Death, as it were, was an incomplete subject and was never far from the minds of the citizens.
The daily routine was like breathing.
Wake up, wash face, think about people less fortunate than oneself, and look in the mirror.
Reminding himself that you’re only as good as your last con.
He decided on an interesting breakfast.
Cleansing the cheap mulberry-coloured wine residue from his lips and his only clean cup, Connor managed to assess the pungent aroma had been from the previous evenings frivolities.
He managed to catch a glimpse of an uneasy Black Bull on the way out the door, an azure deer nursing a hangover and neither Golden Dawn or Silver Eagle to haunt his footsteps.
Perfect weather.
The Green Mantis had been invited; as well as Purple Orca and Crimson Lions, but pragmatic as they were shrewd, they were denied entrance, at the door, respectively.
Much to Connor’s absolute enjoyment and delight, Johannes Ruby Fallow; the wealthy daughter of some wealthier lordling, was visiting and playing old maid at a nearby table by herself.
Her ribbons and brown; maybe auburn, hair fell in curls, ringlets and all manner of tangles in a style that set his heart alight.
Subject matter ranged from war, stringent conversation about pretty allusions as to how the kingdom ‘could’ be ruled.
Running away together and starting a life as commoners, working hard for a living, that sort of nonsensical thing was an abysmal similitude to how Connor lived his mundane life.
“…Should be ruled,” said an inebriated elf who seemed more fae than elvish, wearing the ethereal sigils of a noble, despite not being graced with the womanly proportions of a lady befitting her status.
In passing this young lady Connor couldn’t help but notice the way she brushed absentmindedly against his leg with a brash and vaguely unladylike manoeuvre, and just how defensive Johannes had become since.
Johannes pantomimed with leisurely restraint that she was graceful, for the waiter’s brevity he was thanked, the silent shade the lean woman cast was every bit as warm as she was known to be herself.
Half a score of the local vagabonds, hoodlums, vagrants and thieves were in attendance, much to the local law enforcements bewilderment, a healthier get together of happier people had never thrived as the refuge had.
They had absconded from the laws of the land from as far as the noble region to be here today, subtly as conceited retail therapy seeking nobles.
Having found reprieve in a relatively unused building that had formerly belonged to House Reade, Connor knew it had a backdoor and a cellar as he had once known a time where it was not owned by its current owner.
The royalty avoided the place like it was a proverbial plague with transmittable poverty, and it was somehow particularly dangerous to their inherent wealth if they visit or something.
The more grim prospect is that the loss of resplendently admirable hygiene gave way to a catchy way of holding ones tongue and talking through ones own teeth, for fear of both offending each other and not appearing ‘not offensive’ enough.
“It needs to be measured!”
A backfire remark pertaining to the governance of The Clover Kingdom, it was in everyone’s best interest to aspire to being either the wisest or the most powerful.
It was equally in your interest to not allow that to happen.
Anyone else would just be faster or more numerous, unrelenting communism gave way to outright feudalism in skirmishes that started as stray arguments over little more than the price of salt.
This happened while breaking bread once for Connor, and it was as unpleasant as the stale loaf the argument had become.
For a time, Connor avoided Kikka completely over the remarks that they would share distastefully about his upbringing or gesticulations as to the vagueness of his mother’s profession.
She was a tailor.
Connor was just happy to still have friends that hadn’t been executed; as of yet, thankfully hangings were far, few and in between.
A vague disinterest arose in the capital to the capital punishment for crimes, since the war hardly anyone was actually ‘that’ bad.
It was nice enough not being beheaded for heresy or treasonous remarks, the crime life flourished under the lax efforts of the Knights, who almost were always thinking about the war effort or something better to do.
Whether it was Spade or Heart, it was conflict, and it was through courage and tenacity that he strove to succeed where his fellow man would act more honestly.
The prevailing notion was one of subtle indifferences.

How many chairs would be splintered had already been estimated, a steady stream of patrons assured they can be replaced.
A rebel yell of the chorus of a popular folk tune called, “For Evermore,” Was sung through the halls and out into the street, the melancholic melody enough to freeze your blood, or rather, the endless impromptu additions that even a four year old could add to the creepy song.
Connor was more aware of the cool feeling of his blood slowly coursing through his veins, as thick as a pile of coins his fist could carry it caught in his heart as he vaguely disassociated from reality for the unperturbed relief of not being himself.
Being anyone else, someone to no one; no one to anyone.
Leaning against a broom he casually observed the bartender inciting the small room’s customers to get more intoxicated.
You could count the number of hangovers that would transpire over the course of the evening’s events.
The horrible curse of a night of drinking being paid for, good and true.
Braver inn folk nervously sampled the dark alchemist’s sweet concoctions, they tended to be sweeter than the bitter drinks with fragrant names, being that they were made from fragrant herbs, richly coloured fruits and juicy berries.
Golden pineapples, bright Ruby red strawberries, bruised tender blue berries, fresh mint and golden rich honey sourced locally to cleanse the pallet.
Dazzling delicacies and inspiring spirits, everything at no expense to the average commoner; free for a day, for those willing to be a free man willing to take it.
The irony was not lost on the thief.

