look alive, sunshine

The hammering sounds of unyielding, unending rain patter relentlessly on the patched roof of the bar, blanketing the typical nighttime noises of the drunken revellers with a kind of white noise. All the degenerates who frequent the port in the midnight hours have found crowded solace in the bottom of their tankards, and the bar, even with its cracked and patched walls and uneven stools, is utterly packed to the brim with those who wish to warm themselves from Flowerbirth's never-ending dampness. 

Finch, as one of said degenerates, is thankful for the bodies that press and sway against his own. Such a night makes easy pickings for a thief; the bar is too crowded for anyone to mind another drunkard bumping into their shoulder, and at this time of night, many are too sloshed to keep a diligent eye on their valuables. Of course, in a place like this, many are looking for spindly fingers to try and take a dip into their things, people either looking for an excuse to break out the knives or just smart enough to realize the clientele of this place attracts the less-lawful types. 

The slender thief weaves his way expertly through the crowd, his footsteps light and quick, his hands expertly wandering in and out of pockets. It's more of a habit than any intentional malice on his end, just punching the clock in order to make a living. He remembers what it was like on the outside of this bar, before adulthood provided him the security of strength and charm, huddling under an awning to shelter from the rain. At least he hadn't been alone, back then. 

He brushes the memory away like rain off a slick coat. No time for that! Not when people are drinking and cheering, bracelets glittering off wrists and coins pooled on tables. Finch makes his way over to the bar and leans over to order whatever swill they have on tap. As he does so, a few coins from the pocket of the belching, swaying man next to Finch end up in his magician's fingers. How did that happen? 

Finch takes a moment to survey his pickings at the bar. Next to him, a woman sits, hooded and guarded, her eyes sharp and sparkling in the low light of the bar. He thinks he recognizes her, but in an impersonal, distant of way. Another thief, a while back, pointed her out with a warning to not dare to stick his fingers in her pocket. Of course, that sounded like a challenge to Finch, but not one he was stupid enough to try. Yet. 

He tosses her a knowing wink before slugging back more of the swill from the bar, his scar pulling up as his smile curves into something mischievous and knowing.

And it burns like a gin and I like it,

Having already cleaned out the gambler's table with a sharp glint of fangs and a subtle sleight of hand when necessary, Thal has finally settled at the bar to find herself a drink. She's been watching the room all night, killing time and looking for opportunities when she's done with her own marks. The end of LongNight means her crew can start work again, but the week-long revelry has emptied their coffers more than she'd care to admit, and she'd rather spend someone else's money on her drinks tonight. 

However, she's noticed that another 'opportunist' happens to be in the bustling bar tonight. A bumped shoulder, a casual brush when passing, a distracting smile, a silent meandering through the crowd. There's certainly some skill to it. Thal herself has always preferred quality she's targeted rather than the quantity of the unknown, but he moves with a practiced efficiency that appears to earn him enough to possibly rival her own haul. Unfortunately for him, the more people he steals from, the higher chance he has of getting caught. But she's content to leave the man to his work - and possible trouble - as long as it doesn't interfere with her.

Propped on a barstool with her hood drawn low, she lets the disgruntled poker players forget about her and the whiskey she's bought with their money. It coats her tongue with a rich flavor that slides easily down her throat, warming the places Deepfrost still has a hold on her. She runs a tongue over her fangs, tail flicking a slow and content rhythm behind her that pauses when she lowers her glass to find the pickpocket next to her at the bar - grinning. He seems more than a little smug, confidence rolling off him in a way that immediately grates on her nerves, her blue eyes sliding from his dark features to the meager earnings in front of him.

Thal tilts her head, breaking the eye contact to raise her glass back to her lips. The expression she wears is neutral but it doesn't hide the flat mocking of her tone. "Was that supposed to be impressive?"

