𝓑𝓪𝓵𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓮𝓻 (![[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 — 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 — however he manages it — 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 — 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 — however he manages it — 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
But she has spent ten years learning. Forcing herself to learn, to survive and thrive and lie and all for a singular purpose. Even if one of her travel companions had not been a thief himself, slipping baubles and accessories loose without so much as blinking to give himself away-- her wariness has sharpened her wits. He speaks and moves as a distraction.
And just as smoothly, bracelets jingling with the movement, her fingers wrap around his wrist. ]
Shall I accompany you, then, good sir? [ Primrose purrs the words rather suggestively, though there's certainly a storm brewing in the darkness of her eyes. ]
Someplace quieter, perhaps? I fear with your coordination, you will be off your feet sooner rather than later.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)