You have to be careful with appearances. They are both a key everyone leaves under their front door mat, and the sharpest knife to hold at their back. Or so he likes to think. After all, there is nothing like the thrill of being underestimated. And Locke is damn good at being underestimated.
Just look at him now. Walking through the wild, slipping through the pale winter sunlight and cold shadow depths. Of his actual physical looks, you’d be hard pressed to see past the dirt, literally. A thin layer of dust, gained by the long days of travel, blur the brilliance of his coat and dull the fire to a soft muted palomino. White features looking mournfully worn in their off white hues, laying flat and smooth along his body. Even a little mud splatters his hocks and tip of his tail from the snow slush. He’s just a tired traveler, stumbling through the countryside, dragging himself through winter’s harsh realities. Simple. Easy. Not a threat. Right?
Wrong. Very, definitely wrong.
Then again, maybe you’re the perceptive sort. A sort who knows the many shadows better than the light. Maybe you have a sharp eye yourself- understand how the game is played. Maybe you could see through the guise Locke shouldered. After all, the poor bastard was still only a slip of a youth, cut so recently from the binds of retientence and given free license to toss aside circumspect little charades. He couldn’t be blamed if it was hard to keep all the tells under wraps. Maybe he hung his head lower, and shoulders sag, but his eyes spark with sharp calculations being quickly devoured by a mind too long starved of civilization. Of that layer of dust? It was only applied several hours ago to age his appearance to mellow dull nonthreatening. So his hooves drag ever so slightly in the snow, but under his skin muscles lay laced with adrenaline like a drug. And as the young son looked around, Locke was already pounding for more on the door of his dealer named “Possibilities”.
As far as false faces go, it wasn’t his best, but only if you knew what to look for. He was, you understand, slightly distracted by nearly everything. New smells light up the connections throughout his brain: dry old grasses, curious musky animals, and equines - lots, all hidden under a thin layer of crystal snow. You have to forgive him for not being completely focused. After all, its hard to walk like you know where you’re at, like own the place, when haven’t a fucking clue.
Still, he thinks himself quite clever. It helps him ease over the times where the world very rudely pointed out he was actually not that clever. As if on cue a low gruff call of an animal pulls one ear of the child in its direction, rattling the chain dripping from its tip. A twitch, a crack of cold frost seeps into his blood, though it never bloomed to the surface of his face. Gods he hated that thing. Perhaps among civilized beings he could find someone to remove it. Of course he’d thought that several lands back too, and yet here it was still rattling in his ear and discoloring the bright afternoon. Maybe its continued existence wasn’t forgetfulness after all. Still that all was then right? Didn’t matter anymore. He spat in its face, rolled off some excuses of youth and naivety, and ended up walking across the frozen grasslands of a new world.
It was a child’s selfish, half thought through, hope. A prideful vain youth who still had yet to learn that ‘starting fresh’ was no more real the fairytales of damsels being rescued by knights. The chain wasn’t going to vanish into thin air, nor would his haunted dreams at night, just because his ‘home’ looked different. Though take note, there was a rare glimmer of truth in the concept. While the bright bastard was skilled in basics of theft, stealth, and illusion (trained and honed on the streets of poverty then solidified by the tutors), they had never been put to a task- never been molded for a purpose. Only once had he set a real challenge for his life, and though it surely did screw the hidden psychology of the youth up for years to come, it had succeeded in its intent. He had proven capable. Locke was upon the edge of his prime, ready to step into the role of his life. Yet the role was undefined, a block of clay. Valuable, and malleable. And though he did not realize it yet, he was offering the destiny up to any who dare shape it. A free chance to make a master thief, a tricky merchant, a skillful spy, or even, if they twisted him just so, a cold assassin.
Here is Locke. To those who can not see past the illusion there is no reason to fear for your soul (only your valuables), but to those who can, take heed. Mold him as you will, set him on a path or take him under wing, but know this. Whatever tool you create, whatever rose you set in your crown, it is not without its shadows and thorns. Make him as you will, but take care of this one last warning before the tale begins, do not underestimate. Locke will take the advantage every time.
OOC:: Sorry I wrote a novel! I'm weird and like starting posts. All are welcome meet the kid! If you want help 'shaping' him I'd love to plot something longer out too! He's pretty much up for anything!
