quiet home garden: alyssa & damian
[Damian came in black. His hood was up against the night. His sneakers scuffed quietly in the dirt. No cigarette smoke heralded his arrival in acridity. Tonight, he did not feel the need. Or, rather, he felt the need, but he did not need to feed that need. He had left the carnival behind him, a mirage of spun sugar down beyond a crop of trees. Whether it was deliberate or not on the part of the initial founder(s), the carnival and the Quiet Home were close to one another—a jaunt across Central Street. Not that Damian jaunted, as he wholeheartedly did not. He walked in near silence, hardly disturbing even the grass he trod on as he found the obvious chinks in the Quiet Home's armor to sneak in. (It was meant to keep those inside in, not those outside out, after all. And even if it had been, Damian was an al Gol.)
He found the pathetic plot of the garden and the woman seated in the turmoil'd soil. She was biting at her thumb with the ferocity of a dog chewing for a flea. Damian, in all his 5'8" glory, stood above her with his arms folding across his chest. His skin was dark, his eyes too large in milky jade. He waited in a moment's silence, before he acknowledged the woman he assumed was Alyssa. (The name, he knew, meant madness.)] I am Damian. [His voice was deep.]