Under the sun of high noon, a man felt an oppressive heat whilst lounging outside the Gate of the Sultana.
And no, not that sort of heat.
There were now far more than the desired amount of watchful eyes in the city, and if the man had any sense, he would consider himself partly to blame. In retrospect, it hadn't been the brightest of ideas to put himself in such a position, but he had become impatient in his old age, and had little desire to devote extra care to the smallest cogs in his system. Getting caught wrist-deep in R'jumani - bent over a crate across from the Ruby Road Exchange - in an effort to retrieve his goods hadn't been part of the plan. Such a sight must have seemed suspect to the average passerby, and two Brass Blades quickly became four, the number no doubt escalating after he made his hasty retreat. The heat had not died down after several bells thanks to R'jaharra (he could never remember names), the silly bitch, getting herself caught.
At the very least, he had managed to retrieve his merchandise. Small, discreet, and wrapped carefully, there were many souls who would pay a high price for it. If they could ignore the smell, that is, to which the heat - and here he would refer to the temperature - was doing no favor.
But the incident had struck a hard blow against his planned business for the day, and the man was left to loiter at the Eighty Sins of Sasamo, his home turf. He had hoped to return to the Ruby Road, which would now be risky for the next few suns. Pearl Lane, ever shady, was far too obvious. His thoughts drifted to the Quicksand, where the men were men, and so were half the women.[sup]1 [/sup]It was an easy escape, but the tavern seemed to shift between lawlessness and righteousness nearly every bell, and was therefore too unreliable. The man could simply not risk getting caught, and he knew that stripping off his clothes and pretending to drown in a fountain was an escape ploy that would only work once.
And so here he was. Conducting 'business.' Lounging on a cornerstone by start of the stair, legs spread, with a nasty look in his eye. It would be petty business today, with yields to be dependent upon whoever had the misfortune of passing him all by their lonesome. Extortion? Robbery? Kidnapping? The man grunted as he scratched a private itch. A lesser man would be satisfied with the yield he dug out earlier, but he was not yet contented, his thirst for trouble - unquenched.
Looking to the gate, the man traced the outline of the tattoo on the side of his face, and waited.
((OOC: I made an open IC thread since my time in-game has been fairly limited recently. Feel free to respond - but be warned that Baby Hands is not a very nice man, so please be prepared for such if you decide to go for it. If not, thanks for reading!))
And no, not that sort of heat.
There were now far more than the desired amount of watchful eyes in the city, and if the man had any sense, he would consider himself partly to blame. In retrospect, it hadn't been the brightest of ideas to put himself in such a position, but he had become impatient in his old age, and had little desire to devote extra care to the smallest cogs in his system. Getting caught wrist-deep in R'jumani - bent over a crate across from the Ruby Road Exchange - in an effort to retrieve his goods hadn't been part of the plan. Such a sight must have seemed suspect to the average passerby, and two Brass Blades quickly became four, the number no doubt escalating after he made his hasty retreat. The heat had not died down after several bells thanks to R'jaharra (he could never remember names), the silly bitch, getting herself caught.
At the very least, he had managed to retrieve his merchandise. Small, discreet, and wrapped carefully, there were many souls who would pay a high price for it. If they could ignore the smell, that is, to which the heat - and here he would refer to the temperature - was doing no favor.
But the incident had struck a hard blow against his planned business for the day, and the man was left to loiter at the Eighty Sins of Sasamo, his home turf. He had hoped to return to the Ruby Road, which would now be risky for the next few suns. Pearl Lane, ever shady, was far too obvious. His thoughts drifted to the Quicksand, where the men were men, and so were half the women.[sup]1 [/sup]It was an easy escape, but the tavern seemed to shift between lawlessness and righteousness nearly every bell, and was therefore too unreliable. The man could simply not risk getting caught, and he knew that stripping off his clothes and pretending to drown in a fountain was an escape ploy that would only work once.
And so here he was. Conducting 'business.' Lounging on a cornerstone by start of the stair, legs spread, with a nasty look in his eye. It would be petty business today, with yields to be dependent upon whoever had the misfortune of passing him all by their lonesome. Extortion? Robbery? Kidnapping? The man grunted as he scratched a private itch. A lesser man would be satisfied with the yield he dug out earlier, but he was not yet contented, his thirst for trouble - unquenched.
Looking to the gate, the man traced the outline of the tattoo on the side of his face, and waited.
((OOC: I made an open IC thread since my time in-game has been fairly limited recently. Feel free to respond - but be warned that Baby Hands is not a very nice man, so please be prepared for such if you decide to go for it. If not, thanks for reading!))
