[center][img]http://www.fashiontop.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/African-american-hairstyles-men.jpg[/img][/center]
[center][color=f26522][h1]Opallum[/h1][/color]
[i][u]Location[/u]: Walking around Edgetoun.[/i] 
[i][u]Interacting With[/u]: No one.[/i][/center]


Opallum roamed about the city district of Edgetoun with his hands in the pockets of his light brown cargo pants. Dipping his head a tad, he focused on the stone of the sidewalk floor only a foot away from his transitioning footwork with a vacant gaze.

The first day of January was quickly shaping up to be regrettably uneventful, save the approaching snowstorm conjured by the disconsolate Unseelie Fae.  Desperate for any variant of amusement, Opallum had pondered on once again taking part in some of the physiologically mangling drugs that plenty of his homeless kin had delved into time and time again and, briefly, even considered joining them in the dilapidated Edgetoun buildings that they had dubbed their "bases". 

Swiftly did history kick him in the back of the head when it arrived.

In the past, he had most definitely indulged in the intake of marijuana and the injection of minuscule amounts of heroine, but, each time he attempted to procure a high from either of these substances, the only outcome was a steep increase in his internal body temperature and a crippling headache. When observing his human "friends" interact with the drugs, they seemed to actually undergo a psychological muddling whenever exposed. Regardless, Opallum came to the very reasonable decision to cease taking any sort of opioid, narcotic, or hallucinogen of any type. Money was already hard enough to scrape together with his socioeconomically impoverished state, but what was the point in spending that dosh on something that only made him suffer? He was no masochist. 

Instead, he found no harm in putting his fire evocation to use. Typically, the evoked flame was enough to light a blunt or heat up whatever black tar heroin the London druggies managed to get their hands on. He occasionally found the company of drug addicts to actually be delightful. 

Whenever asked how he produced a flame from his thumb or index finger, he always just waved a dismissive hand in their direction and deemed it a "cheap parlor trick". Honestly, not many even questioned how the "parlor trick" worked, because as long as they could get their due, they didn't pry too much.

After assisting them in achieving their high by utilizing his fire, and when they weren't completely out of it, some of them disclosed their life story and how they landed up where they are now. Occasionally, the ifrit didn't even have to ask for a narrative. Some just needed an outlet to vent their qualms or pains. Quite interesting, these stories. War veterans, depressed teenagers, mothers and fathers -- a diverse crowd, with each individual owning their own fascinating tale of defeat or enlightenment. Of course, there was always a risk when he spent an extended amount of time with any of them. There was always the looming threat of the police, but he could always flee. Flight was certainly a helpful ability to have when scenarios like those began to unfold. 

[color=f26522]"Uhm . . . Hm."[/color] he mumbled gruffly.

It would seem that Opallum had found himself facing the burgundy brick wall of an alleyway's end. Honestly, this wasn't an uncommon occurrence, for the ifrit's boredom-spurred promenades tended to end either with him standing in the middle of a parking lot, facing an abandoned house, or -- on rare occasions -- accidentally walking directly into a wall. Opallum shifted about to face the exit and then emitted a lengthy sigh, promptly going to run a hand through his long, black curls. 


He strode out and continued traversing indiscriminately through the borough of Edgetoun once more.