Mercer Entura
Coach Morceu Oleand was inexorable.
Hurrying across the grass, Mercer made a beeline for the edge of the park and the street's beyond. All the while, he resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder. So far he had managed to give the older, belligerent greenblood the slip, but there was no telling when he might catch up. For it
was a matter of when. The coach had proven craftier and more perceptive than he initially let on, and that had been Mercer's undoing. It was a mistake he was not keen to repeat. The moment he looked back and met the coach's bloodhound gaze, that would be the end of it. So in the meantime he played dumb.
Footsteps sounded behind him, and Mercer increased his pace. Any faster and he would need to break into a jog. Still, the footsteps drew closer. Mercer did his best to ignore them, but then he heard the voice calling after him.
“You! Hey! YEAH, YOU!”Unless the coach recruited his team mates, it was a case of mistaken identity. Mercer hesitated before turning. Rather than meeting Coach's swollen, green face freckled with froth, he stared into a mask of white face paint belonging to a purpleblood. Though young he shared a likeness to Coach Oleand by the rabid fervour in his eyes. Mercer could not help but stare. It was his first time seeing one up close. Juggalos were a mysterious lot, notorious for being volatile. Their occult fanaticism went beyond any ordinary troll's understanding, and rumours of their deeds were wide and varied.
After a moment, Mercer remembered himself. He surveyed the park behind the juggalo. In the distance, near the treeline, he could make out the distinctive cubic life form that was Coach Oleand. He was not out of the woods yet.
“Uh, a good run... I guess?” Mercer answered, playing confused. He needed to establish a plan of attack (or rather retreat), and had the feeling this juggalo was his ticket out. He only had to figure out how. He feigned a look of concentration.
“Sorry, have we met?”
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