Who: Oliver and ? What: Lo, a wild Oliver doth appear. ...yes, I did just summarize with Shakespearean Pokemon. What of it? When: Thursday afternoon Where: Jasmine Gardens Rating: TBD
It's a fairly nice day in Jasmine Gardens, all things considered. Maybe it's a little cold but, well, it is Delaware, after all. This time of year, cold merely comes with the territory and at least it's not snowing. That cold, however, as normal as it may be, is what ultimately wakes the man beneath the tree.
At first glance, one might think him an errant zombie. He does appear rather corpse-like from a distance, skin tinged with an unhealthy shade of yellow, almost a sort of sickly green in some places. Creamy, off-white lines and crusted smudges mark healing wounds, the most prominent of which stands out as a thin line across the base of his throat, just above his collarbone. A dirty mass of bandages is wrapped around his right hand, not doing much to cover and conceal the slightly blackened and burn-scarred flesh beneath. His clothing is Victorian in style - boots, wool slacks, once-white shirt, vest, suspenders, an oversized long coat, a flat cap held under his left hand, which rests in his lap. It's all as torn and tattered as he generally appears to be, stained with blood, oil, grease, that same odd off-white substance that covers his wounds and cracks about his dirty fingernails.
Yet he's too alive to be a zombie, offering the world around him that groggy, bright-eyed blink or two of the recently awakened as he takes it all in as if this is all something very strange and very new. In fairness, it is just that - strange and new - as it has been for so many so recently. This is not where he remembers being some indefinite time ago, when he closed his eyes and, for the first time in days, finally allowed himself to sleep. In a personal twist, however, he looks remarkably pleased by this sudden and unexpected change of scenery. The sight tugs at the chapped line of his lips until they've curved into an honest smile and he continues to sit there, shoulders pressed against that tree, fingers slipped down to toy with a few blades of grass, as he will do until his reverie is disturbed, by a stranger or by his own bodily functions, whichever comes first.