Locke was drunk. Had to be. Not that he and inebriation were familiar with each other beyond a handshake or two. But good gods it was close as he had ever come to her euphoric state sober. And he was just getting started.
Wandering the outer edge of stalls and tents the youth let himself slip among the crowd, continuing to drink his fill of the avarice, sights, lights, and noise. If ever he stole anything worth selling he now knew where to bring it to fence. Vendors shouted the superiority of their wears, and occasionally the bastardy of their neighbor, as they vied for the attention of the crowd above the music, and sounds of a city. A city! While the cold was chilling the boy enough to keep out any associations this place may have with the term home, the night life here was keeping his blood pumping strong. A mistress will keep your bed warm just as well as a wife after all, she was just temporary.
BAM. A drafty chestnut collided with the boy’s shoulder in the throes of his drinking, jolting him from his lullaby, and jostling the brutes a packages. Shit, thought the youth, he was huge. Course, Locke thinner frame only magnified how much shit he might be in if the brute was the angry type. And he was. Angry horned head came sweeping around on the youth, but Locke didn’t spin away, yet. “Apologies sir-” But the beast was already roaring curses at him. To be fair though most creatures were beasts to the tall lean youth. Head ducked, something glimmered at the red’s side, and now the boy moved off. “Now sir-!” But the brute followed and drowned out the palo’s protests. His eyes burned with such passionate annoyance they missed the small coin slid from its hiding place under the boy’s stomach, slipping without conscious glance to the leather satchel strapped to the colt’s far leg.
“Look, sir, here. Here- to make amends.” Turning to view his satchel the young bastard called out from it a familiar gold coin. The aggression dulled on the face of the brute, but the threat did not. His own will snatched the coin from Locke. Money makes a creature mirthful. He doesn’t have to know its his own money. Examining the coin with a hard eye the brute gave a sneer that was half hearted, and the young youth’s apologetic smile was whitewashed. Yet the red brute turned and continued storming down the walk. The fiery youth watched him go, the meek childish grin twisting into a smirk the Cheshire Cat would envy. Never was a thief more pleased than to watch a mark walk away satisfied. He could have kept the coin of course. Been a penny wealthier for the cost of a few more insults to his genealogy. But then where would the fun have been in seeing the beast buy himself off with his own coin. The feeling was akin to having someone running a warm touch down the spine of his feathers. His pride never knew such a feast of ego.
Locke let himself have one more soft chuckle before raising his head back to the busy street. The noise and crowds grew heavier up the cobbled walkway. And like ordering another round for the whole bar, the young thief moved to rejoin the mass of marks in the center of the street.
OOC:: @Eris <3 Show the boy a good time yeah? =D Feel free to invite anyone else too!
If he had to compare the quality of alleyways, Raglan would have to use multiple categories and perhaps a diagram or two in order to give an honest review.
The two contenders for his heart would be Terrastella and Denocte, for each capitol had a wondrous maze of lanes and pathways that snaked through their hearts. The alleys of Dusk’s seat were markedly cleaner and safer, there was no competition when those details came to comparison, but Night’s corridors were darker and superior for sneaking. Denocte would win points for nostalgia and sentiment, as well, though it was a definite bias that no doubt skewed whatever anecdotal data the rogue would collect.
And yet, Terrastella’s alleyways produced run-ins with beautiful women at a drastically higher rate than Denocte’s ever had. Raglan crinkled his nose and pursed his lips in half-thought.
Back to the drawing board; more research was necessary.
Strolling through the lattice-like network of passages that limned the stretch of roadway housing the famous Night Market, the horned Crow watched the crowd with a lazy interest. He didn’t see much going on in the rowdy bazaar that would qualify as unique or interesting — street urchins pickpocketing, merchants hawking their wares, veiled mares winking and motioning toward shadowy doorways where *their* wares could be anything from a night of bliss to waking up in a gutter with a sore skull and an empty purse.
He sighed wistfully at the organized chaos that he had been raised upon. It had been within the Night Market, after all, that he and Acton had established their reputation among the other Crows; Acton performing his light shows while Raglan cut purses and relieved the richer sorts of their heavy monetary burdens. He wondered at where his lively saffron brother was now, if he was still charming the pockets of prince and pauper alike.
The stallion’s musings were cut short, however, by a stir in the crowd.
