Tough, dry dirt pressed down compact made up the grounds of the location for festivals and celebrations aplenty. It was middle of a summer day with a noon sun overhead, but something about this spot just didn't come across right. Hundred foot diameter patch of dirt, not a single sprout of grass. No trees. No structures either; about all you could tell of the revelry that once existed here was the copious amount of trash that had partially rotted. No birds, no particular concentration of insects - no [b]nothing.[/b] Just eighty degree Fahrenheit heat and dead still air.

Well now on second thought, suppose there was a glaring exception to this nothingness.

[img]https://i.imgur.com/ZZYi7y8.png[/img]

6'5" with a silky dress set of robes bulging with torso muscle, sickly green reptilian flesh rippling. 
There was most certainly a [i]man[/i] among the dry heated void.

Humming to himself in a drawling voice that rang out into the heavens, he seemed awfully busy gazing those round dark spectacles at his lime green gloss finish v-neck guitar. Poking at a few strings, adjusting the tune with an occasional note distributed to the afternoon of white noise abyss. 

Why was this strange man of dubious human nature toying with such a fine looking instrument in this inhospitable hell? Well the answer was: [b]Mr. Morwak[/b] as simple his stage name was, did [u]not[/u] appreciate the noise and cancerous hubbub of the city life. Threw him off ten ways around. And here, not so far away from civilization but highly undesired by the fairer and more childlike avatars of man, was a stupidly hot little circle of Heaven. Nobody bothered him. He could test out his sounds without a neighbor at his hotel room crying. And the only price was the sweat saturating his robes; [i]come on![/i] Worth it.

One after two after: "[b][color=39b54a]What! Can you do on the sun~? You'd be burned to pieces.. on the sun. Oh now~ In the darkness with your laaaaaaaaahgGGgg... no!..[/color][/b]" 

Cutting off his dandy early with a groan of frustration, his metallic finger-tipped metal limbs began toying with the guitar again. Didn't sound right at all. Frankly sounded atrocious. He wouldn't tip that if he were a drunk let alone a music critic. And although he had this beautiful spot of solitude all to his lonesome, Smith was getting awful frustrated with the poor sound the vaguely lizardesque musician was producing today. Showing signs of being parched as his thin tongue elongated past his fangs to stroke those bone dry lips, he just [b]knew[/b] this afternoon needed to be his muse for getting the song away from resembling a dirge. Needed to inspire [i]romance[/i]. Maybe [i]that blues touch.[/i]