Calan
Calan’s frown deepens as Finch explains, mostly because he doesn’t know what’s supposed to be so proper about saying it that way. It still sounds exactly like can’t to him, only now Finch is acting as though an invisible hat has been put on it.
Still, the more Finch says, the more interesting it becomes, and Calan’s eyes narrow with the bright, greedy focus of someone who has just been told there is a secret map hidden inside an ordinary-looking word. A way through the Fingers without getting lost or dying is obviously useful. Bad signs left by other people are also obviously useful, because if someone can leave a bad sign, then someone else can learn to spot it, improve it, or put a better bad sign beside it with an arrow and a very convincing skull.
Carlo gets there first, of course, and Calan nods hard along with him, rain flicking from the edge of his yellow hood as his arms fold across the shiny front of his slicker. "Besides," he says, lifting his chin with the calm authority of a boy presenting very serious evidence, "when we’d only been able to walk for five minutes, we were able to read a sign about how to use the cannon in the port, so." He shrugs then, entirely confident that this proves whatever Finch is trying to make sound impossible is probably already covered under garden-baby thief inheritance.
And then Carlo points out the dirt, Calan’s eyebrows rise as he looks at the smear on the older thief’s face with exaggerated judgement, his crossed arms tightening as if he is now part of an official inspection committee. "Yeah," he adds emphatically.
Still, the more Finch says, the more interesting it becomes, and Calan’s eyes narrow with the bright, greedy focus of someone who has just been told there is a secret map hidden inside an ordinary-looking word. A way through the Fingers without getting lost or dying is obviously useful. Bad signs left by other people are also obviously useful, because if someone can leave a bad sign, then someone else can learn to spot it, improve it, or put a better bad sign beside it with an arrow and a very convincing skull.
Carlo gets there first, of course, and Calan nods hard along with him, rain flicking from the edge of his yellow hood as his arms fold across the shiny front of his slicker. "Besides," he says, lifting his chin with the calm authority of a boy presenting very serious evidence, "when we’d only been able to walk for five minutes, we were able to read a sign about how to use the cannon in the port, so." He shrugs then, entirely confident that this proves whatever Finch is trying to make sound impossible is probably already covered under garden-baby thief inheritance.
And then Carlo points out the dirt, Calan’s eyebrows rise as he looks at the smear on the older thief’s face with exaggerated judgement, his crossed arms tightening as if he is now part of an official inspection committee. "Yeah," he adds emphatically.
I've never been one to half-ass shenanigans.