The sight would not have been an unusual one — smaller, golden male being scolded enthusiastically by a hulking draft — if not for the only slightly sloppily performed pilferage undertaken by the smaller lad. Raglan looked on curiously as the conflict dissolved and the sun kissed youth continued on his way with an arrogance that almost made the Silvertongue’s heart ache with nostalgia. In a blink, he was sidling up next to the male, close enough for crimson wings to brush against the golden child’s sides with a misstep or two.
Close enough to smell the desert on his skin.
"You see," He drawled, shimmering opal eyes flitting to the youth’s for but a moment as he subtly attempted to steer the lad away from the crowds and closer to the shadowed mouth of an alley, “Such actions can be rewarded, but you’re an amateur, and so you were discovered thieving.” Raglan paused, a smirk twisting darkened lips, “This is no game, gentlefriend, the Crows no longer hold Denocte’s streets. The smaller gangs and groups have taken over and, Goddess forbid, if they catch you criming on their turf? Well...”
The Crow tried to soften reality with a grin, tried to push home the truth of his words with the tension in his shoulders, tried to spoon feed the novice thief with the lightness in his voice. Yet, there was no way to lessen the truth of the newer Underside gangs and their strange brutality; even the Crows, at their most powerful, had never dived as low as the Neo-Underside groups had. Raglan’s memory showed him flashes of daggers fashioned from broken glass, bruised sides, bloody teeth spat to the earth.
The Court of Night and her many shadows were not as safe as they once were.
“All the sun and sand in the Solterran desert could not save you.”
Well, that got dark. Apologies. But here you are! @Locke
You have to be careful mixing euphoric states with youth, it can spiral down instead of up as they lose connection with the all the strings of skill, caution, and concern for their own well being. It is when many of the ‘lessons’ older generations talk about get learned over a pot of sobering coffee or in worst cases, a pool of blood. And for the first time in a while, Locke was about to get served a hot steaming cup. Blood or coffee it was impossible yet to tell.
Cradled in the crowd’s mindless pace he could drift off to the wilds beyond this city, beyond this continent. Back to Kelhar. To mud paved streets of poverty and desperation…and adventure. Dust collected on memories blurring their realities to allow fondness for the times of his first year. When he picked pockets not just because he had too, but because he liked it. Because of the animal it let loose in his blood to be able to take, to claim something for his own. Then that boy had been too clever...but the world seemed to take a turn up. How was he to know it was an upside….down turn-
It was when the corners of his lips began to slide like a faded ghost down, that his gut tensed. Was that red- Chained ear turns to catch the low steady words while feathers raise slightly unbidden on his back. Emerald eyes return the flick of a glance, before looking back away to several mares rolling their shoulders and hips more than a lioness on the hunt. But his analytic thoughts were far from his (admittedly, realistically, paid for) romantic possibilities for the night. It was rolling through thoughts like, tall, muscled, horned, violence, witnesses...Extreme maybe, but he’d never known an auspicious start to include, a stranger walking up to him at the market.
A feathered side brushes against his, and the message, unfortunately, could not misinterpreted, but why? Perhaps it was to try and sell him something from a darker side of the market, in that alley. It could happen- Caught. Or not. The young thief's face was kept in its pleasant state, (not easy with the richeting echo of the word ameteur in his ears) but his sweeping glance across the street now held a different purpose. Perhaps he had indeed been gone from streets like this for too long to think himself still so skilled at its trades, but the survival instincts began to click on like ancient lamps in those spider web covered halls of his mind. No one followed. No one glanced. But a quick slip off of the hook was out of the question in the foreign city of crowds. Shit.
Yet the world was always prepared for the idiocy of youths, and graced them with a willful determination to not be sucked under the waves of reality and consequence. So the boy lets himself be led away to the side street, even as his escort announced his guilt in such a matter of fact dead tone, that not a ghost of protest was allowed to rise on the boy’s lips.
This was not a game. Locke didn’t- but...he had, hadn’t he. A great laugh, a bit of meaningless fun. It seemed so stupid now… To hear the mantle of righteousness and questions of Locke’s safety upon the other’s voice bred frustration, jealousy, and (in no help to his cause at all) petulance. Only one small word kept the boy from turning that rock in the street into an admittedly crude weapon for fear of finding out the hidden ‘or else’ in the other’s words. They, not we. Now in the shadows of the back alley section of the market Locke finally stops and turns his head head to fully look at his watcher, not hiding the calculation in the narrower eyes and tilted head.
