Sweet, acidic, with a strength that scrubbed the Ashland aroma out of ones lungs, the smell of citrus came first. For some, the smell of citrus increased levels of the chemical serotonin in the brain, artificially improving ones mood. These initial feelings would soon be replaced with the reality of who emanated this smell. Following the citrus was a wave of sickly energy that resonated at a very unpleasant frequency, humming with an initial power that caused vibrations to erupt across the surface of ones skin, not unlike being forced to hold a jackhammer without proper safety equipment. Those who's life depended on their power would feel the threat of destruction tear at their atoms, their waning vitality screaming retreat to their survival instincts, insisting that they had to outrun this abhorrent energy.    

Perhaps if they were close to the perimeter, or on a high enough vantage point said gifted would be able to make a dash for their life, but the window of opportunity was closing fast. Nothing short of immediate action would save their lives. 

A moment later, the power blossomed, crashing over the Wanderers, their temporary home, the sky above and the ground beneath a half mile in each direction. They would feel their powers come to a sudden halt, like the man had reached into theirs souls and flicked whatever light that differentiated them off. Human in face, they'd also become human in body. 

A few moments later, the rumble of nearby machinery became unmistakable. Powerful wheels, large and ribbed, suited for off-road travel collided with old trees at their perimeter. The wood cracked and the sound of it being crushed beneath the vehicle like matchsticks was the perfect metaphor for the man standing stop it, golden rim shades reflecting the sun that shone upon him. Trees continued to be felled under the armoured truck, until he broke into the clearing. A nearby bench was the trucks final victim, ending it's ninety year vigil with an unceremonious crunch. 

The figure spread his arms wide and took a deep breath. His chest was visible, as was the diamond encrusted pendant that hung between his pectoral muscles. He wore a fur coat, left open with no undershirt beneath, his pants were tailored to perfection, of the same print as his fur coat. He was barefoot, with heavy bracelets hanging low on his ankles. 

He brought his left hand to his mouth, in it, was a loud speaker. 

[color=yellow]"HELLO WANDERERS, AND ASSORTED ASH-FILTH."[/color] He paused to run a hand through his hair, it was light brown, with a slight widows peak. He had forced every syllable out of filth, just so they knew how far beneath him they were.

[color=yellow]"WELCOME, TO MY FARM."[/color] 

He clicked his teeth together, and smacked his lips. 

[color=yellow]"IT WAS AN IMPULSE BUY, AS IN I HAD THE IMPULSE, AND IT'S NOW MINE."[/color] He laughed, a mirthless, hollow laugh.



[color=yellow]"Let me introduce myself. I'm John Bellataire, creator, owner, and full stakeholder of Bellataire Enterprises, a subsidiary of Bellataire INC, of which I am also, full stakeholder, sole owner and creator."[/color] 

[color=yellow]"To the public, I'm Sweet Johnny. To whoever I'm fucking, Master, and let me tell you Wanderers."[/color]

John grinned a shit eating grin.

[color=yellow]"I've come here with an offer so good, so absolute and so generous, that if any of you say refuse, well. You'd be fucking yourselves right before I got to fucking each and everyone one of you."[/color]

[color=yellow]"Metaphorically of course, and you lot look like a group that appreciates a good metaphor."[/color]

[color=yellow]"So now that we've gotten who's gonna be fucking who in this situation out of the way, let me start again. I'm Sweet Johnny and I have one hell of an offer for each and every one of you.[/color]