š¯“‘š¯“Ŗš¯“µš¯“½š¯“±š¯“²š¯“®š¯“» (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
strahls) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
finalflight2019-10-16 04:54 pm
strahls) wrote in finalflight2019-10-16 04:54 pm
PSL; [DANCING IN A CHINA SHOP]
[There are few fundamental truths in regards to piracy, a profession that abides by middling rules. But one of them, as any clever man should know, is this: money is made in all manner of ways, in all manner of places, but its most lucrative exchanges reside in the shadows.
A dodgy establishment like this one, he thinks, counts as much as anything. The tavern lamplight is as unsteady as the patronage and just as fickle. There is laughter, and there is arguing; there are rounds of hearty drinking and pairs sequestered in the corner, making backhand deals and whispered arrangements. Swords gleam in the lowlight as frequently as daggers do, strapped to a bodice or slipped in a boot, wariness both evident and hidden. But more importantly, there is money, there is potential liquidation sliding above the tabletops as much as they're exchanged beneath it. He need only judge how and when to reach out and grab it.
Admittedly, petty thievery is not his usual modus operandi, too reeking of desperation for his tastes. But he cannot deny another truth of the situation ā€” he is rather desperate, finding himself in a place that he does not recognize, surrounded by faces who look at him like he's mad when he asks how far he's strayed from Rabanastre. Not a familiar anything in sight to fasten himself to, and nothing to his name. His coin purse is useless, stacked with a currency unrecognized in these parts, and Fran has gone and disappeared like she hadn't existed at all. A troubling thought.
He seeks information more than money, but he needs a healthy injection of the latter to procure the former. And so sticky fingers it is, a bit of deft handiwork, and surely he can move on from this place and to the next. Should that road lead back the way he came ā€” however he manages it ā€” then all the better.
He cannot even afford himself a drink, a genuinely terrible shame. But he can allow himself a moment to observe the crowd, to then stand and find the exact moment to slip through a handful of individuals walking the other way. His shoulder bumps with another, and his hand, as quiet as a shadow's, moves to grip a dagger's hilt.
The rest, of course, is just distraction, to draw one's eye away from the crime.]
Beg your pardon. [Smooth and vaguely lilting, Balthier smiles dimly.] I am little more than two left feet after a round of drinks.
A dodgy establishment like this one, he thinks, counts as much as anything. The tavern lamplight is as unsteady as the patronage and just as fickle. There is laughter, and there is arguing; there are rounds of hearty drinking and pairs sequestered in the corner, making backhand deals and whispered arrangements. Swords gleam in the lowlight as frequently as daggers do, strapped to a bodice or slipped in a boot, wariness both evident and hidden. But more importantly, there is money, there is potential liquidation sliding above the tabletops as much as they're exchanged beneath it. He need only judge how and when to reach out and grab it.
Admittedly, petty thievery is not his usual modus operandi, too reeking of desperation for his tastes. But he cannot deny another truth of the situation ā€” he is rather desperate, finding himself in a place that he does not recognize, surrounded by faces who look at him like he's mad when he asks how far he's strayed from Rabanastre. Not a familiar anything in sight to fasten himself to, and nothing to his name. His coin purse is useless, stacked with a currency unrecognized in these parts, and Fran has gone and disappeared like she hadn't existed at all. A troubling thought.
He seeks information more than money, but he needs a healthy injection of the latter to procure the former. And so sticky fingers it is, a bit of deft handiwork, and surely he can move on from this place and to the next. Should that road lead back the way he came ā€” however he manages it ā€” then all the better.
He cannot even afford himself a drink, a genuinely terrible shame. But he can allow himself a moment to observe the crowd, to then stand and find the exact moment to slip through a handful of individuals walking the other way. His shoulder bumps with another, and his hand, as quiet as a shadow's, moves to grip a dagger's hilt.
The rest, of course, is just distraction, to draw one's eye away from the crime.]
Beg your pardon. [Smooth and vaguely lilting, Balthier smiles dimly.] I am little more than two left feet after a round of drinks.
no subject
Balthierā€™s free hand makes a gesture at her, his own bright rings and bracelets glinting. His other, caught in her touch, has at least managed to slip the dagger between a criss-cross of leather belts, behind him and out of sight. Hereā€™s hoping he neednā€™t immediately sit down, he muses.]
How kind of you to be so concerned about my balance. It would be rude of me to decline. Perhaps the nighttime air might clear my lungs and provide respite for my head?
no subject
[ Oh, she absolutely knows. Not that her voice suggests such a thing as she rather amicably gives his hand a tug to lead him out of the tavern and into the gentler shadows of the night.
And once it's just the pair of them, and she ought to be the young woman leaning in closer, desperate for attention and a good-looking man to drive the loneliness away-- ]
I will have that dagger back now. Or I will seek far worse from you in recompense.
no subject
Her accusation comes swiftly ā€” not even an attempt to humor him! Balthier now does attempt to slip his wrist away, to hold up both his (empty) hands and proclaimā€”]
Not the sort of whispered nothings I had expected. Now thenā€” what dagger, exactly?
[Alas, his hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar. And so... deny.]
no subject
However, if you'd prefer I go the less peaceful route, I can most certainly oblige you.
[ He won't like it, probably. ]
no subject
Balthier blows out breath, theatrical and exasperated, a hand slipping behind him to grasp the dagger by the hilt and lift it up high for her to see. It dangles above their heads and catches moonlight against its steel edges.]
You mean this? Come now, is it truly worth starting this dramatic of a ruckus over? I dare say that only lends more value to your precious trinket.