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.
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.
