An introduction to pick pockets

[vladdeh]

Jablonsky held his hands deep into the lining of his trousers, despite his colected gait his eyes skit over the cobbled street and linger no-where. "The sound of washing is the sound of sighing, is the only sound as I wash my fathers feet-- those lonely twins who have forgotton one another-- one by one in warm water I tested with my wrist. In soapy water they're two dumb fish who's eyes close in a filmy dream." We turn down another alley which looks the same as the last half dozen we have trecked through. It is good then that we know our bearings. Our feet clatter against the cold stones, each one a symphony of fait as it progresses. "Like dust lifting." The song was one we each knew well, and while there had been no spoken agreement as to who sung which part there was a silent understanding. A knowing. Much like the knowing that we were approaching our destination and our paths would once again seperate. It had been a morning (and a night) well spent. I recap last nights events and feel the satisfactory weight of a pocket watch in my belt. The little buldge it made against the cloth.

Like the rest of the alleys in Aurmata it was not unusal to come across strange happenings. So the account of our journey past faceless demons and a toad who followed us down three streets before turning into a cat and running away, was nothing extraodinary. We break from the clutches of the timeless, bedraggled back-streets onto a wider road. The tavern sat oppisite and was already attracting a crowd. A few faces were similar but mine remained hidden against the fabrics of lies. Jablonsky brought his hands out and clasped my shoulder. "A pleasure doing buisness partner. 'Till the next time." He winks and as quickly as he came he vanishes into the small mass of people heading down towards the market. My lips purse in casual amusement as I head my own, towards the port where I will spend the day like any other day, my feet hanging just above the water, watching ships and deciding who I shall follow come dusk...

[*Verdana*]

Today's a good day. No. Today is a lovely day. The sun is shining with an almost winter-like lack of intensity, the breeze is lively, the coastline smells marginally less like rotting fish (uergh, fish) than usual. And I am home. That's the most important part. Home. I look around fondly. The people haven't changed. They still bustle about, intent on their own business. Not unfriendly, don't get them wrong. Just busy. Their hands are placed protectively over their pockets, but what dissuasion is that to someone as quick, crafty and all-round amazing as me? None. By the blade, I love this place.

I've just come out of the market. A warm, golden-skinned fruit, pulpy and juicy on the inside with a firm, tangy skin, is clasped loosely in my hands. My trusty pack bulges on my back, filled with pilfered goods that will last me for weeks. I especially like my new waterskin. It looks better on me than on its previous owner. Now I'm here, to watch, to rest, to nick whatever's worth nicking. Not out of necessity, you understand. I've outgrown such dependance. Nah, it's all a sport, a test of my reflexes and skill. How quick can I be? How discreet? How many digs can I make in a row? Double digs? There's no end to the fun you can have.

As I sashay down the worn wood, I bite into my meal. I don't have breakfasts, lunches or dinners. I'm independent. I can eat what I want, whenever I want. It's enlivening. The soft fruit is unexpectedly tasteless, but the skin bleeds into it, improving the taste from the second bite on. This meal is too good to waste walking. I think I'll find a spot to sit and observe.

Humming to myself, I examine the edge of the pier for a likely spot. Atop a post? Nice in theory, but anyone knows that birds like the posts too. It makes for a somewhat slimy seat. No, that's out. So are the stalls, the hawker's spots, the patches of shade. Hmm. I refuse to let this dull my enthusiasm, and keep walking, the fruit still clasped between my abnormally idle fingers.

Then I find my spot. I stop, with that feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is right. It's just on the edge of the wood, not close enough to anything to get in the way. Slightly isolated, but not unpleasantly so. The wood slopes, and it's been rubbed smooth into a perfect perch. It's as if it was made for me.

Grinning in satisfaction, I settle myself with my feet quite a way over the water, and begin to eat my lunch in peace.

[vladdeh]

It is not a bad business to be in, unlike so many others with their rules and regulations, pick-pockets have two, very simple, easy to abide by conditions. One, do not get caught. Two, admit to nothing. You may come across similar's who brag about third and fourth rules, but I stick to what I know. Because that is what I am best at. Jablonsky was a similar. He was also a different. Not quite your common pick-pocket (but then, there is nothing too common about us), he far rather play a game with his intended targets. And the small matter of him being a private (for hire only) assassin. It's caused a few upsets.

Just a few you understand.

We rarely have time to entertain in city life these days, he busy with his searching and scavenging, I with my more grueling tasks. That is not to say I am not happy. If I were not happy I would not remain in the business. I am not tied down by ropes or the will of older men. I will do as I please. And I always will.

As if to prove my own defiance at the law I step grandly onto the main street, turning right down the slopping highway that would lead me to the coast. Each stride was set assured, my tanned hide boots searching for every cess-pit and muddy sludge through which I could parade through. It was a force of habit. Not because I so sought it as a pleasant smell, the crows knew how putrid the scent became after an afternoon in the sunshine beside the sea, no, it provided sheer entertainment on my adventures. And a pick-pockets worst nightmare is one of its own kind. And no one steals from a skinny, smelly, street urchin. Or they have yet to attempt to do so to me. And a wise choice they made at that.

The gentle decrease in altitude lasts for a solid ten minutes as I stretch my legs in the open space of the street. My eyes wonder from the tabbernas to the people who stare eagerly into the grimy window fronts or who chat lazily in the springs crisp air. My attention is caught by a girl. The species has never seemed to stand out, and it is not for reasons of the heart that I start to follow her. It would seem we are headed the same way at any rate. But the bulging back-pack and the ripe, technicolor fruit that oozes its juices over her nimble fingers gives enough flare of a richly traveled child. And with the rich come rewards.

She turns onto the prominade in whistfull ignorance of my pressance. I decide that I will not steal from her immediatly. Why? Because there is something uncanny about her. She walks with confidence that is rare for someone so rich to carry, and she does not gaurd her belongings. As if she does not expect to be attacked. Or she does, and she is pretending to go ungaurded. I glance around, but there are no faces from back in the crowded streets where we came from. So she is not being followed by anyone else. This strikes me as bizarr, though nothing unusual. I follow her at a distance, my steps falling in time with her's until she takes a seat over the water. I stop, suprised.

That is my seat.

And I will make that clear to her. I begin to march towards her and relise that pushing her in would gain her attention and teach her to steal my seat again, but it would cause an affliction between us. And I'm not sure that's what I am really after. I far rather take her back-pack and make her a proposition.

