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+---- Thread: [o] look alive, sunshine (/showthread.php?tid=12952)
look alive, sunshine - Finch - 07-01-2026
The hammering sounds of unyielding, unending rain patter relentlessly on the patched roof of the bar, blanketing the typical nighttime noises of the drunken revellers with a kind of white noise. All the degenerates who frequent the port in the midnight hours have found crowded solace in the bottom of their tankards, and the bar, even with its cracked and patched walls and uneven stools, is utterly packed to the brim with those who wish to warm themselves from Flowerbirth's never-ending dampness.
Finch, as one of said degenerates, is thankful for the bodies that press and sway against his own. Such a night makes easy pickings for a thief; the bar is too crowded for anyone to mind another drunkard bumping into their shoulder, and at this time of night, many are too sloshed to keep a diligent eye on their valuables. Of course, in a place like this, many are looking for spindly fingers to try and take a dip into their things, people either looking for an excuse to break out the knives or just smart enough to realize the clientele of this place attracts the less-lawful types.
The slender thief weaves his way expertly through the crowd, his footsteps light and quick, his hands expertly wandering in and out of pockets. It's more of a habit than any intentional malice on his end, just punching the clock in order to make a living. He remembers what it was like on the outside of this bar, before adulthood provided him the security of strength and charm, huddling under an awning to shelter from the rain. At least he hadn't been alone, back then.
He brushes the memory away like rain off a slick coat. No time for that! Not when people are drinking and cheering, bracelets glittering off wrists and coins pooled on tables. Finch makes his way over to the bar and leans over to order whatever swill they have on tap. As he does so, a few coins from the pocket of the belching, swaying man next to Finch end up in his magician's fingers. How did that happen?
Finch takes a moment to survey his pickings at the bar. Next to him, a woman sits, hooded and guarded, her eyes sharp and sparkling in the low light of the bar. He thinks he recognizes her, but in an impersonal, distant of way. Another thief, a while back, pointed her out with a warning to not dare to stick his fingers in her pocket. Of course, that sounded like a challenge to Finch, but not one he was stupid enough to try. Yet.
He tosses her a knowing wink before slugging back more of the swill from the bar, his scar pulling up as his smile curves into something mischievous and knowing.