Information

Strayth has a minion!

xX_RAVE_Xx the Sparkoldawg

Strayth
Legacy Name: Strayth

The Spectrum Keeto

Age: 19 years, 2 months, 4 weeks

Born: December 19th, 2006

Adopted: 19 years, 2 months, 4 weeks ago (Legacy)

Adopted: December 19th, 2006 (Legacy)

Statistics

• Level: 2
   
• Strength: 17
   
• Defense: 10
   
• Speed: 14
   
• Health: 10
   
• HP: 10/10
   
• Intelligence: 0
   
• Books Read: 0
• Food Eaten: 0
• Job: Unemployed

Bless the drinks, bless the music, bless the vibes. Strayth can barely keep his head clear as he, he thinks, dances. He's not really sure. He's moving? And, there's some kind of rhythm? It's fine. Who cares? Strayth sure doesn't. He lives for this! Nights like this, the buzz of it all, the buzz of the drinks... yeah! There's a cute guy in font of him-- or maybe a girl? Or-- oh, it doesn't matter, they've got him in their sight and those eyes are just drawing him in. Strayth wonders for a moment if he'd be 'leading them on' with a dance? Not that it mattered, he wasn't taking anyone home; that wasn't what he was there for. Not tonight, anyway, and not most of the nights where he found himself back at the club despite his better judgement.

Lost in his own thought -- and extra lost in those dreamy eyes -- Strayth only barely notices when there's a familiar just-too-rough tap on his shoulder.

Here, Stray, says his friend, handing him a glass of soda. Strayth takes the glass, taking a sip before squinting at his friend.

What is this? Strayth asks, but he's already drinking more.

It's... your drink? You asked me to get it for you.

Oh. Right! Strayth says. He doesn't remember asking for it, but it sure sounds like something he'd do. At this point, he can't even tell if there's alcohol in it or not. When Strayth turns back around his dreamy-eyed lover-not-to-be is gone-- or maybe he can still see their hair, but they're facing someone else. Strayth vaguely hopes that it's someone they'll actually get to take home. The music gets louder. His friend has disappeared in the crowd. The night continues on.

Eventually, it all turns black.

Strayth wakes up in a bed he doesn't recognize... for a minute. When he pushes himself up to rub at his eyes, he opens them up again to his own bed, his own room, in his own apartment. He coughs, wheezes, and then lays himself back down for another hour. He only barely notices when there's a familiar just-too-rough tap on his shoulder.

I made coffee, his friend -- and roommate -- starts, But you're gonna have to come into the kitchen to get it.

Strayth buries his head into his pillow and groans. He also, however, starts to get up. Nothing is a better motivator for this particular guy than coffee in the morning. By the time Strayth makes it to the kitchen, his coffee has just barely cooled enough to drink. He stands with a blanket pulled over his head and around his shoulders, but he lets the whole thing fall to the floor when he reaches both trembling hands for his mug. The first sip is heavenly. The second makes him realize how much his head is pounding.

God, Strayth croaks after his third sip. I think I'm dying. I think I died last night.

You always say that, Stray. His friend looks at him with a hint of amusement. This is a completely usual morning for the duo.

How come you never get hungover?? Strayth asks, incredulous.

I'm... I'm your designated--

God, shut up, my head hurts. Stray sighs into his mug, taking a more generous sip. At least it's Saturday, and Strayth has nothing to really worry about besides nursing his hangover. Why did you let me go-ho-hooo, he whines as he realizes the coffee isn't making his head stop hurting. He walks over to the living room to slump his whole self down on the couch.
I friggin' hate parties.

You don't hate parties. You do this literally every time we go out. You don't listen when I tell you to drink less. His friend is sitting next to him now, the discarded blanket in hand, and Strayth finds it wrapped around his shoulders. Strayth's furrowed brow softens a bit.

Thank you, he mutters, already feeling himself falling back asleep now that the coffee has proven itself useless. In the back of his mind, he remembers he has homework. And a test on Monday. And his gut would twist and sink if he could process that right now, but he can't. So he lets himself start to doze. His cup is removed from his hands and placed on to the coffee table. Later, he'll have his panic attack. It's fine, though. For now, it's fine. Tomorrow is another day.