So I do just that. I stop my marching and creep up from her behind, my footfalls land with the same silence as if they had not landed at all. She sits with her pack on her. But that is fine. I grab it angrily, yanking her whole body backwards. But I cannot shake the pack lose. If I try any longer she'll recover, may even attack. I've one choice. I push with all my might. And send the girl sprawling over the edge. Pack, fruit and all.

[*Verdana*]

I'm happy with my choice. I'm surprised I've never noticed it before. Then again, I have been gone rather long. Maybe it's new. I must remember this one. It catches the breeze that blows in from the sea, so my world isn't filled with the horrendous odour of dead and dying fish accompanied by the stench of too many people under the sun. A spot like this is rare, and worth preserving. I settle myself in for a relaxed afternoon of watching the sea (cleared by the spring tide of debris and stinking muck) and taking in the world. Nothing could be more perfect.

Or not. Something's disturbing my peace. There's someone else. Someone who was behind me. Someone who hasn't yet left. It's not paranoia, of that I'm almost entirely certain. Enemy? Don't think so. It's not a smell I recognise. What I catch predominantly is dirt. Intentional dirt. Clumsy dirt, possibly, but I'm leaning towards the former. I keep my stance relaxed and unaware, but I am alert, ready for an attack, an assault, an interruption of my paradise. I'd say my mood's starting to spoil, but that would be a lie. I love a little tiff.

Though who'd be stupid enough to attack me?

Evidently, somebody didn't hear the stories. Some idiot latches onto my bag. But I'm ready for him. Instead of loosening my shoulders, letting it slip off like most would in their surprise, I clasp my arms around my chest, securing the leather straps to my body. The pack is old, but it's served me well. I know the strength of the leather well enough to have faith that one person could not break it. It's a close thing, though. I don't dare turn and look behind me, lest I give him the chance he needs, but from the force being exerted on my back, my attacker must be colossal! I grit my teeth, willing myself to patience. Wait. Wait for him to let go in surprise. Then turn on him and pin him to a wall. They never expect that.

Unfortunately, this isn't as straightforward as I'd assumed it would be. He (or I assume it's male, it might as well be a very muscular female) doesn't tug for nearly as long as I'd thought. As his movement changes, I change the picture of this stupid assaulter in my head. He knows what he's doing. If he's got any sense, he'll... Not do what he does. All of a sudden, there's pressure on my back. By knife and blade, this guy must be huge! My weight was already tipped forward a little, and there's nothing I can do to right myself against that brutal shove.

I sprawl gracelessly into the water.

Thank the blade for the spring tides, that's all I can say. I encounter water that isn't half-solid with town refuse. Lucky for the moron who pushed me in. Otherwise I'd be really angry. I surface fast, wiping my hair out of my face, my eyes open to receive my attacker. I grab onto the wooden boards, snapping profanities as I haul myself onto dry land, wet clothes and pack only hampering me for a moment. I'm on my feet in an instant, cheeks red with fury, eyes ablaze.

Part of me's really quite curious. Was this guy brave or stupid? What does he look like? Why did he attack? Will he recognise me? Well, of course he will. I'm Shaygrin ev Tarmagh. Everyone knows me. And fears and respects me, too.

Were you really moronic enough to do that, or do you have an explanation? I growl before I even manage to focus on my new-found foe. If he's even stuck around. Which no sane person would do.

[vladdeh]

The splash is simultanius. I'm suprised. I had thought the splash would be quieter. Her pack must be very heavy. Or she's fatter than she looks. Not that she's unpretty, from behind she was very good looking. I image the front would spoil the view a little. I inch closer, to peer over the edge in curiosity. She's still under.

What if she drowns?

I doubt it. I mean, only a twat would sit on the edge like she did, eating rich peoples food and wearing a pack full of treasures, when they can't swim. And anyway, so what if she can't swim. I'll rescue her and then steal from her as I do so. It would only be fair. Not that fair has any sense in this town.

Even so... I wouldn't like to jump in there. It aint as bad as the winter months when the tides freeze and the sewage and dirt becomes stuck in the frozen waters but that doesn't mean to say I want to jump in there. Thankfully there is no need. Her head bobs up. Quicker than I expected. I draw back a few hasty steps and puff my chest out. She'll have a feel for my force by now, i'm sure of it. She clambers out. The view isn't bad. Her face doesn't spoil her behind nearly as much as I thought it would.

She's a pretty girl. Doesn't mean I like her. Don't go getting the wrong impression. I will leave a fist shapes hole in your skull. Just ask Daint. No-one's seen him for a couple of months. He leaves at the top of The Great White City in a small cubbyhole of a cottage. He thinks it's a home. I tell him the streets are home, the houses are buildings which people call their own. But really, they belong to the streets. And the streets are home. My home and every other street-kid. So we own the buildings that people call home. That's why when we steal from buildings we're not stealing at all.

We're borrowing what was ours in the first place.

There's a difference. And a big one at that. My thoughts are rudely intrupted by the girl. Girl. She doesn't have a name yet, and as everyone else calls me Boy she can be Girl. Boy and Girl. "You were in my seat." I answer her bluntly. She seems very self assured for someone who has just taken a dunk in the sea. I step forwards, with no intent on stealing, to remove a piece of cloth caught in her hair. "And no one sits in my seat unless I say they can. But it's okay, because i've decided I like you Girl so you can sit there. But only from now on." I meet her eyes and set my own gaze firmly. "If you were to go back in time and sit there i'm afriad that wouldn't be allowed and I'd have to hurt you."

[*Verdana*]

[Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! *laughs till she dies*]

Oh. Okay. Now I see how anyone in their right minds could be so misguided, so downright stupid as to pitch me, me, into the depths. The secret is: He's not in his right mind. This fellow is stark raving mad. His seat. His seat? I doubt he owns a change of clothes, let alone an unattainable right to the boardwalk. My mood is not improved. I usually rather like mad people. They provide a decent amount of entertainment, and are a good source of protein in a pinch. However, usually they don't shove me into the water.

The fact that this one has decided to like me doesn't change my opinion in the least.

He's in my space. He stinks, and he's in my space. I swat him away. I'm no simpering girl. My swats have personality. This one makes a thwunk noise, and I withhold a shudder at the texture against my palm. Cold. Unyielding. Dead. Boy has just become Corpse Boy. I've just been pushed into a possibly-lethal body of water by an insane corpse boy. And he likes me. Why does this always happen to me? Why can't I ever be liked by an accountant? Or a doctor? Or someone useful?