01-01-2020, 05:07 PM - This post was last modified: 01-01-2020, 05:07 PM by Locke
A thunderous clap erupted, and winds swept in the office where the aging wizard had been trying to make sense of the latest spell. Papers fluttered and spilled into rupture that was slowly opening in the space of his office. The howl of the wind through a small opening resounded, and burst through his door and spilled into the halls of the tower of the domain he served. The scraping of hooves could be heard as he cursed beneath his breath. Silas struggled against the portal tearing itself into time itself. It dragged a reluctant Silas through its swelling maw. It yawned and consumed at least half of his research with it. A sudden, bracing cold enveloped him, a room full of gray erupted on the other side of the portal. He fell, and fell, and fell. He could see the portal begin to slowly close its maw. The portal had finished yawning, and it had to spit him out the other side.
The air rushed around him, and his hair whipped violently in the rush of movement. Silas kept falling, and panic began to set in. What if he had been dumped outside the walls of the castle from the height of the tower? He would be killed. The purple mage cast his eyes downward, it was then that the clouds broke and he saw a world of white. There was a large plain beneath him that wore a thick blanket of snow. Panic set in when he realized he was no longer in Muramir. At that moment he realized that he had accomplished interdimensional travel, but at the cost of losing his way home. The excitement he should have felt was quashed by the very real fear of bodily harm. He reached for his magic but it did not respond to him. The well inside of him was gone. The magician realized that he was in great danger, but he could do nothing about it.
Silas had never felt so helpless in his life, his heart raced wildly in his chest. It raced faster than he fell from the sky. There was another thunderous clap that erupted from the sky. It thrust the clouds apart, and if one looked up they would see the vanishing portal. Silas cast his a helpless gaze toward the closing portal. He pleaded with the heads poking out of the small space to help him. They could not, and so he fell until he collided with the frozen ground beneath the sky. Then there was only pain, and darkness.
Words: 426 | Notes: And here is Silas! Falling into Novus c: He should be able to be roused if Locke tries to do so >__> | Tags: @Locke
... The lives we lead
01-07-2020, 08:10 PM
Played by
Zireael [PM] Posts: 18 — Threads: 4 Signos: 345
There are times when opportunities literally fall before your hooves, but Locke never thought that meant literally. Until now.
The first he heard it was a sound of a drum, like thunder on the wind at a distance. Perhaps foolishly, the act of weary traveler dropped like a cloak unnoticed to the ground as his head tossed upwards to search the skies. There! The blurry dark spot had an advertisement of ruptured clouds torn to shreds around it. And just as soon as he noticed, it winked out, leaving the clouds to make their own excuses. Snorting in distrust of his senses Locke hesitates. It was normal...had to be…
Magic. Surely. It wasn’t unknown to him. Kalhir had had its own- Gods. When had he last thought that name out. Here he was trying to start fresh, let it go, see the light, go into the unknown or whatever mantra of rebirth you wanted to attach to the age of notion of the naive. It was the roll of his eye and shoulder, resetting his mind after that unpleasant reminder, that he caught the movement. The movement, dropping-no, falling. Tilting his head back the other way he watches. Down, down, down. Like a cast curse it was driven from the heavens. Then- there!
It landed farther ahead. Weight shifted in our watcher. Most might walk away. Raised brow looks to his left. Some might see the rupturing of the heavens and the rejection of some item as a sign to sell out and move on. There was no one to his left, and he looks to the right. Some might take cover or fall prey to hidden fear by excusing themselves to run away and tell others. There was no one to his right either, so he looks forward where a dark shape dented the white sheets. Some might know better. Amusement raises with his hoof as he steps forward. But Locke, for all his lessons learned and street smarts still suffered one possibly fatal flaw. He was curious.
------
Damn. It wasn’t just some by-gone relic. It was a horse. Strewn in the snow, and seeming both one with the snow and isolated in violet, it was undoubtedly a horse. His gut twisted, not for the blood or damage mind you (He’d seen worse, been worse, and done worse. He bore the three scars on his chest to prove it.) but for the civic notion that as the only witness he now bore responsibility. It soured worse on his tongue than the smell of injury surrounding the fallen.
