wash my hands in dirty water

VESPER

Deepfrost sits strangely over Haulani, less like winter and more like the city has briefly remembered how to breathe cooler air. The canals still gleam warm beneath the afternoon light, and the lower market still carries the smell of fried fish, salt, fruit, and too many people with too many pockets, but the breeze coming off the water has enough bite in it that Vesper has bothered with a dark sweater beneath his coat.

He waits where Jack told him to wait, not far from one of the quieter ways into Rae’s Fingers. From the street, the entrance looks like little more than a shadowed gap between stone and sea-wall, half-hidden behind trailing greenery and a stack of crates someone has taken care to leave in exactly the right place. It is not inviting, which is likely the point.

Vesper stands with one shoulder near the wall, pale hair stirred by the wind, the star beside his eye catching briefly whenever the light shifts. One hand rests in his pocket, silver rings cold against his fingers; the other turns a single playing card over and over with idle precision. He does not look impatient, though there is a certain limit to how long one can wait for a thief before lateness begins to look like character.

The job he's here to oversee is simple, which means it almost certainly isn’t: Somewhere inside the tunnels, tucked beneath a marker only smugglers and fools would think to trust, there is supposed to be an oilskin-wrapped ledger no bigger than a man’s palm. Jack wants it back quietly, which is the sort of instruction that sounds simple until other people become involved. Finch is one of those people, though Vesper only knows him by description for now: the man who stole from his father and lived long enough to be made useful instead of dead.

A charitable arrangement, really.

The card turns once more between his fingers as Vesper glances toward the market, then back to the narrow mouth of the tunnel where the dark waits cool and damp beneath the city.

wake me when it's over
like a bad dream

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

As Finch hurries down the busy street, weaving quickly and lithely through groups of people, he curses himself for running so tightly against the clock. On any other occasion it would've been a pleasant day, the sun trickling through air just a little south of chilly, and Finch wishes he could take a moment to enjoy the way it caresses against his face. He also wishes, though more out of habit than anything else, that he could take the time to let his nimble fingers dart in and out of pockets and purses as he hurries through the streets. It would be so easy, to indulge in this talent of his, and really, he was already late so what was the harm of a few more minutes of tardiness if there was something to show for it? 

He pushes that impulse aside. At least for now, his talents aren't his own. The noose has already been extended once, and he would be a fool for asking it to stretch any farther. 

Hurrying his pace, he hears his feet begin to pound against the pavement, kicking up little conspicuous clouds of dust and gravel as he forces himself to ignore all developed instinct to stay unnoticed and unobtrusive, just another thieving little fly on the wall, and instead get to where he was needed. The details given to him about this job were sparse -- of course they were, why would they even tell him ahead of time what he was expected to do when they know he would just do it -- but what he'd been told seemed unpleasant, something about slime and passageways and the unspoken threats of his life on the line if he did an unsatisfactory job and all that jibber-jabber. He'd heard it before, and frankly, was getting a little tired of it. Not that the severity of his crime, his debt, was lessening in his head; no, he wasn't stupid enough to forget that. 

As he rounds the corner to the rendezvous point, his breath stutters in surprise for a brief moment seeing who, exactly, was overseeing him on this mission of slime and subterfuge. He'd never met Vesper, the son of the man who held his leash, but he'd be a fool not to recognize him from the tales alone. He curses his liberal interpretation of the concept of being on time and then smooths himself, collecting himself, trying to appear professional and impressive and not like someone Vesper would want to kill.

He approaches, nodding his head in greeting. His scar pulls as he stretches his mouth into a charming smile, the ones that made suitors and old ladies faint from its dashing roguishness. He dares not apologize for being late. "Hello," he offers, eying the spinning card in the man's fingers. "I'm Finch. I was told we're working together today? I'm an acquaintance of your father," A neutral enough statement on its own, able to be explained as a easy misunderstanding if he did have the wrong person. Though, studying the handsome man's face, eyes catching on the tell-tale star under Vesper's eye, he didn't think he did.

VESPER

Vesper doesn’t search the faces passing by, nor does he seem especially concerned with the possibility of being kept waiting. His gaze remains lowered to the card turning between his fingers, its edge flashing white, black, white again, though the touch of Finch’s mind announces him well before his footsteps do. It comes fluttering into the edge of Vesper’s magical awareness full of hurry, calculation, consequence, and the familiar little itch of hands that have not yet learned to stop wanting what isn’t theirs.