Get away from me, I snap, but my mind is starting to go to work in its devious, quick, unusual way. Girl. He called me Girl. And he isn't scared or respectful or vengeful. He can't know. He must not know. I should enlighten him.
Or...
I'm growing interested. I must have been in this sort of situation before, but I can't remember it or else have blocked it from my memory. I always had some sort of impact, whether it was being with the Tarmagh or entirely my own. This, this is strange. But not entirely unpleasant. I wouldn't mind seeing how this pans out. If nothing else, I'll give this imbecile a lesson he'll never forget at the end of it. After all, I'm curious, but still highly annoyed.

This thought process, this decision, it takes less than an instant.
You may have decided to like me, but I can't say the sentiment is unanimous. Your seat? Huh! I reckon you have as much claim to it as I have to the Palace of... Here I pause, thinking. A sudden, brilliant grin suffuses my features. Oh, yes. Legally, I do actually have claim to the Palace. Forgot about that. But almost instantaneously, my expression is back to rage.
And even if you did, unlikely though that is, in what world is it right to push an innocent young woman into such a festering pool of refuse? It could've killed me. I could have you tried for murder, I could.

Still grumbling, every third word an expletive, I sit down on the worn wood. I shrug my pack off of my back, guarding it with my body. I start to riffle around in it, pulling out parcels of food, a gauntlet, an elaborately jewelled but completely useless knife, until finally I find my violin. I check it anxiously for water damage.

As far as I'm concerned, the boy is no longer here.

[vladdeh]

I think I upset her.

She doesn't seem to like my explanation either and hastily swats me away. I'm used to such reactions and am thus unfazed by her attempts to rid me. I just draw back a couple of steps. Incase there's soemthing heavier in her pack that she might try to hit me with. That's happened a few times.
However she makes no move to thump me or physicaly attack me again, so I stay put. She sounds nice cross. Her nose flares and her ears jiggle up and down. Her eyebrows work and there is a small glitter in her eyes. I think I will make her cross more often.

I watch in a stoney silence as she sits down again and fiddles inside her bag for something. There are many pretty things that escape the clutches of her pack, but none of them are what I expected her to carry. I had thought she would carry delicate things, jewlery or fine clothes. They are very popular down the black markets. Instead she pulls out parcels of food, armour and gauntlets, and a knife. The weapon does not seem very practical to me, so heavy with its jewls and looks the owner has let it become bluntened. My knives were kept in far better condition. Until Jablonsky took them. The price was a fair one.

She pulls out a violin.
She checks it, as if it might be hurt.
She does not notice me slip away.

I hurry away from the wooden pier, anxious to return before she notices I even left. But I require a few things. If I have upset her I must appoligise. I had not meant to shove her into the water. So how can I say sorry? She likes rich things that don't stand out. Well then I must find something like that. I scuttle along the prominade, glancing for a stall or person who may contain such an item as that I search for. There are many stalls along the coast line. There are food stalls selling pies and buns, there are bead stalls and iron stalls but none of them are what I need. I turn back. I have wondered some way from the pier. What if she notices I'm not there?

Will she go?

I can't have that! I begin to run, the movements see me run into someone twice my height. This is rare for a few reasons. Not many people are taller than me, and those that are I usualy see. But this one I didn't. I immedaitly duck and move to keep running but their hand grabs my neck and yanks me up into the air. It's Jablonsky's boss. I freeze. This is not good. "Tell me Boy, where is Jab?"[/i] He demands of me, his fingers pinching my skin. I wriggle to no avail. "Dunno, he lefts me says he had works to do." I attempt to shift the blame from me to him. He belives it and lets me drop like a rock. "Good lad. Take this for your troubles."[/i] He lets a silver coin drop from his palm, and the metal clatters beside my knee. I stare, bewildered at it then pocket the object and jump to my feet. I've no time to waist. I take a few steps forwards when someone else grabs me. From behind this time.

It's Jablonsky. He grins sheepishly at me and points at my pocket. I frown but hand the coin over anyway. I didn't think he'd have known this time. "I needed that." I mutter to him. He shrugs calliously and hands me a bar of chocolate. I stare at it. He points towards the pier and laughs. I nod, understanding. He's followed her before. "She's Shaygrin. You messed with the wrong girl there Boy, I think this might help."[/i] And he turns, jogging away and hopping over a baricade into the distance. I hurry back to the wooden pier and walk up behind her. Then I drop the chocolate bar.

"It wouldn't have killed you because I wouldn't let it. I didn't know you were so light anyway. I was just after your pack."

[*Verdana*]

Huh, stupid boy, thinking that 'liking' me will mean anything... It's even a little bit funny on some levels, that he can be a street rat (who are usually a canny lot) and still be so painfully naive. I wonder if he's ever left the City. I have. There isn't a province of Aurmata that I haven't visited. Sometimes it wasn't voluntary, but that just added to the experience. I'm a well-travelled, streetwise individual, whereas the boy only thinks he is. There's a big difference.

I feel him leave. He's quiet, impressively so, but I don't only use my ears and eyes. In any case, I don't much care. So he was interesting. So what? Stay, go, it made no difference to me. Maybe it did. No, it didn't. There'll be plenty of other hapless lads to watch and mock and discover. He was different though. Nah, he wasn't. Not really. He just pretended to be. He just thought he was. I refuse to care. I'd much rather make sure the contents of my pack are safe.

They seem to be. Violin's fine, if a little annoyed at the activity. I'm not surprised. It doesn't get thrown against the elements very often, because I'm not some riddle-spouting, crazy moron. My hair dyes are intact too, which is a relief (stupid delicate bottles) and my vast array of knives are very sturdy. A few years ago, I would have worried about my picks, but I've outgrown them. I can open even the most complex locks with some pondweed, a fingernail and a knife point.

Yes. I'm just that good.

I'm carefully investigating an unopened but presumably valuable scroll (it had better be, after the effort I took to steal it) when I feel him return. My deft fingers nimbly tuck the contents of my pack back as I wonder why he's back, and why he left if he intended to return. I don't turn around. I'm too professional for that. I just wait for the probable onslaught of violence that might be on its way.