So he moved to back away uneasily, as any mortal still savoring the breath in their lungs usually does at the site of someone else who has taken their last. It wasn’t that the youth was fearful, but rather he knew dead bodies were like flies for questions and who the hell was going to believe this poor unfortunate soul fell from high in the sky. They’d be calling other things high, and he doubted it would have anything to do with altitude. Yet just as he was turning away, just as his chained ear rattled to follow his thoughts to the path ahead, it caught backwards on the body. Tugged like a string. Curiosity snagging the thief again, asking questions that lead to trouble rather than away. He could check the body for...identification… or valuables.
After a few more side glances, the young opportunist slunk closer to his quarry. A necklace? Leg cuff? Hair ties of metal? Greed danced in his eyes making him almost miss the fact that there was in fact nothing. Ears pin back in accusation, but the creature bore nothing- except for life. A breath, however damaged by the fall, rises in the heaven cast out. Drawing back away from the asp of possible complication, the guilty youth ground his teeth. Should have walked away. “Shit.” came the hissing whisper.
He could still walk away. Locke could whistle a merry tune and take this wracked body as a heaven sent lesson not to anger the gods of this land. He could turn away, so he told himself, and surely in an hour or … day someone would show up to help this creature. Surely. His curiosity was well and truly satisfied (so he lied to himself). Time to ship out and hold to what he should have before: that this could lead nowhere but to questions he didn’t have answers to, nor was he sure he wanted. But where Locke’s curiosity failed, his one raw heart string held solid in some regrettable horse-anity. Could he leave this defenseless creature just to die in the cold wilds? (Well this lands own gods didn’t want him.) Could he be cold enough to be blind to the dream shadow of this creature in his sleep tonight? (He had enough nightmares what was one more?) Did this creature deserve to die?
“Hey!” A white spotted nose attempted to toss snow onto the creature’s face. “Hey- Wake up.” It felt wrong. Awkward, stupid. Worse than a tailor’s first attempt at a ballgown. It kept the young thief’s ears back and face tense, though the humor of before was still hidden in his light manner. Still, when he woke this son of the sky up, Locke was going to take upon himself to kill him for dragging of all things, guilt out of him.
No, don’t underestimate Locke. Even he didn’t dare dream he would be adding ‘savior’ to the list of future prospects created by our tale earlier.
"Speaking."
OOC:: @Silasthein Sorry for your wait! I can't wait to read more of him! Also I wrote a novel, please do not feel you need to match!
He did not drift in the dark sea for very long, it quickly felt cold on his face. The sensation roused him to consciousness, he gasped at the sharp pain in his left side. Each inhale brought him new waves of agony with it, and crimson flooded from his mouth. His ears twitched toward the voice, toward the one throwing snow on his face. Silas opened his eyes, he lifted his head with a great amount of protest from his body. A groan escaped his pale lips as he shifted himself onto his belly. Silas' legs were strewn out in front of him, like a colt who had fallen on ice rather than fallen from the sky. Silas found the man who threw snow on his face to rouse him, perhaps he was concerned he'd be blamed for an unusual death as the only witness. A low chuckle escaped his lips as he studied the stranger, though the pain nearly caused him to lose consciousness again. The man was made of gold, with ivory horns protruding from his crown. In his left ear was an earring connected by a chain, it impaled two different sections of the same ear. They had green eyes, but they were not kind.
Silas didn't care much for the motives of others, especially if it benefitted him. This certainly seemed to be one of those times. Silas noted the strange crest of feathers upon the withers of the man who woke the native of Muramir. He noticed the primitive markings along the other man's spine and along his hips. The old mage didn't speak at first, he was trying to gauge just how badly injured he was. How far had he fallen? The ground below the snow was not soft, though it was not made of jagged stone, thankfully. "Well... this certainly isn't Muramir..." Silas spoke to the stranger, the words came out choppily. His lungs protested each breath, and he could taste the iron in his mouth. The purple and ivory mage did not dare try to stand yet, the edges of his vision were still shrouded in shadow. His mismatched gaze did not leave the stranger, not yet. "I suppose neither of us expected that. As thrilling as it is to discover interdimensional travel, I have no magic to make it reappear. Since this isn't Muramir, you probably have no idea who I am. That's good for a change, even better you didn't just leave me here in the cold I suppose. I wouldn't blame you. Horses don't just fall from the sky any old day, do they? Where is this place?" He rambled on, his choppy speech continued on. It was a wonder that a man who had just experienced such a jarring event could have such a sense of humor and curiosity about his new situation.
