Post by cloudkit on Mar 10, 2010 18:29:30 GMT -6
Shapeshifter Form.
.OOC Information.
OOC name --
Activity Level -- Cloudeh . The one and only
Current Characters-- Rayne and Sammi
How you found Wasted Skies-- uhm... SQUIRRAL!
.Character Information.
Full Name -- Damon Lee Dakota
Nickname -- Damon
Gender -- Dude
Age -- 26
Job -- Aspiring Musician
First Form -- German Shepherd/ Malamute Cross - - -
Image
Image
Image
image
Second Form -- Maine Coon - - -
Image
Last Form -- Bengal Tiger - - -
Image
Likes --
The sound of thunder ;; The energy of a storm ;; The strum of a guitar ;; The rythm of a drum ;; The warmth of summer ;; The colors of fall ;; The rebirth of spring ;; The freedom of outdoors ;; The seclusion of being alone ;; The simplicity of a meaningless conversation ;; The power of being an animal ;; The purity of a good song ;; The high of drugs ;; The vastness of the night sky
Dislikes --
The cool of winter ;; The wet of snow ;; The touch of cold rain ;; The company of crowds ;; People who get needlessly defensive ;; Not fighting for your cause ;; The weakness of hiding ;; The feeling of being prey ;; Being defenseless ;; The defenselessness of trust ;; The claustrophobia of being inside ;; Not having his fix ;; Needing drugs ;; The clinginess of needy people ;; Being used
.Character Appearance.
Eye Color -- Blue in darker lighting, green in brighter lighting
Eternal Trait -- A bullet wound scar on his shoulder; he also chooses to keep a red faded collar with him in his first and second forms. As a human he never takes the collar off.
Height -- 6'3
Weight -- 180
Overall Appearance --
Eccentric is one way to describe Damon’s appearance. If he wants to wear it, he will – regardless of anyone else’s thoughts on the entire scenario. With his shaggy dark hair and lip and eyebrow piercings, many categorize him as either emo, punk, or goth, a fact that Damon takes great displeasure in. He doesn’t dress how he dresses to fit into a particular cliché, but to express himself in a way no one else can mimic or call their own. Generally he can be found wearing dark grey or black jeans with any numerous changes of band t-shirts. To set him apart, he wears a faded red dog collar – one that comes in handy when he shifts into either his cat or dog forms – a blue and black checkered bracelet and a belt with multi-colored chains hanging from it. Both his pants and his shirt tend to be loose fitting and baggy, and he makes a habit to stitch hidden pockets into almost anything he owns. His jacket is a pale grey, and he can only be seen wearing it when the weather is cool – when the weather is freezing, he won’t be seen as anything more than a stray dog or street cat.
Tall and lanky, Damon looks no older than 20. Normally seen with his hands shoved deep into his pockets while he walks to god knows where, he definitely fits the whole teenager cliché. His body is scarred severely in many places – both from numerous fights, a time of depression, and heroin injections – adding more off-setting character to his one of a kind dress. His pocket is usually full of money – he hunts or scavenges for his food – so he can generally be found purchasing whatever he takes a fancy to. Under his clothing, is a well concealed assortment of weapons – both knives and the occasional hand gun – as well as a hidden refuge of strength, endurance, and reflex. He would be far from helpless in any fight, though outward appearance shows different; his nonchalant demeanor has a bite to back up the bark.
.Personal Character Information.
Personality --
Even though Damon has a bite to back up his bark, he rarely chooses to fight. Rather than risk injury for everyone, he would sooner talk it out or simply walk away. If pressed enough though, Damon will snap. He’s also the kind of person who hates any kind of emotional attachment. Scared of commitment and betrayal, make him feel too loved or too in love, and he’ll be gone faster than you can say stop. His past has scared any kind of feeling out of him, and left him as an uncaring piece of society. He cares neither about his own safety, or the ones around him, with one exception. The Shape shifter Extermination Group has struck a fear and loathing in him much deeper than the stony exterior of his heart. Extremely careful with his shifting abilities, he would rather just stay animal than human. The only thing he enjoys as much as living as any of his three forms, is music. Music and drugs are the only two things that attach him to humanity. If it were not for those two commodities, he would likely not return to human unless it was to shift into a different form.