For the second time that day, I'm wrong. Only this time, it's in a good way. A chocolate bar lands beside me. These are relatively new and exciting things, these chocolate bars. Before, you could only get it as a drink. I'm not sure which I prefer. I'm partial to both. My expression tightens. He knows. He must. But when I look up at him, I see no understanding for his actions in his face. It was coincidence. It must have been coincidence.

Sadly, I don't believe in coincidence.

My eyes are wary as I snort at his explanation. But it intrigues me.
Yeah, like you could stop the influence of disease, I say scornfully. But I'm not actually as disbelieving as I pretend. After all, the water wouldn't have done much to me. I'm hardier than I look.

I look to the side, to the chocolate, and my face becomes confused as I ponder both the meaning behind the gesture and his thoughts when he tried to steal my pack. My hand sneaks to the treat. Maybe it's poisoned. Maybe everything's poisoned. If I thought that way, I'd never eat. It will melt quickly in the sun. Better make a choice. I pick up the offering of peace. Still angry? No, not really. I even see the funny side now. I sniff it. Doesn't smell like arsenic... I break off a piece, and slip it into my mouth.

Wonderful...

I offer the bar to the still-standing lad, as a gesture of goodwill. Now that he's forgiven, to a degree, something else is bothering me.
Why were you after my pack, anyway? I ask, licking chocolate away from the sides of my mouth. I break off another piece, and eat it.
Surely you realised that no sane person would be carrying something immensely valuable around, and then decide to sit down? What did you think I had in there?

Still no recognition on his face. What, does he live under a rock or something?

[vladdeh]

It is by describing love that we rob fear of its power
The phrase had seemed to repeat its self, strung out across the signs of Inns and bleeding its self into the mouths of knowledgable men which boys like myself would turn to for work. The words had held no meaning. Until today. Now Girl has given it sense. I must remember to thank her for that, one day. Not now, not here, because there are eyes here and those eyes have ears and they mouths. Such gossip could end anywhere.

And we don't want that.

Espically when Jablonsky's hanging around. And his boss. One day I wouldn't get away with milling about as I did. Pick-pockets were in high demand. We were needed by those in higher power. We made the secret armies for the silent wars and back street bloodshed that ruled the city. It is the way it has always been. And I have been a part of it for years now. Longer than most. Yet somehow I've remaned free from the chains of men like Jablonsky's boss. There was a counting clock. And it was getting lower.

I watch Girl with curious eyes. I'd not seen the chocolate before, they were something that did not require my attention. They could be new they could be old, to me I didn't know. Ask me about weapons, or precious stones and I could supply you with all the infomation you need, and more. Girl offers a block of the substance me, which I decline by not accepting, and watch instead as she devours that.

"You mean to tell me you've never had to steal for you own skin?" I retort angrily, what was it her buisness why I was after her belongings? It didn't seem appropiate for Girl to be nosing her way into myworld. I sniff loudly. It was getting late. I'd have to go soon. All the while we'd be talking a small ship had come into port. The crew have remaned on deck until now, finishing the safe keeping of the wave-rider, until now. They walk along the jetty in quiet convosation. One of them has a bulding pocket. The captain. I will follow him later. "It doesn't matter what people have anyway. I can sell straw to straw maker and water to the ocean. I'm that good." It wasn't a lie either, that's why men like Jablonsky's boss were never good news and I made sure to avoid them. More often that not I was successful in my buisness. Rarely I made a mistake.

More often someone else mistakes found me.

Which is why it helps to have good running shoes and a better knowledge of the city. I could lead Girl from the Palace to the coast without taking her down a single street facing the same direction. And I could bet we would meet no more than ...one and twenty people. I can also get my mitts on just about anything. It all depends on the people you know. There's a lot of people. I know more than most. So being caught by a Boss, being taken into a single mans buisness would be my downfall. The backstreets are no place for a working thief. Not ever.

"What were you doing carrying so much stuff around anyway? It's not as if there aint more of my sorts waiting for peoples like you to come walking past."

[*Verdana*]

I don't understand this chap. I really don't. One minute he's placid and calm and offering to be my best chum, and the next he's bridling at a simple question. What's wrong with him? By the knife, I was just curious. I purse my lips, annoyance rising at his outrage. I should be outraged at him, not vice versa. And the assumptions! The assumptions are what really get to me.

Because I've certainly had to steal to save my skin before. In the brief period when I found myself in a city, a little child outcast with no knowledge of any language besides Sylvan, I had to steal to survive. Then when the Tarmagh took me in, it was a etst every day. Stealing, fighting, flirting, killing. It was all the same to them. If I failed, I have no doubt that they would have at the very least turfed me out to fend for myself. Needless to say, I never failed. Except once... All that blue...

I have indeed, I spit indignantly. Spent my life doing it. I don't need to any more, though. I have a reputation to carry me. All I have to do for respect is to beat up someone four times my size once a month, and I'm set. It leaves me free to concentrate on stealing for the sport of it, the joy of it, knowing that no one would dare kill me for it, knowing that I am nigh uncatchable. A bit of hair dye at the right moment, and I'm scot free. But admitting that to boyo here would spoil my fun. So, with a lot of effort, I restrain my proud, ever-so-slightly boastful tongue.

It's okay for me to boast about my skills though. He's doing it. Makes it acceptable. necessary, even. I'll just have to do it in an underhanded way.
You're not the only master of your trade on the edge of this pier, I say haughtily, puffing myself up a little, wishing (not for the first time) that I were a little taller or better-built. I feel like my first impression is lost somewhat by my stature. Then again, it's the shock that such skills can come from such an innocent little face that makes me so effective. It's a horrible conundrum.

I'm irritated now, but not nearly as much as I'm pretending to be. In fact, I'm enjoying this banter. I've missed that, truth be out. Since we split, I've missed the boys. They had macho swaggering down to a fine art. This lad's not bad. He doesn't hold back. I feel almost nostalgic as I squawk, eyes wide and teeth bared with apparent indignity,
People like me? What's that supposed to mean, people like me? What do you think I am, huh, whelp? Never mind the fact that he must be about my age. I'm superior. Of that I'm certain. We have the same sort of profession, in the way that a watchmaker and a house-builder have the same sort of occupation. I think we all know which metaphorical job applies to whom here.
For your information, I'm more than well-equipped to deal with your sorts. They know better than to mess with me more than once. They listen to word on the street, unlike you, apparently.

I appraise him, now standing, dripping wet and starting to get a distinct quagmire smell as the gunk dries on my flesh.