Silas did not fear the unknown or the possibility of catastrophic results of magic. He had devoted his whole life to the study of it by now. His magic being absent allowed him to realize that he was probably aging at a normal pace once more, he would have to change that. Whatever world he was in had to have magic, or else this would be a very strange version of hell for him, and yet, it would be a perfect one. The pale mage finally moved to struggle to his feet, his vision grew darker for a few moments and the pain in his left side increased dramatically. Upon his feet, Silas noted he was only about a hand taller than the stranger. Who would ever believe a tale so tall? The one about the man who fell from the sky, and stood up. The one who did not die. Silas could hardly believe it himself. "I'm Silasthein. I just go by Silas though... Also... does this world have healers that you know of? I'd make it worth your while to tell me where to find them... and where you live. I can't have you running off with debt hanging over my head, and leave me with no way to pay it." He spoke, a smile upon his face despite the situation. He wondered if this man would accept his offer for payment in exchange for knowledge, as well as the help he provided in stirring Silas back to consciousness.
A sputter of air escaped Silas' lips, more crimson spilled upon the snow. "Sooner rather than later. I don't think that's a very good sign. What a strange day this is, even for a magician." The last sentence was more of a comical reflection on the whole situation than directed at his companion.
Words: 779 | Notes: I adore Lock <333 No worries about 'novels' I love to read them c: | Tags: @Locke
... The lives we lead
01-11-2020, 10:05 AM
Played by
Zireael [PM] Posts: 18 — Threads: 4 Signos: 345
Helpless. He felt helpless. Tossing snow to rouse a creature who the only comfort he could bring was ‘that looks like it hurts’. Gods, foolish and helpless, pinch of guilt. He really was starting to see why ‘nice guy’ illusions were never in his closet: they were damned uncomfortable.
A gasp caused the boy to flinch, and retreat as consciousness began pumping through the older horse’s blood, what was left of it anyway. For that which had spilled on the snow, well, there wasn’t much hope there. Locke should say something. His gut twisted his diaphragm up to push the words out, but nothing came except a patient, wary stare, and one swish of the tail. Comforting words, especially those not concealing lies like thorns in roses, were never his area. Honestly, the situation had pulled the bastard quite out of his norm, and he was beginning to miss it. Beginning to see why all the remonstrations of his tutors to ‘be polite’, ‘wait your turn’, ‘don’t steal the prince’s jewels in the middle of class’ feel on deaf ears.
The injured slowly sits up, even laughs… strange. Maybe he was delusional. Would explain the staring, though Locke had to admit to doing his own examinations now that life flowed back through the body making the act seem less taboo. The source of the sharp tang in the air revealed itself as it dripped from the fallen’s nose and a few scrapes, but for the most part the pain’s source (and there was evidently a great deal of pain) seemed to come from within. Given that, even the toughened street urchin side of Locke had to give this stubborn bastard credit. He wouldn’t have been this composed about being cast out to fall from that height to the snow padded hard earth. And when he spoke- well if Locke could hold as much humor so near death as this mauve, it’d be worth hiring a bard to write a legend of it.
“And it isn’t death’s landing either.” Unbidden a smirk rose up on the edges of Locke’s lips, and the darkness in his eyes lessened. There were several ways into Locke’s good graces, (even if you were as much in the red as this cast out had started) and fall out boy had just found one. Frosty animosity felt the glowing embers of wit spark to life in the conversation and began to melt along with the ice in his eyes and voice. “Though given that height I bet your body would protest that.” There was no offer to help, no rushing to the injured side, cautions not to move, or other such pointless nannying. It didn’t even occur to the youth. Maybe he had been refined in a palace, but he was born of the streets, and every so often, such as now, it showed in blinding clarity. Also, he was still slightly bitter for feeling the need to be present at all. Fine, more than slightly bitter.
