MUNICIPALITY OF LAVORENCIA
NIGHT
NIGHT
Storms often made for great cover.
Lavorencia had all but turned in for the night, in the wake of the sudden coastal surge; the only folk out this late in the midst of thundering madness were either the sailors at the docks, wrangling their vessels at the dock to not find their ship midway onto the boardwalk by morning... or they were the sort who used the blanket of wind and rain and thunder and lightning as a convenient distraction.
There weren't many of that second kind in Lavorencia, Bale had found, which made it all the more perfect a location for a robbery. Must've been the buildings, then; he'd stuck a poor bastard pissing outside a tavern and lifted his pocketwatch before the sod could even understand what was happening.
With that very same pocketwatch, he checked the time, sniffing idly before leaning against the archway. Lightning touched down from the firmament a good few miles away, and for a moment, his features were plainly illuminated beyond the cusp of the brick. It was obvious, then-- by his features, if nothing else-- why he clung to the shadows so naturally, and seemed to shrink away at the sudden flash, as if light were anathema.
To make matters worse, he wasn't to smoke. The glow would be easier to spot, and the stink of a cigarillo would get caught on the wind. His hand clenched and unclenched, though he did not seem nervous. Above all else, it was the tic of a disturbed urchin, habitual and practiced.
"Losing cloud-cover." He murmured. "Storm seems to be moving away."
His business partner already knew that, most likely, but he felt the need to say it aloud. As did he with his next words.
"If they fed us the wrong road, I'm gutting that courier when I see him."
Lavorencia had all but turned in for the night, in the wake of the sudden coastal surge; the only folk out this late in the midst of thundering madness were either the sailors at the docks, wrangling their vessels at the dock to not find their ship midway onto the boardwalk by morning... or they were the sort who used the blanket of wind and rain and thunder and lightning as a convenient distraction.
There weren't many of that second kind in Lavorencia, Bale had found, which made it all the more perfect a location for a robbery. Must've been the buildings, then; he'd stuck a poor bastard pissing outside a tavern and lifted his pocketwatch before the sod could even understand what was happening.
With that very same pocketwatch, he checked the time, sniffing idly before leaning against the archway. Lightning touched down from the firmament a good few miles away, and for a moment, his features were plainly illuminated beyond the cusp of the brick. It was obvious, then-- by his features, if nothing else-- why he clung to the shadows so naturally, and seemed to shrink away at the sudden flash, as if light were anathema.
To make matters worse, he wasn't to smoke. The glow would be easier to spot, and the stink of a cigarillo would get caught on the wind. His hand clenched and unclenched, though he did not seem nervous. Above all else, it was the tic of a disturbed urchin, habitual and practiced.
"Losing cloud-cover." He murmured. "Storm seems to be moving away."
His business partner already knew that, most likely, but he felt the need to say it aloud. As did he with his next words.
"If they fed us the wrong road, I'm gutting that courier when I see him."