Damon is extremely skilled in the art of shifting, mainly because of the fact that in his youth he shifted from form to form as his impulses and whims led him. Spending more than seventy percent of his life as an animal, shifting is almost second nature to him. Even his third form only takes around a minute – at the most – to attain. He also has the skill to half shift between human and both his first and second form, though he still has some trouble with his third form.
History --
Damon was born in a small northern village. A completely shifter population, it was uncommon to see anyone as human. His mom was a bounty hunter; that is until the SEG began their reign. His father never knew of her bounty hunter origins, and as soon as the SEG spawned up, he led frequent raids against the organization. For ten months his mother lived in the village on excused leave from her bloody job of assassinating victims. For three years after Damon’s birth, Damon’s mother made excuses to take long trips to the city so that she could continue her career. When Damon – named after his deceased uncle – was sixteen, his dad’s identity was discovered using DNA found on the dead body of a SEG Commander. His mother was put on the case immediately, not only because she was close to him, but also because it would prove where her loyalties lie. For a year she tried to find information, never letting her husband onto the fact that she knew who he was. In the end, he gave his own secret away, trusting his betrothed.
Not only did he tell her that he was against the SEG, he let her onto the fact that the city was primarily comprised of shifters who backed him up. It was one of the last places where humans rather than shifters were a minority. Damon’s mom immediately gathered her troops. Though she dearly loved Damon’s father, it was not enough to sway her loyalty to the cause. She wasn’t sure where Damon fit in to the entire scheme, and so she hid him. She knew that her commander would either order him dead because of his father, or force him to train as an agent. When the dust settled, even the humans were killed. It couldn’t be decided how much they knew, and the risk of the secret getting out was too great. Beneath the wreckage – locked in a small alcove in the basement – Damon was the only survivor. The screams of his brethren dying had him clawing at the hard wood of the door, wanting nothing more than to save his father and friends. By the end of the long night, his fingertips were raw and bleeding. His mother found him exhausted and unconscious in the form of a cat, claws tattered and ruined. Long marks gouged the door, and the entire room was chaotic from his insanity the night before.
His mother carried him off after the rest of the agents departed, giving the excuse that she was checking for survivors. For two years, Damon and his mother lived in uncomfortable silence. At sixteen he had already taken to alcohol and minor drugs, not knowing where else he could loose the maddening hole in his chest that his mother’s betrayal had caused. Eventually he began sifting threw her files, trying to discover the truth to how and why his father had died. It was –as the saying goes- curiosity that killed the cat, or in this case almost killed the cat. A couple of weeks after his eighteenth birthday, he overheard his mom having a phone conversation:
The youth lay on the end of his bed, paws splayed at odd angles in a position that could only be found comfortable by a cat. The ringing of his mother’s – or the murderess as he referred to her in his own mind – cell phone brought not only a yawn to his feline maw, but also a slight edge of curiosity, one that the slight high he had wasn’t able to dissuade. Even though his feline ears had incredible hearing, he was only able to hear his mother’s side of the conversation, something that bothered him. With a quick burst of energy, Damon shifted into on of his third forms - the harpy eagle. Sounds from outside filled his auds, as well as both ends of the conversation. Satisfied, he leapt onto the ledge of a shelf, unfortunately the most comfortable roost he had in his room.
Commander, I'm glad you called back. We need to talk.
Let me guess. You hid your son in the raid, and now he's putting the pieces together.
Ho-How'd you know?
Agent, we know everything. Now about the boy. Either bring him into the labs for testing, or destroy him. He's a liability. And even a spawn from someone as ruthless as you wouldn't understand the fact that his mother killed both his father and every friend he had.
Destroy him?
Yes agent. If you have a problem with that I'll send someone else. We could always bury you beside him.
No sir, I can handle it.
OK, ill send someone to clean up the mess in an hour, we need you in the field ASAP, so hurry on with it.
Yes Commander.
The click of the end button restarted Damon's heart, cutting threw what was left of his high as he leapt to his bed; his wings outstretched just enough to glide. He had expected nothing less then this utter betrayal from his mother, and yet he had still hoped she loved him. Even if reality told him that small hope was too large. 'DA-MON DEAR! COME HERE, HUMAN PLEASE.' He leapt from his bed, flapping his wings to gain enough altitude to hit the ground as a dog. He was never human in this house, and refused to die human. The hallway stretched before him as he walked slowly to the steps. His heart thudded like someone who was on the way to execution, knowing the end was at the small podium amongst a crowd of onlookers.
