to the core, but for now, the oddity was confined to a small space.

For most people did not walk around in the middle of summer with a bulky gray cloak wrapped around them. Even less also chose to cover their heads with a hood. And very few people could mask their face so completely without impairing their vision. But for the three boys watching him walk, he seemed to be able to see just fine. But his clothing and his surefootedness paled in comparison to the feeling one got when looking at him. For the greatest oddity was the aura of sheer power that came from him. Here was a man not to be trifled with, here was strength, here was might. And yet, he conveyed no sense of malevolence, as though the fact that he could quite easily harm everyone around him meant nothing to him. It was a feeling that commanded respect, rather than fear. This, too, was strange, as most men in this city had all their power because of a sizable amount of currency, rather than any genuine strength, and most were only too happy to do whatever helped or gratified them, rather than simply live and let live.

So they watched this oddity of a man as he crossed the street, the black boots that were the only thing not obscured by his cloak causing an audible thump with every step. He was certainly not troubling himself to stay quiet, especially for a man who was keeping all his features concealed. Perhaps he was just ugly or deformed. But as he crossed into the park on the other side of the road, the youths decided they didn’t need to know so bad that they would follow him. Tonight they would choose a new haunt, well away from the park. Why? They weren’t really sure why…but, looking at the man, they knew it was the right decision. They slipped down an alley and headed off to look for something to do. The man, oddly, did not remain on their minds for long. It was almost as if they weren’t supposed to know he even existed. Perhaps they weren’t. They never lost sleep over it, that much is certain.

The cloaked man, meanwhile, walked in the pale moonlight along a path through the park, lightly wooded on one side, with a playground on the other. Swings, slides, a sandbox, the works. After a short walk, he found a park bench, and sat down calmly, leaning against the back and stretching his legs. He might almost have seemed relaxed, if his arms didn’t remain firmly concealed under the charcoal cloth that wrapped around his body. His head leaned forward; he might almost be sleeping.

Almost.

He took an unsteady step forward. So his second third and forth for that matter. Swaying with the tell tale wobble of one who consumed more then a little to much alcohol. Yet somehow, those steps had an unnatural grace to them. Much like a swan on a pond, The legs movement were awkward but the overall action of moving was smooth. This, on nights such as this, was not abnormal. What was was the man's attire. Silk, white and pure. Trousers of impossible dimensions adorned his legs. There was no straight line to them, there was no pattern, it was more along the line of a mass of folds then anything approaching credibility as pants. The vest of the same silk was loose, and simple. Such a strange thing to were as well over atop, a robe, torn short at halfway from knee to foot, barely held closed by a single stand of the same brilliant cloth. The both sleeves torn, the left short and the right clean off.

One would mistake him for a tattoo fanatic. The spiraling golden dragon, wingless of apparent Chinese design even with the different head, on his right arm glimmering in the low city light. From shoulder to the back of his hand with countless runes haphazardly placed on every other inch of the arm. Upon his left forearm for more a brass colored variation of the great reptiles. This one was in the shape of a more traditional reptile and winged, if strangely. From shoulder to tail did the stretch, and were a part of. More of a double pair of dorsal ridges then wings, but there sheer size in comparison to the beast made there apparent use known. More of those countless forms and sinuous shapes that could be simple letters name or words in themselves dotted that arm as well. His palms held simple flames, identical, symmetrical to each other, yet somehow opposing. Much like ying and yang. Then things got strange.

He held a variety of expressions. Mirth, oh so much mirth, joy, happiness, and the all around joviality of inebriation. But behind that, was what frightened children, what made those few people to notice him be wary. His eye was golden, much like that of a beast. It was not something unseen, as contact lenses could be used to changes one's eye color. However the look of wild beast, worse was it was more akin to a rabid beast the simply ferocious. Those few to have the experience would lay it akin to a rabid stray found in a dark alley. The left eye was covered with an eye patch, one more rune upon it's dark surface. Above it, and into the hairline begun the scar, and down it went into the robe and vest with it's far from within sight. And of course, there were the runes, from smooth chin following up his jawline. Upon his forehead was what seemed to be a sun in a triad of the runes. One a top, the other two below, one could almost see the invisible line that connected them in a perfect triangle. These three were different, as unlike any of the others this was the only place they appeared.