Was he...giving a friendly warning? Distrust at the other’s intentions still riddled every conclusion. The dark weight could not be mistaken, but… It wasn’t hiding a threat. It wasn’t shadowing a knife or thief's hand (not that he had yet anything to steal). In his distrust the young haphazard pickpocket let himself soak in the calm authority, experience hardened bearing, and wistful sadness hidden in the smile as they doused the pathetic fires he had been stirring of anger to nothing but envious whims of a youth remembering they could possibly be wrong. And because it wasn’t his first encounter with those whims, the fiery youth ended his assessment of the situation in an accepting dip of his head as he looked onward down the street.
Lanky legs moved forward again, but the conversation wasn’t done. Locke was labeled an ametuer newbie tourist, but- “So where does that leave you?” They not we. It came as the other’s words, spoken in expectation of a continued presence at his side, low but without pitched emotions that drew pesky attention. “It was foolish and brash,” Came the confession, jointed in tone that told of its distaste. “But it was not a virgin pickpocket's first trial.” His glance drifted over to a darkened merchant stall on the other side of his companion, which allowed him to slide an eye to see if the other even followed. Just as the other’s accusation had been made, now he made one too. “Normal eyes are not trained to find those tells…”
Then, even given the distrust the youth had that this was still an innocent friendly chat, the boy volunteers what payment he could return for the warning. “Locke, by the way.” A half, short, side nod settles the introduction. Maybe he was signing his own death warrant, letting one of those underside gangs know just who to ask for. But then, would it truly be so bad to make connections with the right people? Perhaps it was optimistic to still think the night might not end in him getting jumped in the alley, but he hadn’t been yet. And one thing he did remember was the right people did always have the right fun. And as much as the youth wanted to cling to his righteous petulant pride, he would have never survived to his first birthday if he hadn’t occasionally given that up. Even given the recent events, Locke was remembering quickly (brought to light in those cobweb covered rooms of forgotten situations) that a thief stubbornly clinging to isolation and ignorance, was a dead one. One drinker was as called an easy target, two drinkers were called a fun time. So while sobered up the young thief doesn’t leave the bar just yet.
OOC:: @Raglan I'm so sorry for the novel! Please don't keep up the length! I won't be able to. I'm just trying to figure him out and this thread is so much fun already!
01-05-2020, 06:31 PM - This post was last modified: 01-05-2020, 07:07 PM by Locke
When one thinks of a warrant, do they not think of the Law? Subsections and paragraphs, treatises and ordinances outlining which behaviors were unacceptable and which actions would require legal intervention. Warrants were the pen and paper demand that one be held accountable, the proof that an individual had wronged society grievously enough to grab a magistrate’s attention. They were an order for clipped wings, stone skies, and iron bars; a justification for a spiritual slaughter.
And weren’t at least some of them justified?
Then, consider a death warrant; would one ever include the Law in such a phrase? Death was a handmaiden of any society, to be fair, but when a population became developed enough, Lady Death became obsolete in favor of reformation. Indeed, the idea of a death warrant summoned images of brutal gangs, of blood feuds, of violence senseless and gruesome. Raglan thought upon the sort of death warrants issued by the lawless masses, those darker shades of creature who slunk about in the underbelly and in the dregs. He thought of just what sort of ending would manifest for the targets, and what that meant for their loved ones.
The Crow glanced again at the lad by his side and felt a pang of fear — true and sharp as any blade — slide along mahogany skin. The boy was fresh as spring time, green as grass, and reckless as Raglan himself, there was no reason to become entrenched in whatever conflicts this golden child would undoubtedly have clinging to his coattails. Yet, the horned stag couldn’t deny that he felt an odd kinship toward the male, and against his better judgement* decided to see where this new company would lead.
Approval emanated from the pegasus as his new comrade’s demeanor remained unchanged, so he wasn’t as much of a novice as Raglan had assumed. He didn’t yet know if that would end up damning or saving them. The shadows soon enveloped the pair, slowing their stroll to a halt and allowing the goldspun thief to fully assess the Silvertongue. Green eyes narrowed and Aurelian head tilted to the side, painting the coltish youth in shades of suspicion. Raglan nodded in response — good, it was good that the lad wouldn’t let himself be led blindly into an opinion — and waited patiently for the feathered rogue to come to his own conclusions.
