Finch's smile curves into one of good-natured relief as his target apologizes to him for being in the way (oh, if only they were all like that), and he walks away with a hearty chuckle and a murmured platitude for the man to have a nice night. His treasure sits palmed in his hand, like a magician with a coin, and from the touch of it, it's a smooth, cool ring that is hopefully both extremely expensive and not likely to be missed. He's not amateur to stop and examine it where he is, but he does flash his palm at the twins just quickly enough for the light to catch his pilfered prize and twinkle tantalizingly before disappearing into the depths of his inner pocket. The demonstration could very easily stop here, but he came here tonight to make an honest living out of dipping his fingers into pockets and by Gods he was going to complete that tonight. So, he gives a jaunty little salute to the twins before his eyes begin his ritual once more of scanning the gathering for anyone who seemed too trusting to pay attention to their surroundings in this particular moment.
Aha. She's pretty, slender like a tree whipping in the wind, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight and dainty mouth caught in a genuine grin. In the middle of a few others, she seems lively and enraptured in conversation, and very, very unawares of her pockets.
Under the pretense of browsing the dessert table, he passes her, muttering a polite "excuse me," as he squeezes past. As he dips past her, body weaving in careful, calculated clumsiness, he jostles her just a little as he reaches for a tart.
"Oh, sorry, my bad!" He beams, holding up a redirecting tart with one hand and snaking his callused fingers into her pocket with the other. "These are my favorite. I didn't mean for you to be a casualty," His grin is wide and carefree, eyes sparkling with mirth; just another attendee of the festival, riding high on a wave of wine and sugar.
--
(Finch is trying to pickpocket Aithne while showing off for Carlo and Calan !)
Aha. She's pretty, slender like a tree whipping in the wind, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight and dainty mouth caught in a genuine grin. In the middle of a few others, she seems lively and enraptured in conversation, and very, very unawares of her pockets.
Under the pretense of browsing the dessert table, he passes her, muttering a polite "excuse me," as he squeezes past. As he dips past her, body weaving in careful, calculated clumsiness, he jostles her just a little as he reaches for a tart.
"Oh, sorry, my bad!" He beams, holding up a redirecting tart with one hand and snaking his callused fingers into her pocket with the other. "These are my favorite. I didn't mean for you to be a casualty," His grin is wide and carefree, eyes sparkling with mirth; just another attendee of the festival, riding high on a wave of wine and sugar.
--
(Finch is trying to pickpocket Aithne while showing off for Carlo and Calan !)
