Locke
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.”
OOC:: @