At last, the lad acquiesced and began to walk once more at a leisurely pace. Raglan felt the corners of his mouth curve into a grin at the young male’s next words; he was insightful, to be sure, and the mahogany pegasus felt a faint wash of something like pride. He adjusted his steps to match the golden boy’s pace and cocked an ear to listen. The smile shifted to a smirk at the youth’s — Locke’s — comment about normal eyes and tells, and the Crow offered a mischievous wink in answer.
Swishing his tail, Raglan walked alongside Locke in silence for a few beats letting the scents and sounds of the city wash over his skin; in a way, this return to Denocte’s streets was a sort of baptism for the stallion. He had been lost for so long, and he still was, but at least the yearning for his motherland was no longer crawling beneath his skin and yanking at his soul. He breathed in, there would be no permanent return to the earthly lands of Night, Raglan was for better or for worse, a Dusk citizen.
Caligo’s gaze would never feel the same, and the stars would never again smile at him for this admission.
“A pleasure, Locke,” Came his response, spoken in the velvet smooth tones of one comfortable with uncomfortable situations, “Indeed, my slate is not clean, and I doubt it ever will be,” A wistful line spoken with a dismissiveness that bordered on apathy. “Though I would surmise that this predicament leaves us with some time to kill — with any luck, the Undersiders will assume my prolonged absence was due to training you and that you’ve joined up with the Crows. With any luck, they won’t know I’m the only one that still carries that ball and chain of a title and you’ll be let off the hook for your little mishap.”
Raglan tilted his head to look Locke full in the face, “So I can show you around for a while, point out the borders, pretend like we actually know each other.” There was a roll of slender shoulders that suggested a shrug, “Or we can waltz into a tavern, I’ll buy you a drink on whatever tab Acton hopefully left open a few seasons ago, and we can actually get to know each other.”
Pale gaze shifted back to the latticework of alleys and streets ahead, “It’s up to you, kid.”
* who uses better judgement or the crock of BS called a “conscience” anyway?
Time was a teacher, or so they said. It was a mercilessly oppressive master who’s lessons were weights named experience, consequence, and regret which latched onto the backs of those who heard the ticking of his hands in their soul. It was the reason Locke reveled in his youth, languishing like a cat in the warm light of the sun, for he was ever fearful it would move past him and leave him in a cold shadow of elder age. So you can imagine his pleasure to find a creature who seemed to laugh the master in the face of its grand clock as he carried on leaping through life with goals most did not live above the age of four to keep. It gave Locke permission to do the same, and set his soul (or was his roguish, troublemaking desire) free of the cold rising tide of the title ‘adult’.
This all led Locke to let a gleam of mischief rise up in his dark emerald eyes and his gait to swing into a more natural sway as the two proceeded down the alleyway towards what was appearing to be not the bloody pool, or even the sobering coffee. The idea that this might be his one way ticket to spending quality time with a guard of a little cell or the dirt covering street floor of his grave was slowly dissolving in the lighter mood and wistful comment of his apparent companion. Likely due to his age once again, the youth was finding it hard to hold onto his suspicions when his comrade became social. Though that did bring up the trouble that his name was not given in return, though it was fair as the other had no debt to pay.
What Locke did get was a wealth of information sewn into the pockets of trivial comments. Undersiders. Training. Crows (that one had been mentioned before). Only one. All this the young thief takes in with no change of pace or face, but that was not the case within. In his mind was painted the tale of a settled respected guild, brought low by…. (well that was still unknown) leaving a power vacuum of vicious hungry hyenas nipping at the heels of the trade while a lone old lion watches on, the last of an age. Tragic really. It would explain the deep weight of their first few words, but that story, though in thought sounded complete, on the lips of his comrade, it hadn’t. It had been continued, with a you and us. Locke took to serious wonder if that had been happenstance, or if he was suddenly about to find himself within that picture. If he was about to change it.
The hungry thief certainly liked the idea of turning it into something tonight. When Locke felt the halting of his companion, he too, with his short cropped mane barely laying over, turns back. A proposition in the form of an invitation slides from the lips of the other like a key to a dark door. (And more information was added to the tragic image that had been painted before.) They could walk and pretend… Locke could learn valuable information, gain a strictly professional ally, and move on from the city without further incident. It sounded like a proper and right move, one rooted in logic, rationality, and steering him to a clear path. So obvious to Locke it sounded like a monotonous mir of bullshit.
Now. Actually getting to know this new comrade (and the nickname was beginning to stick) well that promised drink, unprofessional conversation, and was rooted in all the motives and emotions which had pulled him to bump into that giant chestnut draft in the first place. Locke looks to the other shadow in the alley with a whisper of a grin hidden under his mask. “Let’s see if we can raise a glass to Acton then.”