Only then do his pale eyes lift, the timing casual enough to look like chance; such was how he kept his telepathy a secret. The young demigod appraises Finch without returning the smile, taking in the wiry build, the dark hair and darker eyes, the crooked set of his nose, and the scar cutting through his mouth toward his cheekbone. Pretty, perhaps, if life had been kinder; dangerous, certainly, if one was sentimental enough to find hunger charming.

"You were told right," Vesper says, the card flickering once more between his fingers before disappearing up his sleeve with a neat little flourish. Pushing himself away from the wall, he inclines his head toward the nearby entrance to Rae’s Fingers, where the gap between stone and shadow waits half-hidden behind crates and hanging greenery. "There’s a library book on loan we’ve got to go pick up." It is, in truth, the sort of job that only requires one man, though given how little anyone trusts Finch these days, Vesper has been sent to babysit. That, and on the off chance the cache has been trapped, it is better for the thief to lose a few fingers trying to pick the lock than for Vesper to surrender any of his.

"Come on," he adds, already turning toward the mouth of the tunnel. "Less I’m seen here, the better." Gods only knew what rumours Flora would drum up if word of his presence here got back to her.

The air changes almost at once once they step inside, the warmth of Haulani narrowing into something damp, dark, and mineral-cool. Sound behaves differently in the Fingers, footsteps and breath sliding oddly along the lava-smoothed walls while the distant hush of water waits somewhere below, patient as a creditor. At the first split in the passage, Vesper slows just enough to brush his fingers across a bit of thieves’ cant scratched into the rock, reading by touch as much as sight before he continues on without glancing back.

"So," he says mildly, his voice carrying low through the tunnel, "how much of this place d’you know?"

wake me when it's over
like a bad dream

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

The passage Vesper leads Finch into invokes too strongly the sensation of a grave, the humid, cool air pressing into him and latching onto his skin. He was never one for claustrophobia, couldn't be as a thief, but submerged in enclosing tunnel on the heels of a probably-dangerous stranger, he couldn't help but imagine a sensation of being buried alive. Somewhere, off in the forward distance, the sound of water echoes quietly through the Fingers. It could be an excellent place to dump a body, perhaps one of an irritating thief who couldn't keep his hands to himself.

Running a hand across the smooth stone walls as they walked, Finch takes a moment to study the back of the man who led him deeper into this cool-touched grave. Vesper strides with assertion towards their destination, not with the untested swagger of an insecure criminal, but with the cool, graceful litheness of a hunting cat. Whatever happens here, whatever happens to Finch, is not a concern of this cool-eyed man. Babysitter, jailer, warden, gravedigger, accomplice -- whatever Vesper was sent here to be, he does so with an impersonal set to his shoulders. 

He's silent as he follows, the smooth rock under his callused fingers the only evidence of his presence in the tunnel. His light thief's step makes no echoing footfall while he follows Vesper. 
Vesper's question echoes a little as it bounces off the tunnels towards him, and he debates momentarily the merit of trying to charm the son of the man who controlled him. Catching a glimpse of the set of Vesper's jaw, he thinks this particular situation does not incline Vesper to think kindly of him. "Better than your average thief, worse than the average smuggler," He answers after a moment's thought. Small talk, or reconnaissance? Vesper's tone is light, but not particularly revealing.

"I spent a lot of time exploring here with my brother growing up." His fingers find a notch in the otherwise unblemished wall and they rest there a moment before scuttling back alongside his gait. "Not a huge fan, honestly. I like my thieving more aboveground. Pickpocketing, breaking and entering... Anything a little more personal," His grin tinges his words so even Vesper ahead of him could catch the slight teasing lilt of what he said. Was that an edge of flirtation? It was in an eye of the beholder, he supposes. 

Then he remembers who he's talking to, and where. "Not that I'm complaining," he added lightly. "I much prefer the Fingers to the graveyard."

A broad shadow passes lazily across the sand, soft-edged and slow-moving, despite the absence of clouds overhead. Looking up reveals the source: a single Cloud Manta drifting through the air above, its vast, translucent body undulating as though swimming through an invisible sea.

It moves with an almost playful ease, banking gently as it catches unseen currents, its long fins trailing wisps of vapour behind them. Every so often it dips lower, close enough that the air stirs faintly beneath it, before rising again in a wide, looping arc. There is no urgency to its movements, only a quiet curiosity, as though it is enjoying the simple act of being seen.

