Post by Connor on Apr 29, 2020 3:05:46 GMT -5
The pleasing sound of coins clicking against a hardwood surface kept Connor awake, the smell of antiques had pervaded his every sense; when he inhaled he could distinctly taste the leather that was saddled on the walls, and he could feel the morning sun's heat raising the temperature of the room.
Idly rifling a coin along between his fingers, the man had patiently kept Connor waiting for an assertive five minutes, enough time to shake a pocket and have a geeze around.
It was a gritty smile that the man wore, one that did not know the benefits of personal hygiene, or the touch of a woman's kiss against that course shaven upper lip; the best of a man who had long since resigned to a different kind of relief.
Connor patiently selected a number of various moth-eaten fabrics, seeming ethereal in the light peering through an opened window, he was suddenly wise to the shopkeeper's situation and grimaced at the quality of the wares that he had seen on the shelf.
Had all thieve's fences the respectable introspection that this man had remarkably established by making every man sign his name to every article that passed into his possession, then, maybe, perhaps, the five finger discount policy he had on repeat customers would be more lax.
His hawk-like eyes followed Connor in the dim light of the room, dodging and weaving through stacks of various knick-knacks and assorted brick-a-brack, the more obscure and useful items were hidden deep within the recesses of sanctimoniously placed artifices; more often than not dangerous monuments of aggregate communal failures to settle debts, that prevented the owners from reacquiring their loot.
Had he actually been so unfortunate to have frequented this establishment, he may have found himself patiently sitting in the corner of the room; as he was, leafing through past debts of small time criminals.
They were smaller fish, and he was avariciously acquiring wealth at an exceptionally extortionate rate how ever, and it didn't hurt to see how much everyone else was worth from time to time.
The shopkeeper couldn't help but admire Connor's enthusiasm, he had brought in a surplus of collateral with about as much change as a proportionately larcenous slouch could stumble into, through no less than modest transcriptional fraud Connor had amassed a colloquially affordable sum of money through a simple laundering scam.
A grin tugged at the edges of his mouth when the Shopkeeper remarked upon the monetised results of his efforts, and how he had really quite gone over the budget acquiring this old warehouse and all of the crap in it.
Shrugging nonchalantly, Connor made a jest of digging through a chest and retrieving a faux crown from the menagerie of various things he could have pulled out of what appeared to be the last pair of pants he was wearing, crumpled starch-less and forgotten on the floor from the prior evening's activities and essential regalia shuffle.
Last night had been a night of celebration, Connor had survived a week maybe a month living on the meat he could find on the rats in the sewers, before having slowly but surely
found his way out he had acquired at least the admiration of participation, surviving as long as he had was not quite his own volition but his memory on the subject was hazy at best.
When the clock struck an unusually inauspicious number, something how ever changed.
Barefoot and penniless, Connor had found himself sitting beside an alley way, not sure how long he had been there or how he had made his way to be presently seated on the street, he resolved to stand and stretch out his sore limbs.
They had felt quite nearly atrophied by the time he had limbered up, his eyes were generally aloof and he yawned lazily through a contended grin.
The person who had approached him and asked to borrow his shoes was not back yet, he remembered the bargain he had made with the man who seemed honest enough.
Connor would wait, and he would return.
It would be as simple as that, or so he figured.
The time drew on and Connor had checked his back pocket reflectively to feel the reassuring weight of a handful of gold sovereigns, which he had intended to use for his lunch.
Over time they slowly began to feel lighter in his pocket, and the reassurance of safety was cast over him like a breeze blowing through him.
Settling into the stones of his feet; there was an eerily familiar sensation of guilt, as he walked away from the alley.
He wanted something sweeter than water to slake the thirst that dried his throat, the hunger that was eating away at him was like a lode stone drawing iron, or, a fever that robbed him of his common sense; conjuring a delirious dream, if only to separate himself from being any other person around him.
Defining himself by a borderline of personal boundaries he witnessed the turning of the dawn from the event horizon that greedily swallowed the light emanating from outside its centre.
Being governed by his egoity and magnanimity he navigated the crowd before sitting at a seat adjacent a man who resembled a crooked ruffian.
He had no proclivatives about such things but he didn't exactly go out of his way to start a conversation with him.
Where had this begun?
The knife in his hands was dripping sanguinary drops on the floor, a once dry and broken thing; it's thirst quenched with the dieing keats of an innocent heart, and while the broken recollection of what had brought him to this resolute confrontation was in the forefront of his mind, he could not quite seem to remember why he had even been here in the first place.