Locke was young, but he had made and early move to be years past the age of circumspection. So there were two things he knew very well about drinking. One, never drink alone (nor with strangers, but then that one was often broken in favor of advantageous outcomes...speaking of those, maybe he needed a third, never gamble. But then that would defeat the purpose of most of his drinking came at the hands of hoping to hit it lucky...with a stranger). Two, one drink almost always leads to another. And while our dear young thief knew how to hold his alcohol (mostly), he wasn’t indestructible, and he knew others usually were not either (except for those barrel guzzling mammoths- the bastards). So Locke pulled the excuse out as he let more of his smirk slip. “Now before we leave all wise cautions behind, who exactly am I drinking with? Got to call out some name when there’s a lady friend with an extra lady, or an idiot with a knife or badge.” If he wasn’t pretending, best make sure this new comrade wasn’t either.
Regardless of the answer the Locke faces the streets of the Night Market again, breathing in deeply the layers of animal, material, and dirt. Maybe he would be hit aside the head with an empty bottle when this was all over. Maybe he would be robbed of the nothing he possessed. Or maybe he would still finish the night in a cell. But what was for certain was he was young, playful, and hungry take part of this world and devore it whole (the feelings of his prior stealth rushing back to him in an elixir stronger than any drink). “Lead the way.”
"Speaking."
OOC:: @Raglan I wrote you another book! I'm so sorry! I just love this thread! Don't feel the need to match it of course! I'll widdle the next down likely anyway. =]
Cobbles did strange things to the sound of hoof beats.
Raglan supposed it had something to do with the paving being broken up into various pieces, each with potentially different densities. Then, add the inconsistent heights and patterns of wear, and born is the perfect recipe for sound distortion. In his youth, the stallion had been able to read the sounds of the cobbles like a book, each pattern of steps with an accompanying story to tell. He had spent hours lurking in the shadows, listening for the secrets that could be found in the staccato rhythm of a runaway daughter or a drunken father.
The Crow had since lost that ability to time and lack of practice, and it was a skill that he missed, though mostly for entertainment’s sake; Raglan had hung up his habit of playing spy long ago. As the clatter and clack of he and Locke’s hoof falls rose up to swirl about cocked ears, the bloody bay wondered what sort of story he could have listened to them tell. Would a listener have heard the near-bereft aimlessness that plagued Raglan’s nights? Would they have divined Locke’s inexperience, his budding guile, his innocence amid sin?
He wasn’t sure if he would ever find out, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. Raglan had never been one for hiding his emotions, but he had always carried a knack for carrying them in such a way where they were overlooked. Glancing back at the golden boy, noting the clever glint in those emerald eyes, Raglan felt all at once proud and worried for the younger male — being clever and young and more than a little reckless was something that Raglan knew well, and it was something that had gotten him into trouble countless times.
Maybe this was his punishment for abandoning his homeland and his makeshift family — doomed to mentor and vicariously live through the mistakes of his youth mirrored in the lives of others.
At Locke’s reply, Raglan felt a laugh bubble up in his throat and offered a nod in response to the emotion fizzling beneath his skin. Acton was missing from the Crow’s life, but he had been the wiliest stallion that Raglan had ever known, and the pegasus was sure that he would turn up somewhere. With a purse of his lips and a wry, narrowed look tossed at the lanky colt, the winged stag arched a brow and whispered as if his next words held some grand secret.
“My name? Only the gods and those soon to meet them have ever known my name, boy.”
To add to the drama, Raglan struck a pebble with his hoof, the resulting clunk multiplying into a chorus of skittering echoes that seemed to follow the air before tapering off into near silence. Slowing to a sudden stop, the Silvertongue affixed Locke in his pale gaze and stared hard, part of him feeling almost guilty for toying with his new charge. After a few moments of faux-tension, the horned male broke off in a guffaw, his mannerisms returning the normal impishness he was known for.
“Sorry, kid, I had to try. Call me Raglan, though many a lass and lord know me more accurately by ‘Bastard.’” Silvery eyes twinkling as a crooked smile sprang to darkened lips, Raglan dipped his head and motioned with a flourish to the slumped entrance of a battered tavern, the warped wooden sign above the door reading The Buzzard’s Board in chipped paint. “It seems we have arrived. Good choice on your part, by the way, to get caught sneaking so close to my favorite haunt.” With a jaunty step and a swish of his lengthy tail, the stallion led the way through the creaking door and into the dim interior. While it had been some time since he had last stepped through the threshold, the tavern was just as warm and worn as ever. Making his way to the mostly empty bar, Raglan winked at the barmaid who rolled her eyes in response, and leaned over the counter to ask after the evening’s specials.