I'm enjoying this.

[vladdeh]

There's a distrubance. Call it tubularance if you will, but it doesn't mean anything good. It means there are people coming, people who want my sort of skills in their buisness. What about Girl? I can't just leave her. Can I? It would be rude, and beside, she's still wet and dirty. It wouldn't be nice to leave her. Even if she is getting huffity.

It's funny though. Watching her get into a big state over what I said. It isn't as if I intended to hurt her feelings. I wouldn't know where to start, she's so emotional. Like an open book. Without the writting. She better hide her pages else someone right it for her. That's what I learnt. Give no one your book. No-one. Ever. "Well, I'd give you a medal only I think someone else got there first." I remark cooly. Honestly! If I wanted to really insult her I'd find a far better way of doing it. And words would have nothing to do with it. Nothing. "But unlike you I remain in said situation, and am far better for it." Street-kids like myself usualy are.

Because who suspects us of the larger crimes?

True we get blamed for stealing stall items and even the occasional kiddnapping, but generaly we're a bunch of very nice kids. Just don't rub it in our grimmy faces that you're rich. Because then we'll never leave you alone. Unless that's you want, which I highly doubt. No one ever does. A shame, because we make for excellant boy gaurds and all we ask is that you buy our drinks. I don't even request for food. Because that I can get for myself on the rare occcasion that I remember. Which is often. But still...

Oh here we go. People like her, was intended to illustrate those who go around carrying large back-packs. And anyway, what was so wrong with people like her? She had better looks than most (which isn't hard, but making me admit that was) and could carry herself well. All in all I think the streets of Aurmata would be far better for having more people like me. And having more of her... well that wouldn't be so bad I suppose. "I didn't know it would offened you so much," I reply quietly. The prominade is closing. That is what it does. It doesn't empty, it closes. The taberna's swing their wooden window gaurds shut and blow out the candles. They are sure to lock the doors before tilting their heads down and hurrying from the scene. As if it were a crime to be here.

That is what it has become.

And I wonder if Girl knows this. "They're coming." In case she doesn't it's a gentle warning. Or as gentle as you can get. They'd love her. No respite. But there was an army gathering. The street-kids. Myself included. And it's getting late. Not in the way that the light is fading and being replaced by an oncoming cloud of darkness but in a way that time was running out. I'd have to go soon. "They'll be here soon. Very soon." The verbal warning was more significant now. We should leave. This wasn't a place to be when they got here. Last time they found someone down here their body was broken up and posted bit by bit through every door in the town.

It was a warning.

"Look, I have to go. So do you. I didn't mean to insult you, or push you in the water although that was fun. Here-" I close my eyes and concentrate. I hadn't done majik long, and it was self taught, so this was hard. "That should make up for it. And anyway, you were sitting in my seat." My eyes glow at her. A light not disimilar to a blow aurua shimmies just above her skin. It dries her. And gets rid of the smell. She was begining to stink even by my standards. "But I have to go now. You can come with me." Did that make it a date? Not at all. "The crew would love you. But if you don't, just get away from here." And I stand, turn and sprint away.

My path takes me back through the alleys and the dirty back streets that no one uses apart from people who belong behind bars. That is alot of people. And there are alot of streets. The chances of meeting anyone are slim. Even at this time of dusk. So my rute is deserted until the small pocket of fabric hanging against the filthy bricks signal the entrance. I check that there is no one watching, then disapear...

[*Verdana*]

There's a change starting in the air. I'm well-attuned to that sort of thing. In a crowded brothel, knowing the crowd mentality can mean the difference between life and death. No, not quite. Let me rephrase that: It can mean the difference between life and serious injury. No drunken mob will ever kill me. Pah, perish the thought. I pick my teeth with drunken mobs. I use them as warm-ups before I tackle a real challenge.

That said and done, this atmosphere is creeping me out enough to take the sting out of my tongue. The pier is shutting down with the soft clack of closing windows. Soon it will be deserted. And I know, with almost the same certainty as if I'd been told, that a new crowd would be populating the boards. I could stay. I could. I could easily hold my own. True, it's all true. However... I'm wet, I'm carrying my pack, and I haven't had a full meal in weeks. I'm not known for my wisdom, but with a flash of insight, I discover that I may want to beat a retreat.

The boy feels it too. I can tell. He wants to get out of here, wants to retreat to whatever dingy corner he calls his own.
Aren't you Mr. Superior all of a sudden, I sniff. If you're so well off, why not buy boots that haven't been nibbled by sheep? Hmm? I sound perfectly wound-up, but anyone who knows me could tell you that my heart isn't really in it. For the moment, I have no quarrel with the nameless lad. I'd better put a name to a face, on that line. I hate not knowing people's identities. It makes my ears itch.

He gives me what I guess could be seen as an apology, at a stretch. I don't take it thus, but I note it. However, it's soon whisked away by his two-word prophecy of doom. the same two words could be a celebration. But not in his tone. He knows, I think to myself, watching his face,
I know, I say casually. What does he intend to do about it?

Ah. That's what. He's going to leave. How boring of him. Before he does, though, he dries me. That simple act of kindness shocks me speechless (a rare occurence, let me point out). I smile in return, a somehow friendly yet savage grin. Before I can answer him, though, he turns and runs.

I watch his cloak disappear down an alleyway. What to do, what to do... I shouldn't run after him. Far too great a show of interest. He's completely below my league. Completely.
Although...
He's got potential. Any fool could see that he's not your average street corpse. I'd like to learn more about him. He could be a very useful ally in future.
What's in store for me if I follow him? Anything, really. It's intriguing. Whereas I know that if I make my own way, I'll be dodging enemies and being not-talked-to all night.

Suddenly, this seems a very easy choice to make.

I take off a matter of seconds after he disappears. I know as well as any street-dweller how difficult it is to find your way in the back streets. And things have changed since my last visit. I pick up his scent quickly, looking down to find the right footprints. I committ the shape and depth of them to memory, and run. When I lose the scent (which happens regularly) I find those prints. Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of his cloak up ahead, but I never quite catch up.

Then, as I knew would happen eventually, I turn a corner and he's gone. I'm not out of breath, but I sigh in annoyance. Where could he... I close my eyes, and catch the familiar, unmissable whiff of street person. Here. But... Oh. I see. Crafty, for a street-crew. I walk up to the wall, and hesitate. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. My reputation has just gotten back to where it needs to be. If this goes wrong...