It was in his own musings that Locke listened to the ramblings of the old man (mind you, everyone was old to the youth). His mind pulling the pieces of the puzzle offered and placing together the story. Or at least the story the other wanted to tell. Inner demonstal- The boy was intelligent, or so he thought himself, but the possibility space travel outside the aid of devines was beyond him. Maybe old Mauve was just grumpy the gods didn’t find him so pretty any more. The humor was cut short with one phrase though- Locke didn’t know who Mauve was… but why would that be good...for who? It was like a ringing of a dinner bell for his ever insatiable curiosity, and when you called that beast for dinner best toss the bucket and run like hell for the fence.
“You’ll find me a poor tour guide I’m afraid.” The youth spoke, letting the smirk finally give way to an amicable smile, still wrapped in the wiriness of youth and first meetings. “I’ve only arrived myself not too long past, but they call this land Novus.” It had been tricky picking even that up, he’d had to adopt goody two shoes scholar vibe while slipping unnoticed through the lands the first few weeks. And Locke has already made quite clear how he feels about those guises. Damn cover wouldn’t even budge for him to lift anything. He’d given it up two weeks earlier than he’d planned so his intelligence gathering really was much shorter than he’d like.
If Silas had rung the dinner bell to Locke’s curiosity, he was now also ringing it to his greed in as well. The poor broken mauve could not guess what tsunami was now pulling back the waves, nor how it might drown him in his own words. So the grin that looked back at Silas turned slightly. Matching his, but soured like old milk. “It so happens I might…” for what price though. It was then the young magpie remembered his mark didn’t actually have anything valuable. He’d tried it before. It wasn’t his first preference, but he supposed a favor would have to do. (Not to mention the ‘you don’t know me’ comment still echoed in the hallows of his ears and curiosity.) “Locke, of Solterra.” A short nod, a blank check filled out. “Terrastella, the Dusk Court has a Hospital, or so I’ve heard, they reside southwest of here.” It was second hand, but true or not poor Silas had already signed his name.
Magician? Ah, that explained a LOT. “No I don’t think so…” Came the absent minded reply, but it was not followed by offers to help. It still never occured to Locke to bother. He’d woken the old mauve, that was life debt enough. Yet the young child didn’t want to let go, not yet. Woken too aggressively and promised a meal his curiosity and avarice licked their lips in the shadows of his souls, kept from his face only by regular practice. “Magician with no magic? Your day seems to have all kinds of fascinating thrills that perhaps strange is as positive as it can be phrased. Yet this all seems common to you. Fall from too high up often?” It was pushing it, so the boy covers it in a warm, light tone, leaping with humor to hide the thorns within. For all the...indeed strangeness, Silas was bringing to his day, the youth was finding his earlier resentment nearly gone for the selfish pleasure the conversation was bringing him. He should wake dead guys more often, maybe he was underestimating them.
The man who’d roused him was quiet, it seemed that he might have the patient of a saint. Thready breaths escaped from his lungs, but they did not exhale the pain the felt. Silas watched the man’s expression change, he could have sworn he almost saw his features soften. It was hard to tell with the edges of his vision fading into black. The sight should have terrified the old mage. It didn’t. When the man speaks, there is a wild smirk upon his face. It contorts his lips into a makeshift grin. The words earn another laugh from the mage, but it is one of skepticism. The danger of his fall suddenly hit him, but he doesn’t bother letting the stranger know. His heart pounds and races wildly outside of his control. His heart doesn’t listen to rational thought, it listens to that tiny lizard brain of his. “No, I don’t suppose it is. Not yet anyway.” His words flowed like a river of humor, he still sounded as though the event didn’t phase him. Silas felt too shocked by the events to process it here. The man commented on his body protesting it. “It does feel like death. These aging bones certainly don’t appreciate being woken up so violently. I mean, I don’t blame them, I am the one who threw them out of a tower after all. I am not immortal here, yet.” He agreed with another laugh, and sputter of crimson liquid falling from his pale lips.
