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+---- Thread: [Training] sticky fingers (/showthread.php?tid=13055)
sticky fingers - Finch - 07-25-2026
Finch's long legs carry him through the bustling port, his clothes no longer saltwater-soaked and stiff from his misadventure in the Fingers but now rain-soaked and hanging off him in wet waves
Jack, that bastard, had certainly been right; he had been right on the cache deposit in low tide, making his way successfully through the briny, slimy tunnels and tracing his lithe fingers along the wave-worn walls to match the Thieves' Cant warnings with what the bastard had told him of this deposit. Still, even with the tide in his favor, Finch had found himself swimming, lockpicks hidden in the recesses of his gums so they wouldn't sweep away with the tide, as Jack's cache happened to be in an absolutely hidden corner where the chopping waves came up to his shoulders. And it had been empty.
That bastard.
The Flowerbirth chill nestles into his bones, his wet curls plastered back away from his face, as he strides languidly down the street. He was already wet, so what was the point of rushing? Besides, his intentional ambling pace let him cheer himself up from his awful afternoon by easily slipping slick fingers into pockets as people hustled past, his featherlight touch easily masked by the chaos of the rain and the chill. Soon enough he'd find himself somewhere warm to lick his wounds, preferably with a scotch that would warm his body as it traveled down his throat.
The port, typically bustling, seems to have been evacuated by the miserable weather. The cobblestone streets are slick under the silent thief's feet, and other than the occasional poor wretch sprinting by looking for cover, Finch travels the street alone, flipping a coin as he walks to amuse himself with the lack of easy targets.
RE: sticky fingers - Thalassa - 07-25-2026
Finishing up her business with a local connection, Thal pulls her hood up and steps into the path of the port. Her eyes do a single sweep before she slips into an easy saunter down the planks. The black cloak keeps the rain from soaking into the cloth and leather beneath, disguising her identity only to those who don't know to look for the impression of her horns against the fabric or the flick of her blue-black tail.
Most of the merchants have taken the dreary day as a loss, storing their goods until the weather clears to bring back the eager tourists. Only a few seedy places stay open, granting her a nod when she passes on the empty street. Whether they recognize her or acknowledge that the clip of her boots isn't the strolling kind, Thal doesn't much care. She keeps her attention forward, making it easy to spot the flash of silver when it glints through the air.
Her steps turn silent, a predator on the move. With a wiggle of her fingers and a sharp grin, Thal darts forward, blinking in and out of existence until she walks casually in front of the man, the coin slipping easily into the pocket of her cloak. It's almost too easy.
RE: sticky fingers - Finch - 07-26-2026
In between heartbeats, the coin disappears from his weaving fingers, and Finch pauses his footsteps to assess the culprit who darts out in front of him. The figure moves with an easy grace, feet light and silent, and had it not been his coin that disappeared from his hands, he would not have known they were anything but a shadow. The black cloak hangs heavily off them, dually protecting them from the rain and protecting their identity, but even still, Finch can't quite shake the feeling that he's met this lithe figure before. As they move away from him, Finch follows persistently, less offended about the loss of his coin (though he certainly wants it back), but more intrigued by the mystery of who dared to take it from him.
As he studies, he sees the faintest lumps in the figure's hood. They could easily just be a misshapen bit of the hood, it pressed to its limits in the incessant rain, or... They could be the impression of two horns hidden under the black fabric, their visibility only clear to the familiar or observant. The thief recalls a similar hood hiding similar lumps, remembers an unimpressed flat line of a mouth, the slight glint of fangs.
"Excuse me," He calls, acting on his hunch and also wanting his coin back, "I think you have something of mine. I'd like it back."
RE: sticky fingers - Thalassa - 07-26-2026
Without a falter or stutter in her step, Thal reappears in front of the man, coin slipping into the inner pocket of her cloak. A cautious thief with a larger boon would have already melted into the shadows, but the single coin is nothing to scramble over and she much prefers hearing the indignant response up close. Even better when they have the galls to call her out.
She recognizes the voice, a thrill of pleasure rising at the coincidence. She has a few moments to spare for some fun.
Waving a flippant hand over her shoulder, she keeps walking, the clip of her boots echoing once more despite the attention she's fixed behind her. [say]"I don't know what you're talking about,"[/say] she drawls, tail flicking languidly just as she fires a sharp fanged grin to the darkness on her heels. [say]"But if I did, I'd think a skilled pickpocket wouldn't have to ask."[/say] There's an obvious challenge in her tone, a goading that she'll happily clarify if he needs.
RE: sticky fingers - Finch - 07-27-2026
The flicker of a fanged grin and a low challenging drawl confirms Finch’s suspicions, his smile growing sharper and more pointed at the question. Perhaps a sharper thief would have left, assuming the danger wasn’t worth the cost of a single coin, but Finch’s instincts had pulled him to start up again with this mysterious stranger. Whether or not his sharp instincts would win against his terrible luck is another matter.
The challenge in her tone alights something competitive in him, something sharp and flinty he thought had left when Jack forcibly put him under his employ. His fingers itch for challenge, for something worth thieving, for more than pulling trinkets off of drunken and unsuspecting strangers.
Without a word of response, he hurries his silent footsteps, his shoes light and muted against the wet cobblestone. It would take a very trained ear to hear him, but he imagines hers is. He flickers an experimental hand towards the pocket he saw the coin disappear into, his movements strong and silent and confident, but expecting her to try some tricky slight-of-hand to send him reeling. It’s a toe dipping into shark-infested water to test the temperature, and he’s looking to gauge her reaction more than expecting success.