<div class="floatleft">(http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/3a/31/65/3a31650ce5055304ab32db4525351cf8.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Randolph "Randy" Carter<br/><strong>Location:</strong>The Echo Chamber<br/><strong>Where In That Location:</strong>Three tables from the Espresso Bar, but four tables from the bloodstone circle sitting on the third beanbag chair.<br/><strong>Wearing:</strong>A bright, black, relaxing chanter's robe, emblazoned with a City Council approved Sun Sign, elaborate bloodstone amulet, sandals.<br/><strong>Tagging Who?</strong>Jez, open<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Yes, Randy did need to be special. The Chamber itself needed to be special, too, which is probably why it was mostly red colored tonight, but it also had these blue spots, which were probably best avoided. Maybe. No one had been brave enough to see just what would happen if one were to venture onto the blue wood. Probably, it would be nothing. Maybe.<br/><br/>The shadows flittered and fluttered to and fro, delivering espressos to those asking for them, and making sure that the beanbag chairs were behaving themselves. Occasionally, a little bit of peaceful sounding humming came from them, as if they were communicating with each other in their strange, ethereal, and definitely not angelic language.<br/><br/>The Echo Chamber was about half full. Some nights, especially around the holidays, it could get packed tight. But most nights were like tonight; about half-full. Or, half empty, if you wanted to be one of those people.<br/><br/>A quartet of citizens were talking with Randy. They were being quiet, for now, but soon the quartet was moving their way up to the bloodstone circle stage. It was true that one could chant from the relative safety and comfort of their chair, but some of the more artistically gifted and inclined members of the citizenry liked to get up on the stage, and be a bit more fancy.<br/><br/>As they began to chant a lovely little diddy about the sun, and how generous it is--how it spares us,<em> please, please, please</em>spare us--there was a shifting of wood, in the distance. Someone was pleading. Someone was being swallowed by the wall. Someone would go home; almost definitely. Maybe. There was a quiet slurping noise, and the smacking of lips afterwords.<br/><br/>The barista worked quietly, diligently. The barista was a good man, who liked his job, and did it well. He was thankful for this opportunity to surpass his peers, who were frequently facing reeducation as they maintained their illegal espresso machines. Yet, here he was, doing the job he was literally born to do, and in an entirely legal and City Council approved way.<br/><br/>Randy was by the bar. He was looking out over everyone, enjoying their drinks, and sharing their favorite chants. This place was nice; at least, to him. There was a special sort of tranquility that came with just being here, and it probably had nothing to do with secret ingredients in the espressos. Maybe.<br/><br/>Sipping one himself, he meandered his way through the crowd, and settled down ever so casually across from Jez. They knew each other, at least vaguely; she was on the radio. Everyone knew everyone that was on the radio. There was probably a law about that, he'd wager.  "Howdy, Jez. How's life been treating you?" It was no secret that he disliked the moon, and loved the sun; the jealous, greedy, covetous sun, which demanded the affections of all. But, he was being civil,  and polite; after all, the chant they said was approved by the City Council.  He had no right to infringe upon their right to perform said chant. And the chair they were sitting on didn't disapprove, either, since the chair was being quiet.