Silas noted that the man did not rush to his side and dote on him, it was something he appreciated. He had never been one to rely on others heavily, even in life-threatening situations like this one. He felt the eyes of the stranger fall upon him, they were ravenous. Silas did not know what they hunted for, what the stranger hunted for. Yet, his smirk transformed into a smile. It was a spirited expression, and Silas found himself reflecting that smile to his companion. His left side ached, and he felt the pain growing. He couldn’t be here long, not if he actually wanted to survive such a fall. The stranger admitted that he was a poor guide, and that he was also new. A world called Novus. Silas didn’t recall ever hearing about the world of Novus. Perhaps he had and it was buried in ancient texts in his vast library in Muramir. Yet, he did not remember it. Silas wasn’t one to forget the travelers of another world. He’d spent centuries learning from them. Ah, that was why he did not feel so alarmed by this development. Silas had not aged in centuries, but that magic had fled along with the rest of his arcanum. The stranger’s face contorted into something different this time. It was an expression that Silas couldn’t place. It still retained the ravenous quality from before, but it was tainted by something. Still, Silas did not feel the need to be wary of this man yet. Why would he rouse a stranger and carry on so jovially with a potential victim? He had whetted the appetite of this other man with the promise of payment. So, the man was seeking incentive for aid. Silas understood, though he was not the same type of man. The words drawled from his companion that he might know of a place he could find a healer.
He did not follow up with where at first. Instead, he addressed Silas’ earlier introduction with his own. Locke of Solterra. Silas gathered that this must be a land or domain from that tiny snippet. One did not introduce themselves in that way for the sake of it, ‘of’ usually denoted a location. His vision darkened, it threatened to down him once more. His salvation flowed from Locke’s mouth. Terrastella, southwest of their location. Silas turned his eyes skyward for a moment. He then assessed the terrain they stood in, his limited gaze took in all there was to see from they stood. It took him a few moments to get his bearings, but he was able to identify where he believed southwest was. He motioned his head in the direction he’d decided on. “That way then? Terrastella. Right, well I think a hospital might be the best place to go at this point. Locke of Solterra, thank you. What direction is Solterra from here? I’ll come and find you when I am well enough to travel again. Who should I ask to find you?” Silas inquired, asking for confirmation on his sense of direction as well as how to track this stranger down. [size=undefined]
Locke’s words flowed absently from his dusted maw. They agreed with Silas about it not being a good sign, but the magician knew that Locke was not truly hearing him. That was alright, it didn’t bother him. His auds flickered when Locke spoke once more. He was perhaps pondering what Silas had said about being a magician. Locke spoke with some degree of accuracy when he said that things like this happened to Silas often. “I had magic, until I got here. It seems the rules of magic, if there are any, is very different here than Muramir. I can feel the well inside me, but it is empty. This tells me that Novus has magicians. I just have to learn how to speak with their well. This is common for me. In Muramir I am an Archmage. You cannot achieve a higher level of magical mastery there. I was the best. One of them anyway. I wouldn’t say I fall from high up often, but catastrophic results? Oh yes, quite often. There aren’t many as daring as I am. I don’t like being told I shouldn’t or can’t do something because it’s too dangerous. There’s no fun in that. Rest assured, though I doubt you’re worried about it yourself, I will regain my magic and quickly. I am sure of it. I just have to survive first. This is the first time in centuries I have felt like this!” He answered Locke, now able to identify that ravenous appetite as curiosity. “I am heading to Terastella now, you’re free to walk with me if you like. I won’t blame you if you have other business to attend to. I’ll tell you all about Muramir, and its magic next time I see you, Locke." Silas extended the invitation to continue their conversation, some of his reasons were selfish. He didn't want to go alone, though he had braved so many horrific things in his life. This was different. Silas had no magic, an was no longer immortal. He was just another face in a vast sea.
Words: 1,121 | Notes: This thread is amazing. I seriously want these two to be friends >__> Also I am so sorry for the novel. | Tags: @Locke
... The lives we lead
[/size]
01-18-2020, 11:07 AM
Played by
Zireael [PM] Posts: 18 — Threads: 4 Signos: 345
There was strange, and then there was beyond strange. This event was certainly one of the latter. Thrown out of a tower? Well, at least the name castout still seemed applicable. Locke was growing rather fond of it as it fit the otherworldly (little did he comprehend how true that adjective was) old mauve and his strange trappings of humor a physical resilience (or ignorance?).
That last part seemed to be growing questionable. Silas looks skyward, finding direction no doubt, but the youth assess the growing weight on the mauve, and it seemed each drop of blood was a chain dragging him to a grave below he was yet blind to. Through the dim of independence and lack of empathy it finally occurs to the young thief that just because his companion could stand and joke, it might not mean he could tick all the other important boxes for sustaining life. All it gains the drowning man was a tilt of Locke’s head however. Even though Locke noticed, the correct or proper reaction to such as realization was just as foreign as the interdeom-interdemon- that fun trip through the heavens straight to pain.