After a time, the Cloud Manta begins to climb, its pale form thinning against the sky until it becomes little more than a suggestion of motion. Whether it lingers overhead or drifts on beyond sight is impossible to say, its presence as fleeting and gentle as a passing breeze.

---

Cloud Manta Areas Found: Torchline, Maria Mundi — Common These plantimals have flattened, ray-like bodies, narrow, delicate heads with two large dark eyes, and flowing-finned or leaf-like tails similar to bettas. They are equally comfortable underwater and flying through the air. Large green splotches across the upper surface of their bodies are filled with chlorophyll and photosynthesize both food and oxygen. They also make meals of mosses and lichens. As they age a colorful crystal grows in the middle of their foreheads, comprised of excess minerals that they purify out of their bodies. If worn pressed against the throat these crystals are rumoured to allow someone to breathe underwater. Challenge Rating: Moderate | Mythical HP: 1,078 | To Hit: +25 | Dmg: 25 Movement: Swim 40 ft.; Fly 40 ft. SPECIAL SKILLS Breathstone: a harvested forehead crystal worn against the throat may allow underwater breathing; Oxygen Bloom: in bright light they enrich nearby water/air with extra oxygen, easing exertion for companions; Buoyant Escort: can support a small creature beneath their fins, aiding calm passage across waves

TRAITS Amphibious Drift: equally comfortable underwater and in open air; Photosynthetic Patches: chlorophyll-rich splotches produce food and oxygen in sunlight; Silent Glide: broad fins move with near-silent grace through water and sky; Moss & Lichen Grazer: gentle feeders that favour simple flora over live prey; Crystal Growth: a mineral crystal slowly forms at the forehead as impurities are purged ACTIONS Updraft Sweep: fans fins to raise a soft updraft or current, nudging companions and clearing mist; Shade Veil: spreads fins to cast a cool, drifting shade over travellers beneath; Mineral Purge: releases trace minerals that encourage reef growth and subtly purify the surrounding water

VESPER

Above them, the Cloud Manta drifts its slow, pale path across the sky, all quiet grace and translucent breadth, but Vesper has already stepped beneath the city by then, and so the creature passes unseen over the hidden mouth of Rae’s Fingers while the tunnels close around him and Finch instead.

The thief’s suspicion moves almost as clearly as the sound of water somewhere ahead, shaping itself into cages, graves, and the unpleasant possibility of being disposed of somewhere damp and difficult to find. Vesper does not comment on any of it, of course. The edge of his mouth threatens amusement, but he turns it away from Finch, drawing a sliver of peppermint bark from his pocket and setting it between his teeth as though the gesture has merely occupied his expression by chance.

At Finch’s first answer, Vesper glances back over one shoulder, pale eyes dry in the half-light, before the explanation earns a small nod. The thieves’ cant along the wall are not obvious unless one knows how to look, and even then they are less directions than whispers someone has left behind in scratches, chips, and careful little lies. Vesper’s fingers brush them when needed, though his gaze does not linger long enough to seem dependent on them, and he continues deeper into the Fingers with the same unhurried certainty.

"That the same brother who immediately rolled on you?" he wonders, one brow lifting as he looks briefly back to Finch. There is no real bite to it, not quite, though neither is there much sympathy. If anything, the question is too mild, set down in the dark like something Vesper has been curious about rather than something meant to wound, if only because the bond between Vesper and his sisters is nigh unbreakable. He lets it sit there for Finch to do with what he likes, while the tunnel slopes subtly beneath their feet and the air grows cooler around the mineral-slick walls.

As Finch’s tone shades itself toward something more personal, Vesper does not have to turn to catch it. The colour of it reaches him without permission, bright enough against the thief’s unease that the corner of his mouth lifts around the peppermint bark. "All well and good until you get caught," he says, rolling one shoulder in a lazy shrug as he keeps walking. "Then there ain’t anywhere to run to." Hard to claim any sort of deniability when caught with a hand in someone else's pocket, after all.  Only then does he glance back over his shoulder, pale eyes finding Finch in the enclosed dark with a precision that makes the look feel less accidental than the timing suggests. "Besides," he adds, voice mild, "if you ain’t good at it, you’re just a man with clumsy fingers."

wake me when it's over
like a bad dream

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!