Thalassa

put your lips on my skin and you might ignite it

The collected coins glint as they weave in and out of Finch's deft fingers, an old magician's trick making them glide over his knuckles and disappear into the dark spaces in between movements. Now that her attention is on Finch, he's more assured in his initial assessment that attempting to slyly liberate her from her belongings would only end in Finch's belongings -- e.g. his fingers -- being liberated from his person. Her face is flat, but something glitters under her hood that gives the impression of danger. 

Her sharp words only widen Finch's interested grin, curving it into something intrigued and sharklike in its own regard. "Are you impressed?" He questions in response, knowing for absolute certain that she is completely not. He doesn't think she's going to rat him out to the law, not in a place like this, but with a witness bears danger and she doesn't seem like the type to fall for his roguish flirtations. Call it a hunch. Of course, it doesn't mean he won't try. 

It's not a particularly impressive night, nor some of his most particularly impressive thievery. The marks are half-drunk and separated from their wits. A waltzing elephant could probably lift the wallets from some of these fellows and they would be none the wiser. If she's truly as sharp-edged as she appears, Finch cannot blame her for the flat look that she levels at him. Still, a living is a living, and not everyone has the luck or the intimidation factor to sweep tables at cards. And how else was he supposed to keep his hands warm on a night like this? He had to keep them warm somehow, and the best way to do that was to rest them in some pockets. Not necessarily his pockets, though.

"I have no doubt you could do better," Finch says smoothly, easy and charming. The coins flash across his knuckles one last time before they disappear back into his pocket. "However, I was not aiming to be impressive. That," He winked again, eyes sparkling, "Is just an added bonus."

And it burns like a gin and I like it,

It's more than her eyes glittering beneath her cloak. Igneous horns cut a sharp shape beneath the fabric, lending little wonder to her race - if the scaled tail didn't give it away. Pointed fangs peek from between her lips with every barbed comment and suggestive lap of her tongue. The subtle shift of her leg reveals the other dangers that lurk in his proximity, steel blades glinting wickedly along her legs in the low light, hinting at others yet unseen. 

Every movement is intentional, a practiced game of seduction and warning, a display of skill and power, a habit born of survival and necessity. His voice is enough to suggest the preening of his grin, her own lips frozen in a bored line. "Do I look impressed?" she drawls, dangling her glass between her fingers with a delicacy that comes with control and finesse.

The compliment doesn't soften her demeaner, fully aware that the twirling of blades is a lot more impressive than flipping coins. Another sip pours onto her tongue, doing nothing to blunt the bite of her words when he winks her way. "Then you might want to wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. If you didn't blow your cover with your fumbling fingers, the flashy coins and cocky attitude will do it." All it takes is one semi-lucid thought from one of his many victims for the rest of the bar to realize they've been robbed, and if he's talking to her, she might just get dragged into his downfall.

Thalassa

put your lips on my skin and you might ignite it

It hits you out of nowhere - a sudden wave of exhaustion dragging at your limbs and making it difficult to keep your eyes open. You suppress a yawn and consider, briefly, sitting down somewhere for a quick cat-nap. How strange - perhaps you haven’t been sleeping as well as you could. Maybe something to take note of when your head hits the pillow this evening.

Please note: this serendipity CANNOT be used for levelling purposes.

He's preparing another comment, something that will undoubtedly piss her off further and delight Finch with her sharp-edged words formed by fangs, when the exhaustion hits him in an abrupt slams. He blinks, trying to keep his eyes open and in focus as an inadvertent yawn slips from his mouth. The nature of his occupation means that his hours are always a little irregular, and a childhood on the streets taught him to sleep with one eye open with a dagger curled into his palm. More often than not, he rests in fits and spurs, matching his patterns to where he needs to strike the following day. A lifetime of running sometimes catches up to him though, and in the dim light of the bar, his body reminds him just how ragged his edges have become. 

It's a weakness that's dangerous to show, and for as delightful it is to push buttons of dangerous strangers, he's well aware he balances on a knife's edge between 'not worth getting blood on her nice knives' and 'suddenly worth it.' The cocky attitude she so astutely pointed out is as much armor as metal plating is on a soldier, and the exhaustion this life sometimes brings is a chink. He tries to play it off, centering his awareness away from the heaviness of his limbs and back to her words. 

