08-26-2018, 08:36 PM
[size=10pt][font=verdana]A quick trip to the beach isn't part of Zachariah's morning routine so much as it is an interruption. Usually such a thing wouldn't have happened, especially not so early - and on a weekday, too - given his lack of time and money. Going to the beach would have been a vacation, not a pit stop, and he would never have wanted to go alone. Though this time, he isn't going to have a good time or anything, but rather to... take care of some things.
He looks more like a homeless man rather than a zombie. Dirty and disheveled, decked out in heavy clothing from head to toe, he pretty much fits the bill. The heavy clothing is only meant to try and muffle the ungodly stench of death that permeates from him, and he figures that, being a literal corpse and all, there's no point in trying to make himself look clean or neat. Passersby on the street seem to mistake him for a hobo, but he won't deny it if it means they'll take pity on him and drop a twenty into his hands.
Zachariah is only here because he had forgotten something around here. It's most likely long gone by now, but there's no harm in looking. From a distance, nothing looks wrong, but if one were to get a closer look, it'd be fairly obvious by one of his sleeves flapping in the wind that Zachariah is missing an arm. This wouldn't be the first time a limb has fallen off and he's left it behind, and it definitely isn't the last. He's glad he's started putting his name on things.
One split-second glimpse of Cookie has Zachariah forgetting all about his missing arm. He's not concerned with it as much as he is the big, black wolf zooming around the beach. It warms his dead, rotten heart to see something like that. Zachariah can't remember the last time he's ever seen such a pure sight - though that dog is probably larger than he is, and would most likely think of him as a snack on two legs, it brings a smile to his face. Though Rialto digging through the sand is also quite the spectacle, he's just not as endearing as Cookie. Staggering closer, he remarks, "God, what a good fuckin' dog." He offers a gloved hand for the wolf to sniff, ready to yank it back at any moment should Cookie decide he'd make a good meal. "What's his name?"
He supposes he should at the very least offer Rialto a crisp hello. He would have waved if his only working hand weren't busy. "Ain't it a bit late for you to be out?" Zachariah asks. He doesn't know much about vampires beyond the fact that they suck blood and live forever. When it came to fiction, portrayals of vampires tended to vary. He isn't sure what's true and what isn't, though he can guess by how modestly Rialto is dressed, that whole sunlight allergy might be true. "Shouldn't you be hangin' upside down from the rafters somewhere?"
He looks more like a homeless man rather than a zombie. Dirty and disheveled, decked out in heavy clothing from head to toe, he pretty much fits the bill. The heavy clothing is only meant to try and muffle the ungodly stench of death that permeates from him, and he figures that, being a literal corpse and all, there's no point in trying to make himself look clean or neat. Passersby on the street seem to mistake him for a hobo, but he won't deny it if it means they'll take pity on him and drop a twenty into his hands.
Zachariah is only here because he had forgotten something around here. It's most likely long gone by now, but there's no harm in looking. From a distance, nothing looks wrong, but if one were to get a closer look, it'd be fairly obvious by one of his sleeves flapping in the wind that Zachariah is missing an arm. This wouldn't be the first time a limb has fallen off and he's left it behind, and it definitely isn't the last. He's glad he's started putting his name on things.
One split-second glimpse of Cookie has Zachariah forgetting all about his missing arm. He's not concerned with it as much as he is the big, black wolf zooming around the beach. It warms his dead, rotten heart to see something like that. Zachariah can't remember the last time he's ever seen such a pure sight - though that dog is probably larger than he is, and would most likely think of him as a snack on two legs, it brings a smile to his face. Though Rialto digging through the sand is also quite the spectacle, he's just not as endearing as Cookie. Staggering closer, he remarks, "God, what a good fuckin' dog." He offers a gloved hand for the wolf to sniff, ready to yank it back at any moment should Cookie decide he'd make a good meal. "What's his name?"
He supposes he should at the very least offer Rialto a crisp hello. He would have waved if his only working hand weren't busy. "Ain't it a bit late for you to be out?" Zachariah asks. He doesn't know much about vampires beyond the fact that they suck blood and live forever. When it came to fiction, portrayals of vampires tended to vary. He isn't sure what's true and what isn't, though he can guess by how modestly Rialto is dressed, that whole sunlight allergy might be true. "Shouldn't you be hangin' upside down from the rafters somewhere?"
[align=center]characters + 16 + he/him