The dried smears of vermilion were crusty and had soaked deep into the fibres of his shirt, framing his pale skin against the lack-luster cotton he had worn that day.
The sheen of sweat on his brow was hovering, lingering over a face that was found wanting of an expression that would explain the succinct nature by which the current consequences of misfortune had befallen him.
Connor had just been murdered.
Earlier in the day, Connor had been going through the motions of concealing his hair colour, a distinct muddy complexion that seemed to ward him from the general stipulations of suspicion when he noticed something odd.
Even the commoners had given into the imperial fascism that hallmarked their tones of superficiality, when they referred to him as an excrement-haired ruffian, they really only did themselves a disfavour.
Above him, in the clouds, he could not see silver linings ready to wash away his prepared parades, only the shimmering of mountains of gold he had yet to acquire.
The puddle he would have usually stood in, turning this particular corner every day on his walk, was dry and all the bad luck in the world seemed to vanish, when he saw what would have been a larcenous misadventure; when he would seem to have gotten the other end of the stick, this time, things turned round.
As he lay thinking about how he would have rather spent his time alive, something suddenly occurred to him.
He had not been stabbed, he had not been five minutes earlier on his usual routine, in fact; he wasn't even sure if he was entirely the same person, as, in deed, he was now sitting across from a lovely young woman who was sizing up a random noble strolling outside the cafe he certainly wasn't sitting in a moment ago.
He shifted his curious gaze to the sun to see it hanging more or less where he had left it, glanced down to see richly embroidered clothing where once was cotton, he still felt like crap but all of a sudden there was a glean in his eye that seemed to trace something he could not perceive before.
It was a golden hued radiance that seemed to practically scream wealth, where he had been reserved, he felt emboldened to succeed.
Something had no doubt changed deep within him, and when he realised that this thing was a thirst, he looked down at the half-full glass of water before him and put a silent hand over it.
He cast his will over it and suddenly flooded the vessel with a number of fabricated coins, not quite; at first, believing the horde of material implications that may have been presented by the water not surging to his presence, but more bewildered by the transmutation of something he felt was fundamentally a part of who he was into something that was wildly ill-conceived.
Every head turned at the sound of the glass shattering under the immense weight of the sprinkler of mundane wealth that was now piling on the table, Connor; not being quite sure, was attempting to conceal his newfound wealth by hording the coins into his jacket's pockets.
A wry grin seemed to echo the sentiment when a ne'er do well suddenly offered to help Connor with his obvious encumbrance of wealth, the fortune being that he soon discovered; by testing his luck, exactly what "luck" is.
Connor palmed a more healthy sized sovereign of gold into his right hand, concealing it for the moment but snapping it into focus when he lodged it firmly into the forehead of the man who was trying to fleece him.
Slowly, but surely, more coins began to fill the immediate space around him, filling the room with a warm glittering glow.
Panicking, the other patrons shifted in their seats to fully view the horror of Connor leaning over the unresponsive body of the regular, placing two coins over his closed eyes and kissing the back of his own palm which he was now resting over the man's mouth.
Connor hissed a quiet "shh", having felt the room grow silent, and that he was now the centre of their attention, he beckoned the man to awaken by slapping him.
The gesture seemed to make the golden trove disappear in the blink of an eye, and they were suddenly conversing what had happened over a hasty pick-me-up and righty-roo.
The scuffle had turned sour, feeling his sudden bravado escape him; Connor opted that they tumbled out into the streets, clawing at one another, kicking dirt and dust at each other before enticing more of the regular patrons to join him in the ballyhoo.
Leaving the chaos behind once it kicked into full gear was more of a routine for Connor than he had realised, by the time he had returned to watch the aftermath, it was well into the second half of simmering down.
Until Connor kicked the chair out from underneath a man who was primarily the most physically intimidating man in the room; he had located thus far, he blended back into the ensured crowd that would rush to fill the void of his presence.
Chuckling to himself, Connor looked around to see if any one else had managed to come off smelling quite as cleanly as he did after a fifty man brawl, and was satisfied to see very few people had avoided getting involved in the riot.
Lazily leaning against a tree, he found himself suddenly looking for a friend, someone who he hadn't seen in awhile, but unfortunately, wishing for tails, things were turning up heads.
He scouted the peripherals of his vision from the canopy of a tree, generally above the awareness of someone who wasn't looking for him, just to pass the time.
Jane hadn't wanted him to do anything today, that he could remember, after all, he was just as happy not being stabbed as he was with trying to locate Jane to see if she was still as crooked as he remembered her being.