The hesitation at the unfamiliar feeling of caution was wiped clean when Silas once again called forth Locke’s full attention with ideas of promise, and return investment. “Solterra is a little north, mostly east of here. As for finding me I’m afraid I don’t have an easy answer.” Which likely wasn’t going to change even when the youth did take a more permanent title in the city (unless he finally hit the inevitable end of a jail cell, which he didn’t dare breath into life even in the private halls of his mind). Home addresses were just sign posts for thieves, revenge seekers, and creditors. So you’ll forgive a smart boy for not wanting to keep one. Yet the feeding frenzy going on within his mind and stomach caused him to add: “If you can not find me you can leave a note at the Burning Oasis, third floor.” A whore house in the lower quarter that he used as a lookout was about as close to permanent as he would likely ever get. It did occur to the youth that if he ever wanted to stake out a more reputable practice perhaps a prostitute’s bed was not the place to conduct business. Though he never asked for the services of the room’s occupant he doubted it helped his reputation to share her apartment even temporarily...but then maybe it did.
The ravenous desire for more was quenched by a feast of information so rich and thick the poor youth struggled to process all the clues and puzzle pieces. True he had been conditioned to speed up the workings of his mind, but the old mauve was stacking up books in his arms higher than his head. The young sleuth wanted them, desired them, but his curiosity quickly found its mouth on a meal nearly too large for itself (though certainly satisfying). What did stand out to Locke was that, though he had lost the battle with fate at the moment, this Silas was indeed someone who would be, should be, known. And, to seal Silas’s place permanently out of the red, it seemed the mauve knew the correct definition of fun.“Your determination is good to hear. I wish you luck in your search.” Truer words had never left that boy’s mouth.
Then the tone turns, drifting over towards the plains of Terrastella. Again Locke notes the blood still dripping from the other’s mouth, and again he remembers that though the other appeared to be alright, that may not be the case. Yet, still he found himself caught, and his mind unable to fill in the blank of “Let me help you by____”. It was the draught of experience caused by his age and his lack of a friendlier figure than a royal rival half brother, and a two timing, back stab- that mare. As if trying to rid his mouth of sour notes such thoughts left, Locke makes an attempt to move along, literally. “I’m going your way for a while yet.” The continued gentle expression holding, an illusion but ever strong. And to support his claim the youth turns south, slightly west and begins to move slowly onward, with the slow pace being the first concession Locke made to the other’s condition.
It was curiosity, the merchant thief told himself, as he paused to wait for the other. Only curiosity, he promised himself. It was certainly not because Locke finally seemed to find someone who shared his sense of humor, or that they continued to feed the ravenous mind of his with all its favorite snacks and morsels without him even having to work for it. And it of course had nothing to do with the fact that Locke had not had a ‘normal’ conversation like this (and this was fairly normal for this realm) in weeks, possibly months. And under no circumstances was it because he seemed to have found the first non-criminal friend since those two unnamed shadows of his memory. No, those couldn’t be the reasons at all why Locke found himself walking slowly along with the castout mauve, waiting without comment to see if he came.
“I know little about your method of travel.” Apparently Locke’s ‘curiosity’ was also pushing him to commit the stupidity to now volunteer information. “Though I wonder, besides continuing the path you have now laid for yourself: what had you hoped to find here?” It was a weak query, but valid. Locke had arrived here hot off the heels of ‘Get me the hell out of there’, and even in his few weeks as he learned this world he found several in the same position. Silas, didn’t seem to be of the same mind. Locke was taking advantage of his overactive curiosity to fill the void and perhaps discover why someone who was at the pinnacle of their trade would risk it all. Had the youth actually paused to truly think about that statement, or if he had turned the tables on himself (which was a very possible thing to do as he too had left quite a lot behind) Locke would find the answer obvious. But self answered questions did not solve awkward silences, or help young thieves manage the foreign roadmap of manners.
"Speaking."
OOC:: @Silasthein Finally! Sorry for your wait darling! We can keep this going or I can wrap it up next post? Your choice. =]