But it won't, I tell myself firmly. Now, let's hope Boy's friends are as clueless as he is, otherwise this could get difficult. Taking a deep breath, I step through. As soon as I open my eyes, I'm dropping into a defensive crouch, my knife in my hand in all readiness for an ambush.
Where am I, Boy? I call out, my face sharper, crueller.

And what's your real name, anyway?

[vladdeh]

It was hard to say where the "crew" met. Or what this place even was. Because it changed everytime. We never met in the same spot, because what use is an army of dead bodies (not corpses, that's what I am, and I am very usefull). And the sign changed too. Sometimes, like today, it was a piece of limp black cloth. It's been all sorts, a rock, a grain of sand, a bottle, a dead animal... sometimes there is no sign at all, and that is the sign. It can take hours to find here -depending on where "here" is- but i'm lucky. Because I know what to look for, because I know Tora Tyra (also known as Thunder God of Battle). Infact, as far as enemies go, we get along quite well.

This time we're gathered in the same dark cellar like state as usual, only we're grouped just of thirty-eight alley from the north-south-south distrcit of shabby town buildings (you might think such a place doesn't exist, but if you're reading this then I can assure you it does). Most of us are already here, not that anyone knows how many of us will turn up. The faithfull ones, the ones who have a high seat in the hirachy, they'll be here everytime. That's not many of us. Tora Tyra, myself, Paolo and X. We keep it small so that we're harder to infiltrate. Usualy really important stuff is told using telepathy and then the message is spread by word by for the four of us when we see our minions.

Usualy.

But sometimes we must gather together, to propear. This is when the street-kids come from their buisness and join us. In a drunken deabte. It is usualy held in good cheer and spirits, while Tora Tyra keeps a stern and level ship she always knows that there is a danger to every move we make. If we are infiltrated in one meeting we will not be again in another. That is why we constantly move. Using majik means we can conceal our movements. And we do. Withoug fail. The four of us have enough majik to do so alone, just the four of our minds can move this place anywhere and conceal the scent and tail it would normaly leave behind. We're just that good.

So Girl has a hard time finding me if she does follow. I woudln't say she'd find it impossible because she seems highly cabable to me. Infact, it's unlikely that she wouldn't find me. The problem is if someone else finds her. That's when the issues arise.

I slip into the darkness easily. All noise from the outside world is muffled instantly and I tred carefully over the slimey sewage floor. There isn't even a grain of light to lead a path. Neither is there a sound. I take several steps left, keeping my body facing forwards before I crouch to avoid the large spear that would otherwise sink into my belly (usualy the chest but for taller people like myself the belly is more of a likely target) and kneel down. I must wait for Girl. Otherwise she would walk into the spear. And I don't want her to die. I sort of like her.

So I wait. And wait. It doesn't take her long. She doesn't exactly creep in, but the small blurr of light as she enters shows her on the balls of her feet and drawring a weapon. I keep tabs on her actions from her voice. Nice to see her unsettled. "O'er here." I whisper to her "Take seven strides to your left but face forwards. Then crouch down." I wait as she does as I've told her, then grab her warm hand the moment I feel it next me to. I drag her hurridly down a network of tunnles that seem to slope further and further down before we turn a corner and arrive in a bright circular chamber.

The chamber is lit by floating orbs of orange and yellow flames. They hang in the air above even my reach and rotate, causing shadows (for those few kids who cast them) to flicker from wall to wall. A small table top has been implaed into the furthest wall, behind it a girl the same height as Girl behind me is serving drinks to the que of boys and girls that wait. It is alcohol. Ale, beer, cider...what ever there is available. No water. We don't do water. I pull Girl over without answering her earlier question. The que pulls away silently as we approach and dispatch themselves else where in the room. Girl behind the counter looks up and smiles warmly. She leans over the counter top and embrances what she can of me.

"Oh Vlad!"[/b] She cries in delight "You pushed it fine... whoes that?" Her small pink nose wrinkles in distaste at Girl. I let go of her hand now and shrug. "This is Girl. I found her on my pier. She is needed." I assure my friend. She nods slowly, still unsure then hands us two large beer glases full of a golden liquid with froth on the top. A hush begins to settle over the chamber. I drag Shay to oneside. "Change your name. If they know you're Shaygrin it wont go well. We don't like big names." Then I walk away from her. She shouldn't go thinking she's special.

I take a seat in one of the high ridged wooden chairs that take stage just left of the make shift bar. Tabby shuffles out from behind the bar and takes a seat, she glances nurvously at Shay then sits down beside an even smaller boy with a ratty nose and messy black hair. I cough and they small chat drops away. Tora Tyra stands up and adresses the crowd.

"It's good to see you all. As you know the streets are no longer safe for us. Our homes are being attacked in the darkness. We have hidden long enough." She lets the words settle over the children, then continues again "So I have told my boys to gather an army. And that is you." Tora Tyra pauses again, only this time she steps down from her raised platform and walks amongst the army of street-boys. She slaps their cheeks and roughls their hair, when she finds a girl she stops, takes her hands and then spits into them. An old custom. She stops infront of Shay, and stares at her. "It's alright. Girl is with me." I cough up quickly. Tora Tyra turns to meet me and shrugs. "Anyone who hates Vlad is a friend of mine." She claps Shay on the shoulder and returns to her chair.

The meeting -though that is a bad choice of word- continues in much the same mannor though no highly important infomation is given allowed. Dates, times, meeting places and names are kept hidden and confided to the four of us. After the coucil -which is slightly better- has finished we break, many of the kids go back for drinks again, I wait to chat with Tora Tyra briefly then dart about the crowd to find Shay.

"I'm Vlad, Vladdamir Tepés."

[*Verdana*]

Dark. It's Dark in here. As a criminal, one of the many things that I encounter regularly is darkness. My eyes are sharp, well-attuned to normal darkness. It doesn't normally hinder me. But this isn't normal darkness. This is Darkness, deliberately hindering me, or so I feel. Every time my eyes start to adjust, the Darkness veils me again. I don't like this. Nuh uh. No way. This is bad news.

Exciting, though. Excitement, real excitment begins to stir in me, for the first time in years.

It's dark, it smells a little unpleasant. I'll deal with it, though. I've been in worse situations without breaking a sweat. I should do something, either go forward or back. Something stops me, though. Keeps me in my place. I am gifted with good instincts, though I most often ignore them. This time, I decide to still my impatience, to think, to analyse.