Matching her body language, he takes a slow sip of the cheap ale in his tankard as if he were enjoying the lingering notes of an expensive whiskey. It burns on the back of his throat -- a drink this cheap is meant to be chugged, not savored -- but the bitter flavor serves to turn his smile sharper, more focused, more knowing. His charm is his collection of wicked daggers and though not as intimidating an instrument, nor as bloody, but as he wields it, it can be just as sharp. 

Probably not on this woman, though. Finch rests the tankard on the sticky counter, taking in the implied threat of her sprawled body. He leans his body in, pressing his throat against the metaphorical knife and dares her to glide it across his throat. "Good thing I'm pretty good at blowing things," He says, and whatever violence she inflicts upon him he probably has coming for that one. "And I don't think anyone has ever called my fingers fumbling."

And it burns like a gin and I like it,

With another swallow of her whiskey, exhaustion flows into her limbs. The warmth pulls on her consciousness, tempting her to settle her head against the driftwood of the bar top. It's such a strange, unusual desire that she's instantly more alert, refusing to show weakness even as a yawn itches at the back of her throat. Perhaps she'd slept worse than she'd thought last night., but that doesn't mean she should allow her guard to slip in the midst of so many watching eyes. 

She blinks at the heaviness, clenching her jaw and flicking her tail to force away the feeling. She's nearly forgotten about the man next to her by the time he speaks again. It draws her attention more fully this time, not because she finds him worthy of it, but because it's something to hone her thoughts on. 

There's a slow churning storm in her eyes, a steely edge that has cut plenty of egos down at their roots. She scans the closing distance between them, a downward twitch of her brows and the darkening of her gaze speaking leagues of disapproval for his proximity. Having seen his moderate skills, she's sure he gets all kind of compliments, but he won't get any from her.

Thal tilts her head, the lazy movement of a feline extending a claw towards the prey already in their clutches. "I'm sure they tell you you're funny too." The intensity of her piercing gaze doesn't leave him this time, willing the barb to bury deep in his psyche, willing him to flinch.

Thalassa

put your lips on my skin and you might ignite it

The feeling of her eyes burn on Finch like a sizzling candle wick on wetted fingers, and it's bad news for her that the thief has always enjoyed playing with fire. Her words, clearly intended to be biting and to strike in a personal place, bounce harmlessly against his thick charmer's skin. One does not grow to be nearly as slippery as Finch by allowing every tossed insult to burrow down into shaking self-worth. This sharp-edged woman could wield her words as a blade but did not know where Finch's soft spots were; he was just an irritant in a bar to her, a flickering accouterment within this seedy place, and that which could hurt him was buried so deep under layers of false, cocky charm that not even this jagged-edged stranger, with his glinting fangs and dark-set eyes, can peel them back. 

At least he hopes. 

"They sure do," He grins, not missing a beat, batting his eyelashes to boot. If someone passes their finger over a candle quickly enough, they evade a burn. Finch dances his hand above the candle, as he has all his life, fingers covered in long-healed burns. He cannot keep away from the flame. He does, however, lean back against the bar, lengthening the distance between them. Slightly more out of stabbing distance. Just because he likes to flirt with danger doesn't mean he wishes for a knife in the gut -- he's had enough of that for one lifetime. 

He raises an eyebrow, looks into the eye of the storm. "So. You're not easily impressed. I respect that. What does impress you?" His smile doesn't falter.

And it burns like a gin and I like it,

The man doesn't back down, his dark eyes absorbing the heat like coals. Although her expression is flat and controlled, his response irks her, irritation prickling at the edge of her boredom, especially when a drop of humor dares to stir from his remark. If he were to lean in closer, she might draw blood just to see the oil-slick smile fall from his face, to see his eyelashes flutter wide in pain; but whether he senses that or decides that his charms are wasted on her, he puts more space between them. 