He navigated the steps awkwardly, his long gangly legs sticking out at odd angles with each step. Three up from the final jut of wood, he leapt. By now he could hear his mother in the living room, cocking what he assumed was a gun by the sound of it. At the door he stopped, just out of her sight. He didn't have to do this. He didn't have to die. Before he had left the room, he had already registered the fact that everything came to an end, but what if he wasn't ready to end? A feral snarl of agitation alerted his mother - his executioner - to his presence. He could picture her in the black cloak that they wore in medieval times; large axe nestled in her hands, in a way that made him jealous. When had she ever nestled him in her hands in such a tender way? She had killed the only people who cared about him, and then turned her back on him.
His claws clicked on the wood as he twisted into a one-eighty and darted into the kitchen. Thinking fast he shifted human and dived into the pantry. 'Damon? Damon dear where are you?' Even his dull human senses could hear her boots thudding on the tile floor of the kitchen. Where was it? Reaching under the bottom shelf, his hand met dirt and grime, and finally a cold metal. It was the gun his dad had been teaching him to use before... "Go back to the living room mother, I'm coming." Her footsteps receded some as she left the kitchen and entered the living room. 'Hurry up Damon; this is no time for your silly games.'
His mother's back was to him as Damon entered the living. She was fiddling with something on the table, but her back hid the object from his view. Silently the boy raised the gun, aiming for just between her shoulder blades. He had cocked it in the kitchen. "Mother." Stiffly she lifted the object - a medium sized shot glass - and drank it down, turning around as she set the glass down. A gun was in her hand. 'I'm sorry son, but it seems-' Silently Damon gritted his teeth, hands teasing the trigger as he lifted the aim to her face. "I'm not your son." He pulled the trigger. Silence. Thinking fast his mother lifted her own gun, cocking it as she aimed. Damon rolled sideways, crying out amid the sharp report of the gun. Blood drenched his shoulder from a scrape wound. With a snarl he leapt at her, his gun forgotten on the floor - abandoned just like him. By the time he landed on her, he was canine, teeth meeting throat. His mother had been too surprised to act quickly, but before his teeth could settle into her throat, she grabbed his ears and drug his head away from the soft flesh of her neck. Teeth grazed flesh, clicking loudly in the still air. With one final surge of power, he shifted again, dragging his talons across his mother's throat. Gurgling harsh cries of death, she punched him in the chest, snapping ribs and wing bones. Damon fell back, flapping uselessly on the floor beside his dying mother. Agony ripped threw him, fueling the anger. Determination allowed him to shift until a lanky teen lay huddled over on the floor, one arm gripping his stomach and the other hanging uselessly beside him.
Gritting his teeth, he stood. His breath came in deep gasps, amplifying the pain already stabbing his two snapped ribs. Finding himself, he spat on his mother, eyes not yet glazed over from blood loss. He staggered out, knowing the hour would soon be up, but that the agent they sent would not be cleaning up a young teen, but a fellow agent. The thought gave him enough satisfaction to stumble away, putting distance between him and the hellhole he knew as home.
Damon stayed in the woods for a week before dressing his own wounds. Half starved, he was found by a young couple who took him to foster care. No records could be pulled up on his death or birth, or even his existence - the SEG most likely. For three months he stayed in foster care, just enough time to get back on his feet. In the dead of the night he leapt out of the window, leaving a note on the bed that said simply Thanks. Damon. During his short period in foster care he said only two words, Damon Dakota. Once he escaped from foster care he spent four years without being human, living off of the land. In need of human company, Damon ran into an old shifter, also trying to find peace in the hidden depths of the forest. After they talked for awhile, the old man took Damon on as his apprentice, wanting to teach him how to survive in a world ruled by blood thirsty humans. It was their Damon learned not only how to fight and use weapons, but also his love for music. Two years later, his master died, sending Damon into another spiral of depressed solitude. He stayed beast for six months before the need to hear some sort of music drove him into near insanity. It took him another few months to find a balance between music and beast. After finding a home among humans again, he picked up drugs - something he did as a teen up until his mother tried to kill him. He'd pop just about anything that was handed to him, relishing the simple high.
He spent the reminder of his years between playing music on the street for money, buying drugs, and sitting in the woods as either full or half animal.
