Marcus sat on a park bench, watching the sun go down. He'd scouted out the environs for any sign of pure, and for once in this luna-forsaken city, he didn't find any. Ergo, he was taking a couple of moments out of his busy schedule of not being killed to just sit back and listen, letting the sounds of this anemic second cousin to the wildernesses of bygone days wash away the tension of being what some (lunatics) thought was the ultimate predator, and yet having to scamper around the city as prey to the dime-a-dozen pychopaths that were to the Uratha what this park was to the great forests of the north.
There might have been people passing him, he couldn't really bring himself to care. Whose going to wander up to the spaced out tramp on the park bench, he's almost certainly high and certainly not our type of person. And so the Herd did what herds do, and Marcus watched the amber stains of sunset drain from the sky, occasionally withdrawing a beer from the cooler beneath the bench. It wasn't often that he got time to cool off, and after making sure it was safe he'd dug into his pockets and bought something to celebrate with. He wasn't to concerned about ambushers, his otherworldy metabolism took care of the beer, and the machete that was concealed under his coat would take care of everything else. Well almost everything else, which was why Marcus had bought a cooler's worth of beer rather than a six pack. He was expecting company.
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