Location: between Braeswood & Lockwood. Time: Midday. Status: Open to @robertflvnagan / @joaquinxii / @saharareed
Despite having lived in Devinstone for a good two years, some people did not seem to have come to trust Sam even now; he did not take it to heart, for all that it mattered, he did not care. Had he ever in his life cared for approval, there was no way the man would be sauntering the bordering streets of Braeswood and Lockwood, the intersection of the quaint town he felt most at home at, panting softly from the weight of the heavy backpack that was strapped tightly -- too tightly -- to his torso. It was part of his ridiculous self-imposed routine of Bootcamp workout, held up for years, yet it was the first time that his breath burned in his lungs since the time that he’d actually been there. In an effort and hopes of meeting the eyes of someone, specifically not counting themselves to those people, his own took their trained look of the clusterfuck of lacing that was supposed to keep his backpack and other utensils in place, now in a mess of knots and loops that his lopsided view of it could not solve. Sam would resort to something that he absolutely hated to do: ask someone for help. “Hey, sorry, can’ya give me a hand for a minute?”, he let out, still slightly out of breath, addressing by far the most sympathetic person, given that they had not eschewed him before giving a second look. “I really don’t want to cut all this and buy new shit to replace this.”