.RP Example.
I dunno what to write !
.OOC Information.
OOC name --
Activity Level -- Cloudeh . The one and only
Current Characters-- Rayne and Sammi
How you found Wasted Skies-- uhm... SQUIRRAL!
.Character Information.
Full Name -- Damon Lee Dakota
Nickname -- Damon
Gender -- Dude
Age -- 26
Job -- Aspiring Musician
First Form -- German Shepherd/ Malamute Cross - - -
Image
Image
Image
image
Second Form -- Maine Coon - - -
Image
Last Form -- Bengal Tiger - - -
Image
Likes --
The sound of thunder ;; The energy of a storm ;; The strum of a guitar ;; The rythm of a drum ;; The warmth of summer ;; The colors of fall ;; The rebirth of spring ;; The freedom of outdoors ;; The seclusion of being alone ;; The simplicity of a meaningless conversation ;; The power of being an animal ;; The purity of a good song ;; The high of drugs ;; The vastness of the night sky
Dislikes --
The cool of winter ;; The wet of snow ;; The touch of cold rain ;; The company of crowds ;; People who get needlessly defensive ;; Not fighting for your cause ;; The weakness of hiding ;; The feeling of being prey ;; Being defenseless ;; The defenselessness of trust ;; The claustrophobia of being inside ;; Not having his fix ;; Needing drugs ;; The clinginess of needy people ;; Being used
.Character Appearance.
Eye Color -- Blue in darker lighting, green in brighter lighting
Eternal Trait -- A bullet wound scar on his shoulder; he also chooses to keep a red faded collar with him in his first and second forms. As a human he never takes the collar off.
Height -- 6'3
Weight -- 180
Overall Appearance --
Eccentric is one way to describe Damon’s appearance. If he wants to wear it, he will – regardless of anyone else’s thoughts on the entire scenario. With his shaggy dark hair and lip and eyebrow piercings, many categorize him as either emo, punk, or goth, a fact that Damon takes great displeasure in. He doesn’t dress how he dresses to fit into a particular cliché, but to express himself in a way no one else can mimic or call their own. Generally he can be found wearing dark grey or black jeans with any numerous changes of band t-shirts. To set him apart, he wears a faded red dog collar – one that comes in handy when he shifts into either his cat or dog forms – a blue and black checkered bracelet and a belt with multi-colored chains hanging from it. Both his pants and his shirt tend to be loose fitting and baggy, and he makes a habit to stitch hidden pockets into almost anything he owns. His jacket is a pale grey, and he can only be seen wearing it when the weather is cool – when the weather is freezing, he won’t be seen as anything more than a stray dog or street cat.
Tall and lanky, Damon looks no older than 20. Normally seen with his hands shoved deep into his pockets while he walks to god knows where, he definitely fits the whole teenager cliché. His body is scarred severely in many places – both from numerous fights, a time of depression, and heroin injections – adding more off-setting character to his one of a kind dress. His pocket is usually full of money – he hunts or scavenges for his food – so he can generally be found purchasing whatever he takes a fancy to. Under his clothing, is a well concealed assortment of weapons – both knives and the occasional hand gun – as well as a hidden refuge of strength, endurance, and reflex. He would be far from helpless in any fight, though outward appearance shows different; his nonchalant demeanor has a bite to back up the bark.
.Personal Character Information.
Personality --
Even though Damon has a bite to back up his bark, he rarely chooses to fight. Rather than risk injury for everyone, he would sooner talk it out or simply walk away. If pressed enough though, Damon will snap. He’s also the kind of person who hates any kind of emotional attachment. Scared of commitment and betrayal, make him feel too loved or too in love, and he’ll be gone faster than you can say stop. His past has scared any kind of feeling out of him, and left him as an uncaring piece of society. He cares neither about his own safety, or the ones around him, with one exception. The Shape shifter Extermination Group has struck a fear and loathing in him much deeper than the stony exterior of his heart. Extremely careful with his shifting abilities, he would rather just stay animal than human. The only thing he enjoys as much as living as any of his three forms, is music. Music and drugs are the only two things that attach him to humanity. If it were not for those two commodities, he would likely not return to human unless it was to shift into a different form.