With the source of annoyance slightly farther, she hopes to enjoy her drink in peace, the glass returning to her lips right as he deigns to speak again. Her eyes don't turn to him this time, already knowing what she'll find. "Plenty of things," she remarks, drawing a sip of her drink between her teeth before finishing, "but telling you would defeat the purpose." 

Thal flicks a dismissive hand towards him, only bothering to explain knowing that he can't meet the standards she holds. "Unexpected talent is more impressive than any fancy performance." She doesn't mention that unexpected power is what she really means, the quiet magic or authority that lurks beneath the surface, that can easily sneak up on people who aren't paying attention.

Thalassa

put your lips on my skin and you might ignite it

Unexpected talent? Oh, this would be the perfect time to demonstrate his ability to juggle. Though he didn't think that's what the bristling means. No, people like her meant something worthwhile and wieldable, a weapon to add to their arsenal of power. If only she knew his usefulness -- his skill with a lockpick, the silence of his feet against any floor, a silver tongue that wheedled secrets off of strangers -- was the only thing standing between him and a painful death. She probably still wouldn't be impressed and in fact would likely insult his intelligence for getting caught in the first place, but at least to Finch, it was a small balm over the injury that his ability as a tool outweighed the insult of his crime. 

He shrugs, loose and easygoing, as if her words slid easily off his shoulders. "I can do a backflip," A cheeky grin accompanied his words, and if she called his bluff, he would absolutely certainly do one in the middle of this crowded bar. "I have no doubt you have numerous depths of unexpected talent," He says smoothly, his honey words likely to just slide off her leaving nothing but annoying, sticky residue behind. "Likely involving the number of knives you have on your person. And, before you offer to show me your talent vis-a-vis one of those pretty things at my throat, let me just say you absolutely will not be the first or the last. I could probably guess the price of 'em from the feel on my throat." Another bluff he could demonstrate if called. But he hoped she wouldn't. 

Finch leans back in, just slightly, not enough to close the distance but enough to send a message. "My question is, what is it worth to surprise you?"

And it burns like a gin and I like it,

Backflips are certainly not what she'd meant by 'unexpected talent,' and the proclamation doesn't even earn a scoff. In fact, the light fracturing on the edge of her glass is more interesting than whatever talents he thinks he might have. "And I can light you on fire without thinking. What's your point?" Her tone is flat, the violence coming easier than the breath in her lungs. 

His assessment doesn't come as a surprise - the flattering words rubbing abrasive and cloying across her skin - although he's overlooking the danger simmering within her veins, the flick of her tail practically laughing at his oversight. The daggers strapped along her legs are just the tip of her skills, although she'd be happy to show him her favorite pair, the ones that would certainly stump his supposed ability to ascertain their price from the prick along his throat. Perhaps his smile and sticky fingers are hiding this stupidity. 

When he leans close again, Thal turns her gaze back to him, the storm growing darker in her eyes, the sound of thunder living in their depths. When her expression finally changes, it's not a victory, it's not a reason to rejoice, it's a dare. The curve of her lips is full of malice, sharper than the blades strapped to her body or the claws hiding beneath her skin. It sends most grown men running, and her crew knows that it means a storm brews on the horizon. From between her flashing fangs, she mocks, "That's something you'll never know."

Thalassa

put your lips on my skin and you might ignite it

As the woman's face darkens into something dangerous rather than just sharply unimpressed, Finch is almost surprised they reached this point this quickly. He cocks his head just slightly, examining her. He doesn't want to call her bluff, has no doubt that she's just as dangerous as her posture and demeanor would indicate, and playing with matches is a very different activity than getting lit one fire. Contrary to popular belief, the spindly thief does have a sense of self-preservation and knows when he's reached the very end of someone's rope. His evening companion, with her narrowing face strained with intensity, seems to be reaching the end of her goodwill towards her nagging conversation partner. 

