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Cloudy. Negative seven degrees.

As Caspar walks, he rubs his hands together, blowing into them to somehow try to ward off the thaw settling into the tips of his fingers. Although he’s dressed warm enough, he doesn’t like to wear gloves. In near-OCD fashion (wait, no, let’s not lie—Caspar may as well be diagnosed Obsessive Compulsive) he does not like his fingers to be hindered. Gloves are bulky. They tend to get in the way when trying to retrieve money, for example, or when—like Caspar has been doing for the past week or two—trying to reach into one’s bag to retrieve a CV.

Tonight, however, Caspar isn’t handing CVs in anywhere. No, he doesn’t have to. Why? Because he’s finally been hired. The stress had started to get to him. Not only was he failing at finding the person he’d come here to find, he’d also bought himself an apartment in the most inconvenient part of town. On top of that, no one was hiring. Each night his mood got worse. Where he always was (and probably always will be) a temperamental asshole, the past week he had been near unbearable. It burdened him, like a weight behind the eyes, like a rope around one’s soul—that anchor that always must drag one down, that need for money in order to survive.

Through the grapevine (pun intended) Caspar had heard of Arbor Vitae. It hadn’t crossed his mind to apply for a job. What good could he possibly do at a winery? Pick grapes? Go stamping around barefoot in large wooden tubs to squash the juices out of said picked grapes? Sure, that could be a lot of fun, but he was no backpacker wanting a summer job. He wanted something permanent, and somewhere where his talents would be appreciated. Arbor Vitae, however, apparently did not just make and sell wine. On the side, there is a kitchen, and a restaurant. A rather nice set up; one that definitely meets Caspar’s standards (of which he has quite a few).

Job now secured, Caspar feels the need to celebrate. It is the first good thing to have happened to him since moving to this bloody city. It’s not such a bad city, but he had started to equate it to some kind of purgatory—especially with the demonic things literally circling his doorstep. Forgetting about the Quarantine Zone and the fact that he has to keep a permanent locker at the Wickbridge train station with clean clothes should he happen to get himself dirty coming through the sewers, he does quite like Harper Rock.

And now, finally, he feels as if he can properly enjoy the city rather than constantly curse its very existence—or ask why anyone should ever want to live here. He wants to celebrate. He has the number of but one person, and has yet to meet anyone else who he could call ‘friend’. Of course, he hasn’t exactly been approachable lately. There’s a good reason why no one would really want to stick around to befriend him. Now that he’s sure he’s not going to go absolutely, homeless broke, he feels like he ought to celebrate.

But where to go? And what to do? Christmas looms and shops are open late. Revelry is evident in many corners of the city. Caspar finally gravitates toward a kind-of street party—the kind where German Sausages are sold, and there’s a band playing carols on a stage. There’s wine tasting, and beer tasting, and all kinds of wonderful things. Of course, he only thinks they’re wonderful because he’s got a win. He meanders into the thriving crowd, numb fingers shoved into jacket pockets, an indulgent smile upon his chapped lips.

Finding a semi-isolated spot at the edge of the crowd, Wafa settles down against a wooden door and lets her cheek press to the cool stone beside her. "Too many”. The whisper of complaint passes her lips as she closes her eyes, attempting to block out the people for the time being. She slowly counts to thirty in her head; easing her anxiety in a controlled way. After a few minutes of resting there to regain her composure, her hazel gaze reappears to assess the best way to finish checking out the party without dissolving into a mess of nerves or turning into a robot for the night. “If I go around the alcohol, I’ll get annoyed with the rowdy ones and just leave,” she murmurs to herself while working out her strategy.

Wafa adjusts the lay of her wool pea coat and then tucks her gloved hands back in her pockets. Picking up the scent of the sausages, she gags before turning away from the wind. “Disgusting”. Hurrying out of her hiding place, she wanders around the party again to see what else might be going on. Perhaps she would get to dance, though it seemed it might just be awkward with a grouping of people this large. Keeping her slim form tight, she slips around several drunken men who either slur flirtations at her or try to grope her.