“Nothing special about this place, luv, you know that. Now what will it be?” Came the maid’s deadpan reply.
”You’re right, Benilde, I do know that, but how could I resist the urge to speak with an angel at least a little more?” The flattery elicited yet another eye roll from the mare, though Raglan forged ahead as if she had giggled demurely behind a fan, ”A Buzzard’s Breath, please. As for my friend...” He trailed off and looked over at the feathered form of Locke, quirking a brow and waiting patiently as he may.
If it was one thing the youth could appreciate, it was a good joke. Of course, it was nice if he knew he was supposed to laugh.
Locke paused mid step at the hissing whisper, as if it arrested every nerve and pulled out every breath. His suspicions are not hidden on his face as eyes narrow and the chained ear falls back with a light rattle. Like a long stick reaching his foolish mind from far away, something pokes at him, voice yelling from far away. In the tones of his old teachers they berate him for … Locke almost listens. For all his talk, he didn’t actually want to end up getting smacked in the head with a bottle. It sounded rather unpleasant. Yet, he didn’t want to let go of the comrade he now pictured in his mind, one which would laugh with him, toss back a bottle, and tell him of how it should all be. How they would make it be.
Locke had that before… and he missed it. A forgotten part of life he had long lied to himself was not missing, when in truth, it still ached where it had been ripped out.
So the young thief hesitates with hard judging eyes, but makes no move either way, even as the pebble clatters across the stone, echoing the hollow silence that fell between the two. Maybe it would look to this unicorn as if the young thief merely was trying to sort through the truth on the chestnut’s face, but in reality he was caught in the snares of memory and wishes, trying to sort through the truth in his own heart.
Then came the break, the huff like snort, the drop in the shoulders, and that mirroring twisted smile. A joke, it was a joke. Locke was frozen in the previous feelings a moment longer before his senses slapped him aback the head and he too sighs and laughs himself back into a smile. Locke’s words, hanging onto the outskirts of a light laugh, come before he’s fully set. “Don’t worry, I won’t blow your true identity, Bastard. Code name Raglan it is.” And by the time he finishes all is set back as it was before, a fool hardy youth, set high against the bosom of mischief and invincibility, topped off with a wink.
It was still chiming in his mind, ‘that see, suspicions were ill found’ (Raglan’s attempt at mentoring actually taking a step back as he affirmed the gut feelings rather than caution). So though it took a moment, Locke carries on as he had, ready to chase down a good night with a few too many drinks. Happily stepping into the strong smelling bar of the back alley his comrade pointed out.
Eyes adjust quickly to the darkness, but the youth still hesitates just inside as he takes in this favorite haunt. The place was low and dark, but warm in the ways of a favorite chair or bed. Not many had nestled into its folds, but those that had did not look up or seem the kind to do so. It was a place a stranger would be made obvious in for it was a welcome retreat to those who knew its shadows. It brought a wider grin to Locke’s face as he slid up to the bar beside Raglan in time to hear the bar maid’s bitter reply.
Watching the exchange with a grin and leaving it to his comrade to all the fancy footwork such flirtations required, the youth merely looked over the counter to his options, and spoke only when his turn came. A laugh building and spilling out at the end of his last words. “A Sazerac, if you can manage it, or a straight whiskey. I’ve no desire to have my breath scare away the ladies.” The knock comes with a literal one as his tail lashes out to the stallion beside him. It might have been pushing it, but whatever reservations and little voices would have told him that had not made it past the bouncer at the door. Still he softens it with a more jovial grin, absent of smirk and malice, as he settles to wait for their drinks.
“So, tell the truth, do you come here for the bite of the women or the drinks?” A meaningful glance was given to the working Benilde. It was a poor start, but there was nothing in the young thief to cover the gap in conversation any better. For all his wit and cleverness, it had been quite an age since he’d found himself in this position. As much as he still desired it, the outfit needed some adjusting before it was smoothed out again.
"Speaking."
OOC:: @Raglan I'm so sorry for your wait!! Please let the sass continue because this is simply too much fun XD