I hate analysing, and am about to stride forward when I hear him. I don't jump, but I sure as hell want to. I didn't even know he was there! Stupid non-breather. But he is, and he's giving me instructions. I hesitate a moment. Trap? Nah, we've been through this. Besides which, I'm not getting that tickly ache at the base of my spine that usually tells me about treachery. The boy seemed to like me, and I didn't feel deceit from him. Which could mean one of two things, my mind begins to remind me, but I'm already moving.

My sized steps or your sized? I ask, lengthening my stride a little, just in case. I crouch. Then he grabs me. I don't panic. I know it's him. I can smell him, his size is right, but mostly it's the feeling of his cold, bloodless skin against my hands. It's disgusting. My hand twists, trying to find a position that's less repulsive. I soon give up on that. We run through a network of corridors. I close my eyes, feeling my way, feeling the twists and turns. I try to file it into my memory, but I am soon confused. So instead, I focus on the breaths of less-stangnant air in the tunnels, and remember where they are. Possible escape routes and exits.

And then there's open space around me (though the air doesn't get any fresher), filled with light. I'm glad my eyes were closed. I let the brightness filter through my lids, and then snap my eyes open, preparing for the worst. It's not as bad as I thought it'd be. It's beautiful. It's magyckal. Orbs on the roofs, street kids (who can be in their mid twenties and still fall under this classification) mill about. And there's booze.

It's like my dream scenario.

I smile, instantly at eased. I'm surrounded by thieves and criminals. From my experience, you can usually trust a criminal, if only to be predictably devious. For me, it's a dream come true. I can conceal my identity, but my true nature can be shown to all and sundry. I get tugged to the bar, which is quite alright by me. Barmaid gushes to my semi-captor, and I watch. She doesn't like me much. Jealous? What a thought! Me and... Whassisname. Boy. Tch. He wishes.

I take my beer without exchanging a word. Bargirl is below me. Boy advises me to change my name, and for the first time, I get the sense that he knows my name. Knows who I am. So... I glance at him, but his face is blank. I'll have to find out later.
Not a problem, I assure him. Think of me as Tam from now on.

I take a swig of my beer. It's not horse piss, but it's pretty close. I take another gulp, enjoying it, and then licking the froth off of my lips. I sit down when Boy does, beside him. I hope he won't mind the presumption. Someone looks like they're going to protest, but I give my winning smile and he wisely holds his tongue. Then a lass gets up to speak. My brows raise in surprise. This is ToraTyra's group? Impressive, I must say. She comes past, an old ritual, and for a moment I think I will be rejected. But Boy saves me at the last moment.
Vile bastard, I agree almost affectionately, and then she's gone, and the meeting resumes.

Nothing interesting happens. I zone out until we are dismissed. Boy heads for ToraTyra, and I wisely assume that I'm not welcome in that conversation, which is fine by me. I'm an independant sort. So I roam through the crowds, chatting, flirting, giggling, shouting where it's needed. I find a few old allies in there and descendants of enemies. Thankfully, no one in the crowd truly hates me. I've always been a friend of the street-dwellers. I have to come back here, I think to myself.

Oh lookie. Boy's back. And he gives a name. My face betrays nothing. Oh yes. I've heard about this one. Quite the legacy, he has. I dip my head, my only concession to his status. He'll never get another.
Good to know. You know who I am, of course. I seem to be out of beer. I look at my empty glass as if insulted. I beckon to Vladdamir. Vlad. Vladdy.
Come, I invite, heading to the makeshift bar. And while we're walking, tell me why you invited me here.

[vladdeh]

The council, as I have to come to call this, is a chance not only to part information to the army in waiting, but it's also a chance to catch up. The parting of words from Tora Tyra is scarcely a scratch on the surface of what will occur here. Street-kids do not often get free booze, I've a good minds eye that the kids will stay here until the morning when they will scurry away to their cubbyholes and try to find some sober crumbs before the days work begins again. That is how life here has evolved. I myself will not be staying, I have stayed a few times before but I've a business that needs attending and anyway, the drink here is ale and my favorite (rum and port) are both missing.

Not to worry.

I'll get some later, both beverages are never far away in the city. Whats more is that booze always tastes best when it's been nicked from someone else. Nice to know the drinks are on them. That's what I think. Shaygrin seems to blend in with the group nicely, not that its my business if she does or does not. Fights here are as common as we are ourselves, no doubt a sprawl will start soon.

That reminds me.
I've business to attend to.
And I really must get going.

There's a slight problem of Shay, or Tam, as she has named herself for the purpose of tonight. It intrigues me how she thought of an alias so fast, but then, perhaps she often relies on such fast-thinking. I don't. Not often. "Ecce." I agree as her hot, mammal hand closes around mine and pulls me to the bar. I let her lead me over. No one moves out our way now, there is never order when it comes to free booze. Never. The big T stands some distance away, whispering hurriedly to Paolo. That is never a good sign. I watch as he nods, his eyes settling on Ray, a tall bastard who isn't that far away from where Shay and I are stood, he is noisily slurping down beer and slapping passersby on the shoulder. Paolo's eyes meet mine.

There is an agreement.

He will be eliminated. Trespassers and traitors are not tolerated here. Ever. And we shall make it painfully. No doubt there is also another in our midst, someone led in by Ray. They'll be dealt with to. The investigation has already begun. X is on it as well, from where he is sitting with a filthy girl twice his height he begins his interrogation of the girl. The night has changed. No one will be allowed to leave now. Business will have to be put on hold. Damn Ray. Tabby is refilling my glass, and I hadn't even noticed. I give her a appreciated smile before letting Shay drag me to a table where I slump onto the seat and raise the alcohol to my parched lips. There is a small moment of itchy burning, and then bliss. "Didn't you enjoy this?" I ask quietly, my eyes narrowing at Shaygrin. It was a rhetorical question, just to hide the truth.

"You felt the change outside as much as I did." I lean in toward her, my intoxicated lips inches from hers. This is secret information, and if everyone else thinks we're kissing then so be it. It wouldn't the first time they were wrong. "But you didn't know what it was. If I left you out there your body parts would be through every letter box in this city by dawn." It's still a hushed whisper, it's telling her to learn more. I draw back in my seat and down the last of my drink. It's a good thing I'm already dead, no blood to become poisoned by alcohol, no breath to reek and no nervous system to become scrambled. I can drink forever. Or, more or less. "You need to catch up, thirty-fourth street, midday. Be there." And like that I stand up, leaving my empty glass where it is.