“Why did I even come here again?” she asks, shaking dark brown strands of hair from her face. Her right shoulder rises in a half-shrug before she whispers, “You were seeking company and thought this might be a good place to look for some since you never go out anymore”. Dismissing her own comments, she continues to walk, a small shiver rushing up her spine. “Or maybe you were hoping to celebrate the small victories you’ve had lately, not that anyone seems to care what you do”.

The masses of people don’t bother Caspar much. He’s used to keeping his eyes down and keeping out of people’s way; that’s the way it always has been in big kitchens, until he moved up in rank. He’s the one stepping on people, now, and generally trying to avoid throwing knives at them when they screw up. He wants his minions to actually keep working. He doesn’t want to be arrested for murder, no matter how strong the urge is sometimes.

If he were still jobless, of course, the story might be a little different. If he were still jobless, he would avoid big crowds altogether. Safer for everyone, that way. If there’s no stress, there’s less of a temper. When there’s less of a temper, there’s less of an urge to kill someone. When there’s less of an urge to kill someone, entering large crowds is harmless. Caspar even has enough of a good mood to throw a smile at a couple of kids chasing each other with what look like fake light sabres.

Caspar normally craves good food. Proper food, prepared by professionals. He likes his truffles, and his canapés. And, normally, he doesn’t allow anyone else to prepare his food, because he likes things in particular ways. He likes to do it himself. Every now and again, however, he lashes out. He buys something utterly horrible, utterly easy, something that takes someone two minutes to prepare, something that is not fresh. And so he buys himself one of the German Sausages. Of course, he regrets it not soon after buying it, but he continues to eat it anyway, wandering through the crowd as he did so.

And as he wanders, he happens to pass by woman talking to herself. Whispering under her breath, and Caspar only catches a few of the words. He doesn’t try to make sense of them. But he does smile. Only when he catches her eye does he speak.

”I’m sure that conversation would be far more entertaining if you had someone to share it with,” he says with a grin. Yes, an actual grin. So sue him, he actually wants to share his happiness with someone, even if that someone happens to be some woman who might actually be certifiably nuts. His accent is warped, something in between British and American, not enough of either to be anything certain.

"Most around here aren't particularly entertaining," she says and takes in the appearance of the man that spoke. A suit, a plain coat and that grin, it was certainly a strange combination to her eyes. She turns her body, so she is partially facing toward him, the light of a street lamp hitting her face in a way to accentuate the curve of her cheeks. "Who are you? I'm Wafa."

Her head cants vaguely to the left to allow a new angle to examine the man from; he seems to be fairly normal as far as she can tell. She clenches her hands into fists in her pockets while assessing him before releasing the tension built up in her shoulders and arms. The scent of the sausage in his hand grabs her attention and she turns her face away from him, attempting to hide her revulsion of the meat product.

By the time the woman responds, the sausage is nearly completely consumed. The thing has enough oil that even looking at it makes one want to break out in pimples. Caspar, of course, does regret buying it, though he finishes it anyway. It’s amazing how little a chef actually gets to eat. Against most stereotypes, most chefs (the good ones, anyway) don’t have time to eat. Even when they do, the energy expired running around a busy kitchen burns off any fat that they might accumulate anyway. Caspar’s body is absorbing the sausage like a hungry beast that has deprived for far too long.

”Not many people anywhere are very entertaining. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of what’s entertaining and what’s not,” Caspar says. The light hits the woman’s skin, turning it a bronze colour; she has turned away from him, and Caspar watches her carefully, trying to figure out whether he’s overstepped his boundaries with this stranger or not. There’s always a thin line that one has to walk when addressing strangers. One never knows anything about them, and thus cannot predict what kind of humour they might appreciate, or whether they appreciate being spoken to at all.

”Caspar. Not a friendly ghost, just as I suspect that you were not named after a biscuit,” he says with a smile. Wafer. Such a strange name to have, but unique. He could appreciate unique. He took the last bite of the sausage, chewing quickly lest he is required to respond quickly, the napkin crumpling messily in his hands.