Damon is extremely skilled in the art of shifting, mainly because of the fact that in his youth he shifted from form to form as his impulses and whims led him. Spending more than seventy percent of his life as an animal, shifting is almost second nature to him. Even his third form only takes around a minute – at the most – to attain. He also has the skill to half shift between human and both his first and second form, though he still has some trouble with his third form.
History --
Damon was born in a small northern village. A completely shifter population, it was uncommon to see anyone as human. His mom was a bounty hunter; that is until the SEG began their reign. His father never knew of her bounty hunter origins, and as soon as the SEG spawned up, he led frequent raids against the organization. For ten months his mother lived in the village on excused leave from her bloody job of assassinating victims. For three years after Damon’s birth, Damon’s mother made excuses to take long trips to the city so that she could continue her career. When Damon – named after his deceased uncle – was sixteen, his dad’s identity was discovered using DNA found on the dead body of a SEG Commander. His mother was put on the case immediately, not only because she was close to him, but also because it would prove where her loyalties lie. For a year she tried to find information, never letting her husband onto the fact that she knew who he was. In the end, he gave his own secret away, trusting his betrothed.
Not only did he tell her that he was against the SEG, he let her onto the fact that the city was primarily comprised of shifters who backed him up. It was one of the last places where humans rather than shifters were a minority. Damon’s mom immediately gathered her troops. Though she dearly loved Damon’s father, it was not enough to sway her loyalty to the cause. She wasn’t sure where Damon fit in to the entire scheme, and so she hid him. She knew that her commander would either order him dead because of his father, or force him to train as an agent. When the dust settled, even the humans were killed. It couldn’t be decided how much they knew, and the risk of the secret getting out was too great. Beneath the wreckage – locked in a small alcove in the basement – Damon was the only survivor. The screams of his brethren dying had him clawing at the hard wood of the door, wanting nothing more than to save his father and friends. By the end of the long night, his fingertips were raw and bleeding. His mother found him exhausted and unconscious in the form of a cat, claws tattered and ruined. Long marks gouged the door, and the entire room was chaotic from his insanity the night before.
His mother carried him off after the rest of the agents departed, giving the excuse that she was checking for survivors. For two years, Damon and his mother lived in uncomfortable silence. At sixteen he had already taken to alcohol and minor drugs, not knowing where else he could loose the maddening hole in his chest that his mother’s betrayal had caused. Eventually he began sifting threw her files, trying to discover the truth to how and why his father had died. It was –as the saying goes- curiosity that killed the cat, or in this case almost killed the cat. A couple of weeks after his eighteenth birthday, he overheard his mom having a phone conversation:
The youth lay on the end of his bed, paws splayed at odd angles in a position that could only be found comfortable by a cat. The ringing of his mother’s – or the murderess as he referred to her in his own mind – cell phone brought not only a yawn to his feline maw, but also a slight edge of curiosity, one that the slight high he had wasn’t able to dissuade. Even though his feline ears had incredible hearing, he was only able to hear his mother’s side of the conversation, something that bothered him. With a quick burst of energy, Damon shifted into on of his third forms - the harpy eagle. Sounds from outside filled his auds, as well as both ends of the conversation. Satisfied, he leapt onto the ledge of a shelf, unfortunately the most comfortable roost he had in his room.
Commander, I'm glad you called back. We need to talk.
Let me guess. You hid your son in the raid, and now he's putting the pieces together.
Ho-How'd you know?
Agent, we know everything. Now about the boy. Either bring him into the labs for testing, or destroy him. He's a liability. And even a spawn from someone as ruthless as you wouldn't understand the fact that his mother killed both his father and every friend he had.
Destroy him?
Yes agent. If you have a problem with that I'll send someone else. We could always bury you beside him.
No sir, I can handle it.
OK, ill send someone to clean up the mess in an hour, we need you in the field ASAP, so hurry on with it.
Yes Commander.
The click of the end button restarted Damon's heart, cutting threw what was left of his high as he leapt to his bed; his wings outstretched just enough to glide. He had expected nothing less then this utter betrayal from his mother, and yet he had still hoped she loved him. Even if reality told him that small hope was too large. 'DA-MON DEAR! COME HERE, HUMAN PLEASE.' He leapt from his bed, flapping his wings to gain enough altitude to hit the ground as a dog. He was never human in this house, and refused to die human. The hallway stretched before him as he walked slowly to the steps. His heart thudded like someone who was on the way to execution, knowing the end was at the small podium amongst a crowd of onlookers.