X has located the insider. Female. Average height and build. Paolo reckons she's got weapons hiding about her person. We're not taking risks. I'm going in. I begin to waltz about, chatting absent minded to old acquaintances and new ones. I even punch the odd enemy and am half way across the room before they've a chance to see who did it. I'm just to quick for them. I take my time, getting to the female, I can't look rushed. She's sitting on her own, shyly avoiding the offers of a snog and shag (the bunch of street urchins become ruder with each sip, and by this point each kid here as consumed at least two glasses full) with a large beer clutched in one hand.

She watches me approach. I stand in front of her. She studies me, and she hides her fear well, what she does not hide well is that she already knows alot about me. Mistake number three for her. Her first one was coming here, the second was declining all offers (surprising how much information the lads would give you for a shag or snog). "You look bored." I inform her bluntly. She giggles nervously. "No, no I'm not, just enjoying the beer." She doesn't lie very well. "There's more. You should drink up." She's staying sober so she can remember, so she doesn't let slip what she is. "I'm alright." She insists. I grab her by the hand, shoving her against the wall. She hiccups in surprise and fear. "Drink it." I spit. She does as is told and hands me the glass, taking dutch courage as she shoves me back wards a few steps. A silence settles on those who saw the shove. They begin to turn to watch.

This will be fun. With her glass in my hand I aim it for her chest and let it go so as it hits her stomach. She crashes back wards against the wall again, whimpering as shards of glass sink into her flesh. I side step her wild punch and deliver a rapid series of my own to her rib cage, she catches me under the arm with her knee. I stumble into her. There is no a large proportion of the crowd watching. They form a barrier, a circle that grows as we fight and narrowly avoid causing damage to other people.

She lands a blow on my cheek, I land another on the back of her spine. She wails in agony and sprawls on the floor. I leap onto her back and catch a sword thrown by X. The blade plunges through the tissue in her neck and scraps the brick floor. I draw it out, and stab it again. This time through her heart. I spin around. There is an uneasy silence. Fights here do not end in death unless for a reason. The Big T already has Ray against a bench. She lands a punch on his nose which bursts and spurts blood everywhere. She screams at him, infuriated, in her own language is none of us can understand. A moment later his lifeless body is hurtled through the air and impacts against the wall over the bar. His arms fall off and his head rolls away.

"There's your warning." She cries at the corpse of Ray before lifting a glass and downing it. There is a cry that echoes the group, who all down their glasses. And then things are back to normal. They rush back to refill their empty glasses, a group of seven performers clamber onto a table and pull out fiddles and violins and whistles, beginning to play a rapid tune which quickly sends the local kids into a frenzy of wild dancing and cheering. I wipe the dirt from my knuckles.

Now, there was business that I really had to tend to.

[*Verdana*]

Eurgh. Forgot about Corpse Boy's corpseness. You'd think he'd adjust to room temperature or something. He doesn't. He stays clammy and repulsive. Like a fish. I hate fish. Living fish, dead fish, all of them are too horrible to bear thinking about. He's got a firm grip, though. It's out of odds with his dead flesh. I've had dealings with the undead before, but I've never been in a position to voluntarily touch them, let alone think about the way they function. What makes them move? Why don't they fall apart, or smell?

I will find the answers to these questions. Just watch.

We get to the bar, with me still trying to figure out what exactly 'ecce' means. Is that some foreign language? Street slang? An undead gargle? I've never heard it before. Maybe I'm getting old. Losing my touch.

Pfft. Yeah right, pull the other one, it's got bells on.

But before I can get my top-up, there's a disturbance. I feel the street kids shift. There's an intruder. I have (or, technically, my street child alias Tam has) worked closely with street kids. Closely enough to know how much they hate intruders and new people, and how they act when they find such an annoyance (it never really becomes a threat. Street kids are a powerful force). Someone's gate crashed. I look up at my guide/acquaintance/corpse thing and my suspicion is confirmed: It's about to be dealt with.

Okay then, nice to see you, time for me to leave. I don't want to be anywhere near this scene if mass fighting is going to break out. It all depends on how many intruders managed to get in. The more there are, the more vicious the fighting and suspicion will be. Not a good place for me, a newcomer who has not been initiated into this crew, to be. I keep a relaxed stance, a mischievous smile on my face. If I start looking tense, I'm in a lot of trouble. I get my beer refilled, and Vlad's too. At which point, he comes back down to earth.

He asks me a question, which I have enough insight to leave unanswered. Of course I've enjoyed this. There was free booze, wasn't there? I know that he knows that I've had fun, so I'm not going to give him the satisfaction. It couldn't stay like that. It never does. He leans in. 'Aww, no, he's gonna kiss me,' I think in dismay. It's not the kissing that worries me. I've gone a lot further for a job. I'm not proud of it, but at least I'm committed. No, it's the thought of those horrible fish-cold lips touching mine... It's enough to make me gag.

He doesn't kiss me. He's imparting information. I stay close to him, leaning in, my eyes closed as if in rapture but really to memorise the address he gives. I don't know it instantly. I smile slightly.
You don't give me enough credit. Nobody could tear me limb from limb. That's not just boasting. I'm formidable. One of the best. His message is clear, though. It's time for me to leave. I agree with him. Things might get nasty soon.

He stands, leaves, as I do the exact same thing. I head in the opposite direction, a false look of modesty on my face. I head for the exit, and slip out unseen. The darkness swallows me like a monster. I close my eyes, and let my memory lead me to a breath of fresh air. My body's well-trained. It knows how to find an escape. I let my feet do the searching, and listen, feel for potential attackers.

The warmth of the alcohol begins to fade. Curiosity becomes indignity. He gave me an address. He gave me an address? What does he think, I'm some adventure-seeking damsel from a scroll? The cheek of it, him think that I'd just automatically follow. I have a life, you know. I have things to do, and plans and plots and... Stuff. You know? And yet he thinks I can drop everything an run after him like one of his smitten street children?

You know, I think to myself as I walk out from behind a tapestry, scaring a small child as I go, I don't think I'm going to turn up. Just to spite him.

[vladdeh]

You'll find my posty tomorrow, it wont be here, because it wont be happening in the streets *sticks tongue out, vanishes into the mist that had snuck up without you noticing*