Owner	Pose
Loki	Humid summers have long banished the richer members of New York to their summer cottages in places with odd names like the Hamptons, Kennebunkport, and Bar Harbor. Central Park ought to be a sanctuary. However add the steamy humidity with abundant water sources through all the ponds, and the general entrapment of heat that concrete and high-rises cause. The place has its own mist oozing out through the trees and over the lawn. Better to be in air-conditioned rooms than outside. It's wet and energy-sapping out there, a sauna effect keeping the few pedestrians slogging through the thick air. Too late for the horse-drawn carriages, the deep evening hour calls for cars or traversing the paths by foot. No such vehicles floating around here, deep in the northwest corner near an aged brick and stone tower. One light sizzles weakly. Moths and mosquitoes halo the glass, drawn to their proverbial doom. Ivy and ferns clot the crumbling slope. Bushes blot out most of the hints of human occupation, the occasional discarded chip bag or a crushed-flat can that managed to escape intrepid homeless kids and adults frequently gathering anything that'll net another dime. A strip of clover-covered grass leads up to the blocky stone square completely forgotten by history in the North Woods. Mostly forgotten. There are prettier sights than the relic of a long-ago war. It's not a popular stop or stay, and not many pedestrians would ever bother going so far off the main path or road. But once upon a time, American firemen, Columbia students, lawyers, and merchants dug in fortifications against the British anticipated to sail up the Hudson and bombard the high point.
Miranda Madsen	Steam. Heat. Darkness. You would think that a 20-something dressed in jeans and a knit top would avoid such things like the plague. It would do nasty things to long luxurious hair. Only, well, it doesn't and she doesn't mind it. Miranda that is. She walks the park at night like it's not a place to avoid or worry for stalkers, rapists and thieves. She takes the paths least traveled.. or no path at all. Branches brush at her arms as she finds this least travelled of monuments. She looks to the crumbling stones and places a hand upon one as if its presence has some meaning. One is even picked up and held in her palm with a quiet contemplation rarely seen in someone who is most likely to be found focused upon her Twitter feed. Strangely, no such device is held in her other hand.. though she does have a purse so it may yet come to pass.
Daken	Hot and humid suits Daken just fine. It's not that he tends to wear shirts anyway, but especially in summer. Of course, he grew up in different circumstances, a different place and time; but even in the present day, he's not exactly asked to put on more clothes. And even if it's night by now, it's still no sort of weather for overdressing, or least of all layers. He's changed out his usual striking attire for more breathable pants, sandals instead of boots, and what passes for a shirt is tucked into his back pocket and dangling limply out, waving like a tiny flag as he takes every step. It's an aimless-seeming gait, and it seems almost an accident or an incident that brings him to this obscure monument. When he notices the stone, which is obviously meant to commemorate something, he stops in his tracks and looks down at it. After a few seconds, he steps closer and kneels down, brushing his fingertips over it and tilting his head to one side, then to the other. He's taking in the fine detail, but most wouldn't know exactly the extent to which he can notice it.
Loki	The Park may be cleaned up. It doesn't account for the stink of the foetid soil or the sweatiness that comes with the humid air. It's not the clean ripple of ozone and petrichor, signalling rain. Something weighty and thick, soil and steel, lies all around. The mist keeps creeping further around the tree trunks and plants, extending fingers to every direction as the soupy hue thickens. Direction may be hard to ascertain in the dark without some kind of landmark. It means little for Loki, who stands under a particularly unremarkable maple. The young man has a casual air to him as he reads a book, an apple in his hand. Closer to say apple core. Chewing on the sweet fruit, he may have one bite left before it's completely gone. Searching and scanning for answers in the lines printed out before him, he isn't paying much heed to the stew bubbling down the hillside. The squat tower some yards off isn't much to speak of. There are far finer monuments within a mile radius, and far larger or more impressive structures. Little care for the hewn stones is shown; there's graffiti on them and the roof is caved in. Any memorial plaques are regularly stolen, assuring no regular visits except by imploring pigeons. Though one of those lies dead on the ground, bleeding from a huge wound in its breast. Another is hacked to bits a distance away.
Miranda Madsen	Miranda's eventual wanderings to lead her to the perilous sight of defiled pidgeons and the seemingly indigenous Loki lurking nearby. The fact that he is eating an apple seems strangely biblical to her and she pauses. "For all that the world is seemingly fitfull in its rest here.. you seem at home." Says the woman without a bead of sweat upon her. "And so I wonder at what I have just seen. Are you then a djinn? Or more murderously.. a mage?" Ahh the aliteration. "It might make the man the mortal but there is power in prose and no mere layman reads lines in such a place." She smiles but it is a sly amused thing.