Connor wasn't sure how or why, but he was certain that things had changed, maybe for the better, maybe for the worse, he couldn't foretell how useful the cards he had been dealt were, all he could do was bluff, and try to make it to second buy-in, if he hadn't already.
WC: 2037
Idly rifling a coin along between his fingers, the man had patiently kept Connor waiting for an assertive five minutes, enough time to shake a pocket and have a geeze around.
It was a gritty smile that the man wore, one that did not know the benefits of personal hygiene, or the touch of a woman's kiss against that course shaven upper lip; the best of a man who had long since resigned to a different kind of relief.
Connor patiently selected a number of various moth-eaten fabrics, seeming ethereal in the light peering through an opened window, he was suddenly wise to the shopkeeper's situation and grimaced at the quality of the wares that he had seen on the shelf.
Had all thieve's fences the respectable introspection that this man had remarkably established by making every man sign his name to every article that passed into his possession, then, maybe, perhaps, the five finger discount policy he had on repeat customers would be more lax.
His hawk-like eyes followed Connor in the dim light of the room, dodging and weaving through stacks of various knick-knacks and assorted brick-a-brack, the more obscure and useful items were hidden deep within the recesses of sanctimoniously placed artifices; more often than not dangerous monuments of aggregate communal failures to settle debts, that prevented the owners from reacquiring their loot.
Had he actually been so unfortunate to have frequented this establishment, he may have found himself patiently sitting in the corner of the room; as he was, leafing through past debts of small time criminals.
They were smaller fish, and he was avariciously acquiring wealth at an exceptionally extortionate rate how ever, and it didn't hurt to see how much everyone else was worth from time to time.
The shopkeeper couldn't help but admire Connor's enthusiasm, he had brought in a surplus of collateral with about as much change as a proportionately larcenous slouch could stumble into, through no less than modest transcriptional fraud Connor had amassed a colloquially affordable sum of money through a simple laundering scam.
A grin tugged at the edges of his mouth when the Shopkeeper remarked upon the monetised results of his efforts, and how he had really quite gone over the budget acquiring this old warehouse and all of the crap in it.
Shrugging nonchalantly, Connor made a jest of digging through a chest and retrieving a faux crown from the menagerie of various things he could have pulled out of what appeared to be the last pair of pants he was wearing, crumpled starch-less and forgotten on the floor from the prior evening's activities and essential regalia shuffle.
Last night had been a night of celebration, Connor had survived a week maybe a month living on the meat he could find on the rats in the sewers, before having slowly but surely
found his way out he had acquired at least the admiration of participation, surviving as long as he had was not quite his own volition but his memory on the subject was hazy at best.
When the clock struck an unusually inauspicious number, something how ever changed.
Barefoot and penniless, Connor had found himself sitting beside an alley way, not sure how long he had been there or how he had made his way to be presently seated on the street, he resolved to stand and stretch out his sore limbs.
They had felt quite nearly atrophied by the time he had limbered up, his eyes were generally aloof and he yawned lazily through a contended grin.
The person who had approached him and asked to borrow his shoes was not back yet, he remembered the bargain he had made with the man who seemed honest enough.
Connor would wait, and he would return.
It would be as simple as that, or so he figured.
The time drew on and Connor had checked his back pocket reflectively to feel the reassuring weight of a handful of gold sovereigns, which he had intended to use for his lunch.
Over time they slowly began to feel lighter in his pocket, and the reassurance of safety was cast over him like a breeze blowing through him.
Settling into the stones of his feet; there was an eerily familiar sensation of guilt, as he walked away from the alley.
He wanted something sweeter than water to slake the thirst that dried his throat, the hunger that was eating away at him was like a lode stone drawing iron, or, a fever that robbed him of his common sense; conjuring a delirious dream, if only to separate himself from being any other person around him.
Defining himself by a borderline of personal boundaries he witnessed the turning of the dawn from the event horizon that greedily swallowed the light emanating from outside its centre.
Being governed by his egoity and magnanimity he navigated the crowd before sitting at a seat adjacent a man who resembled a crooked ruffian.
He had no proclivatives about such things but he didn't exactly go out of his way to start a conversation with him.
Where had this begun?
The knife in his hands was dripping sanguinary drops on the floor, a once dry and broken thing; it's thirst quenched with the dieing keats of an innocent heart, and while the broken recollection of what had brought him to this resolute confrontation was in the forefront of his mind, he could not quite seem to remember why he had even been here in the first place.
The dried smears of vermilion were crusty and had soaked deep into the fibres of his shirt, framing his pale skin against the lack-luster cotton he had worn that day.
