Everybody always painted themselves into a classic getaway scene after getting caught in the middle of a heist.  Here they are, some half-deranged lunatic grabbing a lady's purse and darting down a busy street full of vendors selling their wares.  

She has codes to some off-shore banking ruse..  Or maybe she has diamonds -- blood diamonds?
Maybe it's just money.  Either way, 

-he needs it (because he wants it), he takes it, and he is off!

Somewhere there is always a chicken defying physics as it flies well out of the way.  Flocks of finches and pigeonfolk spray upwards into building awnings like gray spray paint.  Fruit stands (why is it always a fruit stand?) get parkored or pushed over - it's always the slippery fruits or the hard round root veggies -and of course a case of sun-ripened watermelons that are practically splitting in their display case.

Hell, 

-the guy with the purse clears the hood of an old buick like a spry young thoroughbred jacked on amphetamines and lands on his feet before darting into the large park all springbok style.  

He disappears, never to be heard of again.

They always imagine just narrowly escaping death.   Somewhere over the overpass, with infinite magazine clips there is a bullet war happening in his wake turning 'just-stuff' into swiss cheese.  No one in the way gets hurt, somehow just-stuff explodes.  It is always the messy kind of just-stuff too. Really colorful stuff.

Glass shatters - no one gets cut.
Cars crash and spout flames and gasoline but people are crawling out to go discuss collateral repairs over tea - no one ever catches fire here.
Mass hysteria as the bridge is crumbling apart - everyone is still smiling as they laughing run for their lives.

Perfection.

I'm getting too carried away with this.

The thought ends abruptly.  Only wishes it was that easy - it is not.  He wishes that was his story - it is not.  Stephan wishes that Only would stop wishing for things - but he doesn't.  Fear leads to worry leads to paranoia leads to, well, fear.

After waiting and waiting and waiting for the sentinels to leave the area where they lost him to heavy brush and thick woods he is finally free to move forward with his unseelie plans.  Dawn won't give an inch of their time to a lousy thief like him - especially if he practices his money-grabbing skills on unsuspecting Deluminians (Delumnins? Delimnins? Oh, whatever)  - they'd be so offended, he thinks.  To have a criminal on their clean streets - a flaw in their otherwise perfect system.  Out of respect he abandons Delumine for several days to make his journey down,  down-down, down.  

Into the madness, 
Into the fray - Las Vegas.
It nearly kills him one quarter of the way into the pass yet - like his ancestors - he'll survive.

He sneaks into Night Court as quiet as any of his cockroach ancestors might - silent and black and slick as he travels up-wind of a private gathering.  Through slippery rocks he weaves.  Through bushes and between trees he goes. The gathering almost looks ceremonial but he cannot be too sure.  He contemplates just taking a rock and bashing their heads in but then he remembers (two cuts on the face by the same man is enough, yes)- how bad he was at controlling things in the first place.  He was practically beneath Anonymous before he got the daggar to wiggle from his sheath in the first place.  The plan is out before he even begins -- self-preservation is key this time.

Keeping that in mind he moves under the shapes and shadows of the night - like a fish through water - if he were not so rotten then perhaps he would get spiritual and ask God if this is where he is meant to be all along - but he is hopeless.  He is truly hopeless.

Only is as low as a cockroach, a dirty crumb-rolling cockroach, he hangs his head and focuses his yellow-green eyes on the legs and rumps of the girls - inspects them - only one is carrying something with her - a satchel.  He gets so close he'll lose his hiding spot in an instant if the flowers he ate off of Flora this afternoon make him fart.  He tries to concentrate as hard as he can on the object hanging off Lavinia's neck.  He has been working so hard on sicks and stones - nearly dropping them all - and giving himself broken bones.  But today was different - he managed to eek-by just long enough to buy some time between then and now (now meaning, when they eventually find him)  so now - now he must be lucky.

And when Only feels Lucky, he tests it - the bag lifts, it lifts and Only is like a wolf sneaking up on Lavinia.
No teeth bared - just a hideous yellow glow of eyes staring up at her from the brush, a scrape of white grinning teeth.

One by one, the stones go.  He's taken the fronds off of date trees and woven them together to practice his small gift.
One by one they drop into his pouch.  
Lost.  Stolen.  Someone is shouting.  Some one is warning her!