So on he went, silver flask gently in his right hand, top dangling off it's tiny mirror like chain. Red hair, the color of fire, cut haphazardly short and longer but never a single strand long enough to get in his face. Off he staggered almost dancing. His steps brought him to the park. Moreso to the one shrouded in black. He stopped then, and gave the other a haggard smirk as he stared at the man. The haze went from the golden eye, and was replaced by curiosity.
"Well 'elooooooo thar. Whoz might joo be, eh? Woah... dizzy..."
The white one chuckled as he regained his footing.

It would seem that the normality of the night was to be shattered quite soon.

As the stranger sat there, his motionless figure shifted slightly—so slightly that most people would not have noticed. But the fact he moved at all was yet another oddity. For it meant that here, in this world of normal people and things and trends and times, he was not the only one who didn’t belong. The reason for the subtle movement was staggering toward him, almost in slow motion, almost as though the drunkenness was an act, or somehow enhanced his gracefulness. This was not your average drunk. His hair was cut in a strange fashion (for this place) and almost resembled fire waving in the air, a fact exacerbated by it being the color of fire too. How very odd. And the tattoos, the tattoos they were everywhere! Runes and dragons, they were, of different kinds, and some weird thing on his forehead. This guy just reeked of fire and brimstone. Well, in the metaphorical sense. Literally, he reeked of alcohol.

That’s probably not good.

"Well 'elooooooo thar. Whoz might joo be, eh? Woah... dizzy..." the man said—yet contrary to his staggering posture, his eyes actually lost the drunken haze they held before. So he was powerful and intelligent. What are the freaking odds of these two running into each other? Well, honestly, given the statistical history, pretty freaking high. But I digress. The hooded figure’s head turned slowly to the wobbly individual who had spoken to him. He regarded the man, who simply continued to look right back at him. So he wasn’t going to just mind his own damn business and keep walking. Nobody ever minds their own damn business. Maybe that’s why the cloaked man always seemed to be getting into fights. He’d become a mountain hermit, but they’d probably still find him. And this guy wasn’t backing down from his silence, either. Now that he was here, he didn’t seem to want to turn his back. Not that the cloaked man blamed him—he wouldn’t turn his back on the tattooed one either.

Maybe he could still avoid fighting this man. So he turned his head back to its neutral position, as if to say the drunk wasn’t worth paying attention to. “Go away.”

OoC: Not as long as I’d like…I’m a little rusty =(

The white silk draped one stood there, humming to himself for a moment. A merry little tune, reminiscent of an Irish drinking song or two.
"Wha... No.. hm? Nah, you crazay. Well yah but ifin' the squirreleys were to... I bloooody well be knowing that, but he. What aboot her, eh? So? Five huh.. not shabby... what if...CALISE FARME TA TRAP!""
The man's speech had the slur of a drunk, if not quite the consistency. as he back handed the air beside him. and he fell more then sat next to hooded one. His words were obviously directed at a multitude of people, at the same time, yet there was nobody else around. Another bad sign, as well as his shifting dialect. Odd pronunciation as well.
"Annoying buggers. Whelp to go back to youz request thar. No. They be boring the crap outta me latetly, and you got the smell of... well, dunno quite what it is. Peeked the ol' curioicity it did. Sniffers usually up to snuff sincerly sensing some parts of somebodies soul and such."
He laughed. Madness did not simply coat it, it soaked it. It was the laugh of one who knew of his own madness and had embraced it.
"Heh. How uterly rude of me."
There was a strange motion to him, contracting and rotating and flipping in a way that defied where his center of gravity should be. He then sprung from his strange compact ball form, heels hit the barest amount of wood off the top of the bench's back. Mid air, once again in acrobatic display, the flask unclipped from it's position resting against his hip and went to his mouth. Impossibly it was back in place, lid screwed tight once again, and not even the lightest of creature would make less of a sound then his landing.

Straight backed, if swaying and unbalanced could be considered straight, the fire haired one extended his hand. This time, as he spoke, his voice was far different. Oh it still held the drunken drawl, and ridiculous manner of emphasizing odd vowels, but there was more to it. The subtle sound of crackling fire in undertone. Almost as if there were two voices, the fire whispering, and the man speaking.
"Name's Aidan Dreiks, and I shan't be leaving untile I lose interest in you little one. You seem to be more and more of a source of... amusement, as time goes by. I do so enjoy being amused."
His laugher came again, the sound of fire wild and strong within it. His eye seemed to glow as it picked up the low light.