He rolled his wrists and his graceful poise was refined to no discernible degree, his sleeves rolled.
No one noticed the cold-blooded individual in their presence; it seemed hauntingly reciprocated, except in a harmless sort of sense.
It seemed regal to hold even one’s breath, so as to not smell too much of the room patron’s perfumes, and whatever else they stepped in.
Washing his hands had become a chore.
Finding ten other individuals for this job had become a borderline larcenous act, in his heart he knew they had better things to do than wear treason as a bramble crown.
To conspire truely as he did had been a rocky road.
A road from one town to another, surviving, eating what one may when could.
If able.
Farming is a modest lifestyle choice, one he did not share, but one he respected nonetheless.
Hiding in front of this many people was making his blood bluer than the corpses he was becoming accustomed as an afterthought to repress the deaths of, nearly a reflex.
Johannes Fallow; who was called dear or Jo, but never darling or ‘My Fair Lady,” was sipping a dark coffee based liquor they had purloined from the cellar of the establishment, free of charge.
Connor had a way of making it seem like it were paid for, as it was as a matter of fact coming out of his metaphorical pay cheque.
The owner had enough waiters and waitresses to not notice him slip into one of their commoner garb uniforms and act the part.
Although he had heard the owner threatening to draw steel on half a dozen patrons that had gotten too conversational with one of his waitresses, Connor held to his grit and continued to pour free drinks for his ‘friends’, giving the ‘reasonable’ amount of ‘change’, and giving a ‘fathomable’ excuse to his ‘boss’ about the lack of libations and food.
Every so often he would hear errant pieces of interesting information and spouts of faintly drunken heretic notions, “Carbon is the reason we are solid.”
“Because trees breath in the opposite direction”
Connor interjected filled with curiosity, to get out of the vision of his hypothetical boss’s lackeys, “When did trees start breathing?”
“My dear God, I am a simple man who is able to fear, please spare me.”
How many trees did this man cut down to come to such a hypothesis, what the hell is carbon?
‘I have heard of magic but what the hell?’
Heresy.
Filled with many questions about metaphysics he approached a random patron, who at their snazziest could not answer one.
“I hope you are feeling well.”
“Positively snazzy.”
Was her reply.
Ms. Fallow offered an empty hand to pay for a drink, Connor loved misinterpreting mine.
“I insisted for water.”
His curt reply was, “I paid for wine.”
Water?
This is a tavern, hydration?
Out of the question.
It is not a prerogative.
“We ran out yesterday pouring your bath.”
“Good,” was her reply.
Mimes, so edgy, and lithe.
As an afterthought Connor appreciated the sight of her looking the other way.
Baron Von Schump-Walton was not one of them and not one of them were he.
Connor in barebones rigor mortis shifted seamlessly into lucidity, turning on his heel with book in hand.

What simple lies could he tell himself?
Was he well?
He himself was uncertain, he lived regardless of anyone person’s certainty or authority on the subject, otherwise.
“Contrite in nature, he’s fit to be the pope he is.”
Another overheard half conversation, Connor withheld his censure; the comment was more than most likely not about himself, he had his own reasons for not being over ally presumptive, even formally so.
The three storey building had four floors, the ground floor which accounted for most of the tavern’s livelihood was filled to the brim with people.
The second floor; nicknamed colloquially and expressively by the juniors and musicians who frequented this establishment, was affectionately named “Secundus Stoop”.
For that was where many dealings were dealt with, from cards being played to social gatherings sojourning.
This part; however was usually empty this time of day.
It was the heart and soul of the place.
Connor bellowed out in a cadence and key that he was sure that the owner would hear, “That man who just left didn’t cover his tab!”
The owner threw himself out a window as the patrons turned away from him.
By the time the proprietor had returned, the place was a graveyard, empty and cold.
Barren although strewn drinks were cast askew, not a coin left in the register.
“Damn.” Connor could only admire how fast rogues could level an establishment they didn’t insure.
Connor being the the man who reported the tab, watered the patrons with it and then ran off.
Everything went splendidly.
All in a days work.

Wc: 1874