@chaostides || LIKED for a STARTER
'T was beginning to darken, the sights of noctilucent clouds 'pon the horizon a sight to behold, even for he. Even as the oranges and blues of the sky slowly gave way to deep purples and greys, folk carried on with their intentions - passing by the male where he stood to the side in the street, likely heading home after a long days work.
He, however, does naught but watch - the sky, the people, the odd dog that trots past, keen on the heels of their owners; the colourless glow of sheer white eyes jarring in the growing low light. 'T is clear, just as he is, that he is not a normal being simply going by their business - - - the way he stands, the way he holds himself; 't is as if he is stiff and lifeless, but moves regardless.
'T is no wonder none have stopped to ask after his wellbeing.
Summarily does his piercing gaze turn toward the moon and a curiosity settles for the expanse of a moment, no more - - ere it is lost in the void of his consciousness, once more leaving him to the unfamiliarity of streets and the faces that pass; some uncaring, some judgemental. He cares little for either, finds that his emotions are too distant to offer genuine reaction.
He's lost - it's clear and he knows, despite all memories being absent and the entirety of his person feeling strange that it means he may gain unwanted attention because of it. He has nothing to steal, naught of any worth upon him and yet he knows the threat of possibility lingers regardless.
Thus, he soon makes the decision to begin to move - booted feet pacing slowly down streets, no name of any establishment nor recognition striking him along the way. Eventually, he takes pause once more - this time out of defeat and thinks to ask those that passed a question or two, but none stop to answer. In fact, none stop to even listen in the slightest and often does the remainder of his sentence perish 'pon the tip of his tongue.
"What.... is this place called...?" The question perishes again, figure some many paces ahead ere he has even struggled to get the sentence out - every word pronounced somehow feeling detached. "I don't..---" Ignored. "Do you---" Walked past.
He sits upon a low wall and stares out at the street, feeling overcome. Wherever he found himself, he evidently did not belong - but he could remember naught. His head drops to his hands, shoulders slouched, wondering what he ought to do next. This... it was the closest place he had found since his awakening and he had hopes to get some variety of information on it. But 't would seem otherwise.
When he lifts his head once more, he notes another individual and wonders if it was worth trying just once more; so he stands, lets his unusual gaze rest upon the ground and utters in broken sentences;
"Do you... know what this...place is called-?"