His eyes narrow ever-so-slightly as he reads the look on her face, absorbing it with a level of open curiosity that may read as anachronistic to his previous carelessness. As warning as the look in her eye is, he recognizes it as well, knows it for the beginning of a game of chicken and if he backs out now, it may be worse than merely walking away from the bar with empty pockets. The two have entered into some new space now, beyond trading casual blows and Finch trying to get a rise out of her for the sake of proving he can, and Finch's cheerful, carefree energy subsides into something more focused, more intense. Something close to curiosity and cunning settles in his eyes, and his grin settles from his handsome smile into a foxlike half-smirk. Finch is a thief, not a pickpocket, and the silent, stalking energy needed for that profession settles into his shoulders.

"Alright," He concedes, lifting a careful shoulder in a measured shrug. His curiosity that drove him to start nagging had firmly crossed into dedicated interest, and though his body does not lean any closer, it seems the scope of his world focuses on her. Finch would not backflip (literally) to impress her, nor would he prod for the sole reaction of getting a rise, but he would not back down from her challenge, either. His dark, glittering eyes continued to bear into hers, unyielding. "So, I can't impress you, nor can I surprise you. What can I do, then?" It's as much a challenge as her words were, and he half-expects her to tell him to fuck off and leave her alone. But now, his words are edged with a glittering edge of curiosity and the flash of dagger-metal where a concealed knife may hit the light. It's not a threat -- not anywhere close, he's not stupid -- but certainly a change from his light, teasing words from earlier. He speaks as a thief looking for an opening, not a tipsy conman at a bar.

And it burns like a gin and I like it,

She notes the shift. At least he's not as stupid as he looks. 

Thal lets him study her, lets him piece together the various methods of torture in her eyes. She doesn't soften her eyes or retract her statement, but she gives him enough space to fix his approach, watching as he changes his demeanor. The casual flippancy is replaced by sly intentionality, smartly choosing to drop the topic.

Still, the incessant questions seem to have no end along or understandable reason, and it leaves Thal wondering what she did to earn his flagrant attention. She is tempted to tell him to find someone else to bother, but it's not as satisfying as making him give up and leave. After all, why does he care what impresses or surprises her? Did she lobby some kind of challenge when their eyes met? Did her mocking question strike some kind of chord he has to disprove?

Whatever it is, he doesn't give up easily, her eyebrow lifting with obvious condescension, her glass raising once more to her lips. "Depends on what you're trying to do." Because if it's pissing her off, he's already succeeded in spades. But if he's trying to get a specific reaction out of her or earn some kind of respect, then it's going to take a lot more work than some cocky comments and weaselly grins. Even she can't always pinpoint what it is about a person that makes them worthy of her time.

Thalassa

put your lips on my skin and you might ignite it

Her gaze doesn't get any less dangerous, but there seems to be less of the immediate edge of imminent, incoming danger, so Finch counts that as a victory. He has found the line, found exactly where he can press and needle but not any farther. He has what he wanted when he first started this conversation -- a rise, a reaction, the easy enjoyment of juggling knives -- and if her face had not darkened as it had, if she had not presented this dare to look away from the oncoming storm, he may have left her to drink in peace. 

But now, she's presented to him perhaps the worst thing to give to a thief (save your wallet): a puzzle. Finch sees her challenge like the tumblers of a stubborn lock, rusted and complex, but able to be coaxed open with the right tools and the right wielder. She hasn't told him to leave her alone or go stick his head somewhere unsavory, which is as much of an opening as he could ask for. What is he trying to do? 

As a thief, Finch knows how to spot value, a glittery treasure amongst pocket detritus. He's run into dozens of people annoyed with him, dozens of people who challenged him to prove himself more than just a sweet-talking pickpocket with something to prove. The question he ran into, over and over, was which people were worth entertaining, and which were just petty entertainment. Her challenging gaze, the thrum of something interesting and ancient under her condescending look, tells Finch there's something interesting to be discovered here. Whatever it is, he doesn't know.

When he hits a stonewall, he starts looking for cracks. He hums, raises the last of the tankard he's nursing and takes a slow sip, calculating his next move. "I'm trying," He starts, the words slow and considering on his silver tongue, "To find something worth my while tonight. Something more valuable than what I can find in pockets."