The sheen of sweat on his brow was hovering, lingering over a face that was found wanting of an expression that would explain the succinct nature by which the current consequences of misfortune had befallen him.
Connor had just been murdered.
Earlier in the day, Connor had been going through the motions of concealing his hair colour, a distinct muddy complexion that seemed to ward him from the general stipulations of suspicion when he noticed something odd.
Even the commoners had given into the imperial fascism that hallmarked their tones of superficiality, when they referred to him as an excrement-haired ruffian, they really only did themselves a disfavour.
Above him, in the clouds, he could not see silver linings ready to wash away his prepared parades, only the shimmering of mountains of gold he had yet to acquire.
The puddle he would have usually stood in, turning this particular corner every day on his walk, was dry and all the bad luck in the world seemed to vanish, when he saw what would have been a larcenous misadventure; when he would seem to have gotten the other end of the stick, this time, things turned round.
As he lay thinking about how he would have rather spent his time alive, something suddenly occurred to him.
He had not been stabbed, he had not been five minutes earlier on his usual routine, in fact; he wasn't even sure if he was entirely the same person, as, in deed, he was now sitting across from a lovely young woman who was sizing up a random noble strolling outside the cafe he certainly wasn't sitting in a moment ago.
He shifted his curious gaze to the sun to see it hanging more or less where he had left it, glanced down to see richly embroidered clothing where once was cotton, he still felt like crap but all of a sudden there was a glean in his eye that seemed to trace something he could not perceive before.
It was a golden hued radiance that seemed to practically scream wealth, where he had been reserved, he felt emboldened to succeed.
Something had no doubt changed deep within him, and when he realised that this thing was a thirst, he looked down at the half-full glass of water before him and put a silent hand over it.
He cast his will over it and suddenly flooded the vessel with a number of fabricated coins, not quite; at first, believing the horde of material implications that may have been presented by the water not surging to his presence, but more bewildered by the transmutation of something he felt was fundamentally a part of who he was into something that was wildly ill-conceived.
Every head turned at the sound of the glass shattering under the immense weight of the sprinkler of mundane wealth that was now piling on the table, Connor; not being quite sure, was attempting to conceal his newfound wealth by hording the coins into his jacket's pockets.
A wry grin seemed to echo the sentiment when a ne'er do well suddenly offered to help Connor with his obvious encumbrance of wealth, the fortune being that he soon discovered; by testing his luck, exactly what "luck" is.
Connor palmed a more healthy sized sovereign of gold into his right hand, concealing it for the moment but snapping it into focus when he lodged it firmly into the forehead of the man who was trying to fleece him.
Slowly, but surely, more coins began to fill the immediate space around him, filling the room with a warm glittering glow.
Panicking, the other patrons shifted in their seats to fully view the horror of Connor leaning over the unresponsive body of the regular, placing two coins over his closed eyes and kissing the back of his own palm which he was now resting over the man's mouth.
Connor hissed a quiet "shh", having felt the room grow silent, and that he was now the centre of their attention, he beckoned the man to awaken by slapping him.
The gesture seemed to make the golden trove disappear in the blink of an eye, and they were suddenly conversing what had happened over a hasty pick-me-up and righty-roo.
The scuffle had turned sour, feeling his sudden bravado escape him; Connor opted that they tumbled out into the streets, clawing at one another, kicking dirt and dust at each other before enticing more of the regular patrons to join him in the ballyhoo.
Leaving the chaos behind once it kicked into full gear was more of a routine for Connor than he had realised, by the time he had returned to watch the aftermath, it was well into the second half of simmering down.
Until Connor kicked the chair out from underneath a man who was primarily the most physically intimidating man in the room; he had located thus far, he blended back into the ensured crowd that would rush to fill the void of his presence.
Chuckling to himself, Connor looked around to see if any one else had managed to come off smelling quite as cleanly as he did after a fifty man brawl, and was satisfied to see very few people had avoided getting involved in the riot.
Lazily leaning against a tree, he found himself suddenly looking for a friend, someone who he hadn't seen in awhile, but unfortunately, wishing for tails, things were turning up heads.
He scouted the peripherals of his vision from the canopy of a tree, generally above the awareness of someone who wasn't looking for him, just to pass the time.
Jane hadn't wanted him to do anything today, that he could remember, after all, he was just as happy not being stabbed as he was with trying to locate Jane to see if she was still as crooked as he remembered her being.
Connor wasn't sure how or why, but he was certain that things had changed, maybe for the better, maybe for the worse, he couldn't foretell how useful the cards he had been dealt were, all he could do was bluff, and try to make it to second buy-in, if he hadn't already.
WC: 2037