Go.  Go!  

Only bolts right out from underneath her nose, the smell of thieves oil thick in the air (he always smells of it, odd) and a flash of gold hooves which disappear into the night.  The terrain is difficult, he slips and he slides unsteadily on ground he is unfamiliar with.  No stars tonight - no moon.  But he is not alone - the sound of hooves pound like thunder building in the distance.  A storm?  Perhaps.


ooc:  Feel free to stop him up with any dead ends, traps, or by knocking him off his feet if you need to.  You have permission.  Sorry this was so long.  D:

@Aislinn
@Lavinia

.only

There shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
 For many are called but few are chosen.

your heart is a wild thing
made of stardust and thunder and hurricanes

The day had begun like many others; the sun shining over the sky, before melting away and fading into the many colors of late evening, before darkening entirely into the sweet bliss of night. Calligo's shadows were long, softening the edges and creating pools of obsidian in alley ways and along the stone walls of the city. Under the cover of the goddess's onyx gaze, a stormsinger patrolled the capitol city with watchful eyes of brightest blue. She found solace beneath the uncommonly starless night; an ebony shade of smoke, a wraith blessed with a shimmer of cobalt and indigo. With sure steps, she melted from shadow to shadow, quiet and uttering no sound as she took in every detail, every crevice. A protector, and a defender of the King and his people.

The revelry of drums and music pulsed in the night air, thrumming and building like heat in her veins. As she nears the market square, the voices of singers and dancers and party-goers grows louder in her ears. A city of nocturnal lovers of the Night; at home and blessed by Calligo as she smiled down on them all. She is close now, creeping along the edges of the market square, and sticking close to the shadows. The stormsinger is all but invisible to them, a phantom of obsidian save for her blue eyes and the ivory tips of her wings. She watches them all, her gaze fleeting, but not missing a single detail. A group of fire dancers catches her eye; one in particular tugging at a far-off memory in the tendrils of her mind. The girl is young, and delicate, but rather beautiful. Glad in red and gold, much like a little thing she had once followed up to the Peak. The resemblance is uncanny, but tonight is the not the time to think of such things. She is all business; a warrior doing her duty, not a gypsy girl who would join them amongst the flames.

For a reason she could not place, the stormsinger's gaze kept finding the girl again among the crowd. She notes the strange presence of a man near her, but does not think twice when suddenly, the man-that-was-shadow is running.. with the girl's satchel in tow. Someone is shouting, and then the bodies are bustling in unexpected surprise. The stormsinger's eyes widen, and then she bolts from the darkness, anger flooding her in waves of crimson rage.

"Stop, in the name of the Night King!"

Her voice is a screaming hurricane over the music and drums, her blood roaring in her ears as her hooves gallop against the stone market square. She moves with a warrior's honed grace through the crowd, a ghost of shadows and stars, gaze searching for her target. There are too many people, and she is caught in the center of the fray, before she shoots skyward with a great swoosh of her wings. She flies, skimming the crowd with tucked legs before landing in an alleyway behind the thief. He is a dark phantom shot with gold threads, quick on his feet as the stormsinger gives chase.

"Stop!"

They are running, galloping through the city streets. She is merciless; a cyclone of fury, the embodiment of thunder and lightning storms in the midst of summer. With hesitating twists and turns, she begins to notice that maybe the thief does not know the city. Perhaps he is a stranger, a foreigner; to which, in case, she could use that very fact to her advantage. Surging forward with speed, the stormsinger rounds a different corner, breaking off her chase to give the thief a false sense of success. Her hooves thunder against the stones, and then she takes flight, her wings tasting the sweet night air through thick plumes. She sees him then, far below her. On any other night, when the moon's light would have given her away, she would not have been able to pull the feat.

But tonight was not that any other night. She dove, spiraling down and landing in a rush of feathers and violent anger. A lightning bolt striking the ground, her bones groaning at the impact as she cuts the thief's path. Bracing her body for the incoming slam to stop him, a wicked smile playing at her lips. Got you.

---

@Only @lavinia <3
so it begins hehehe! I left it kinda open-ended but she fully intends to chew him a new one if need be xD
"Aislinn speech."