He navigated the steps awkwardly, his long gangly legs sticking out at odd angles with each step. Three up from the final jut of wood, he leapt. By now he could hear his mother in the living room, cocking what he assumed was a gun by the sound of it. At the door he stopped, just out of her sight. He didn't have to do this. He didn't have to die. Before he had left the room, he had already registered the fact that everything came to an end, but what if he wasn't ready to end? A feral snarl of agitation alerted his mother - his executioner - to his presence. He could picture her in the black cloak that they wore in medieval times; large axe nestled in her hands, in a way that made him jealous. When had she ever nestled him in her hands in such a tender way? She had killed the only people who cared about him, and then turned her back on him.
His claws clicked on the wood as he twisted into a one-eighty and darted into the kitchen. Thinking fast he shifted human and dived into the pantry. 'Damon? Damon dear where are you?' Even his dull human senses could hear her boots thudding on the tile floor of the kitchen. Where was it? Reaching under the bottom shelf, his hand met dirt and grime, and finally a cold metal. It was the gun his dad had been teaching him to use before... "Go back to the living room mother, I'm coming." Her footsteps receded some as she left the kitchen and entered the living room. 'Hurry up Damon; this is no time for your silly games.'
His mother's back was to him as Damon entered the living. She was fiddling with something on the table, but her back hid the object from his view. Silently the boy raised the gun, aiming for just between her shoulder blades. He had cocked it in the kitchen. "Mother." Stiffly she lifted the object - a medium sized shot glass - and drank it down, turning around as she set the glass down. A gun was in her hand. 'I'm sorry son, but it seems-' Silently Damon gritted his teeth, hands teasing the trigger as he lifted the aim to her face. "I'm not your son." He pulled the trigger. Silence. Thinking fast his mother lifted her own gun, cocking it as she aimed. Damon rolled sideways, crying out amid the sharp report of the gun. Blood drenched his shoulder from a scrape wound. With a snarl he leapt at her, his gun forgotten on the floor - abandoned just like him. By the time he landed on her, he was canine, teeth meeting throat. His mother had been too surprised to act quickly, but before his teeth could settle into her throat, she grabbed his ears and drug his head away from the soft flesh of her neck. Teeth grazed flesh, clicking loudly in the still air. With one final surge of power, he shifted again, dragging his talons across his mother's throat. Gurgling harsh cries of death, she punched him in the chest, snapping ribs and wing bones. Damon fell back, flapping uselessly on the floor beside his dying mother. Agony ripped threw him, fueling the anger. Determination allowed him to shift until a lanky teen lay huddled over on the floor, one arm gripping his stomach and the other hanging uselessly beside him.
Gritting his teeth, he stood. His breath came in deep gasps, amplifying the pain already stabbing his two snapped ribs. Finding himself, he spat on his mother, eyes not yet glazed over from blood loss. He staggered out, knowing the hour would soon be up, but that the agent they sent would not be cleaning up a young teen, but a fellow agent. The thought gave him enough satisfaction to stumble away, putting distance between him and the hellhole he knew as home.
Damon stayed in the woods for a week before dressing his own wounds. Half starved, he was found by a young couple who took him to foster care. No records could be pulled up on his death or birth, or even his existence - the SEG most likely. For three months he stayed in foster care, just enough time to get back on his feet. In the dead of the night he leapt out of the window, leaving a note on the bed that said simply Thanks. Damon. During his short period in foster care he said only two words, Damon Dakota. Once he escaped from foster care he spent four years without being human, living off of the land. In need of human company, Damon ran into an old shifter, also trying to find peace in the hidden depths of the forest. After they talked for awhile, the old man took Damon on as his apprentice, wanting to teach him how to survive in a world ruled by blood thirsty humans. It was their Damon learned not only how to fight and use weapons, but also his love for music. Two years later, his master died, sending Damon into another spiral of depressed solitude. He stayed beast for six months before the need to hear some sort of music drove him into near insanity. It took him another few months to find a balance between music and beast. After finding a home among humans again, he picked up drugs - something he did as a teen up until his mother tried to kill him. He'd pop just about anything that was handed to him, relishing the simple high.
He spent the reminder of his years between playing music on the street for money, buying drugs, and sitting in the woods as either full or half animal.
.RP Example.
I dunno what to write !
