Lucius snorts another laugh and swats him, fondly, with a quick flick of the wrist and a grazing little glance of fingers against his shoulder. He likes this one. With that, though, he stands upright and adjusts his hold on his newly purchased bolt. It was stupid, he's going to have to work hard tonight just to have money for food tomorrow, but he can't find it in himself to regret the buying.
"Well, I'll be seeing you tomorrow. Right now I've got to speak to a man about a suit," Lucius says and, without it even occurring to him to give a name, he wiggles his fingers in a low-key wave and turns to meander back out of the market.
Lucius doesn't catch the tailor before he closes, unfortunately, and settles instead for taking his bolt back to his actual rented room. It's a bit of a hovel, the price spent largely on anonymity and the promise of being completely ignored. They hadn't asked his name and, as such, he hadn't provided it. He ends up leaving the fabric on his cot and pulls apart the corner of the paper just so he can sit and drag his fingers over it.
It's nice...in a way that helps sate his loneliness.
But, he only has a bit more daylight left and now he's entirely out of money. So he leaves and sets out for the docks. The remaining silver baubles he's nicked make him a meager amount. Enough for booze at a club or a day or two of bread and cheese. No surprise which he would rather spend it on, aye?
That decided, he risks another foray through the market--the stalls are mostly closed and empty, there's few people about, and the only vendors still in business are selling old pies. He nicks one but, as is his luck, gets caught out and that ends up with a merry little chase through a backalley or two. He makes it away from the vendor but, to his great dismay, runs headlong into someone he's already pick-pocketed today.
The gentlemen is, understandably, less than pleased to see him and, unfortunately, not actually a gentleman. Lucius gets punched twice in the gut and once in the face for his nonsense and, ironically, mugged of his new wallet, few shillings, and dinner. He really ought to have stayed home, or not purchased that fabric at all, but he drags himself back and just resigns himself to a hungry belly.
The next day he's sore, slow, and sporting a split lip, all poor qualities in either a page or a pickpocket, and thus goes hungry. He'd be madder about it, overall, but he manages to deliver a bit of fake mail before he heads off to the little backroom club he's meant to meet his new friend in.
It's the back of a brandy shop, hidden behind a number of bottles and past their store-rooms. The underground club has the general air of a crowded betting parlor, hot, uncomfortable, cramped, but merry. Liquor flows freely, as do compliments and flirting, and Lucius drops down onto a stool at the bar like a lady onto a divan. He spends his meager tip, tossed his way for giving a fake letter to the wrong person, on a pint and savors it.
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"Well, I'll be seeing you tomorrow. Right now I've got to speak to a man about a suit," Lucius says and, without it even occurring to him to give a name, he wiggles his fingers in a low-key wave and turns to meander back out of the market.
Lucius doesn't catch the tailor before he closes, unfortunately, and settles instead for taking his bolt back to his actual rented room. It's a bit of a hovel, the price spent largely on anonymity and the promise of being completely ignored. They hadn't asked his name and, as such, he hadn't provided it. He ends up leaving the fabric on his cot and pulls apart the corner of the paper just so he can sit and drag his fingers over it.
It's nice...in a way that helps sate his loneliness.
But, he only has a bit more daylight left and now he's entirely out of money. So he leaves and sets out for the docks. The remaining silver baubles he's nicked make him a meager amount. Enough for booze at a club or a day or two of bread and cheese. No surprise which he would rather spend it on, aye?
That decided, he risks another foray through the market--the stalls are mostly closed and empty, there's few people about, and the only vendors still in business are selling old pies. He nicks one but, as is his luck, gets caught out and that ends up with a merry little chase through a backalley or two. He makes it away from the vendor but, to his great dismay, runs headlong into someone he's already pick-pocketed today.
The gentlemen is, understandably, less than pleased to see him and, unfortunately, not actually a gentleman. Lucius gets punched twice in the gut and once in the face for his nonsense and, ironically, mugged of his new wallet, few shillings, and dinner. He really ought to have stayed home, or not purchased that fabric at all, but he drags himself back and just resigns himself to a hungry belly.
The next day he's sore, slow, and sporting a split lip, all poor qualities in either a page or a pickpocket, and thus goes hungry. He'd be madder about it, overall, but he manages to deliver a bit of fake mail before he heads off to the little backroom club he's meant to meet his new friend in.
It's the back of a brandy shop, hidden behind a number of bottles and past their store-rooms. The underground club has the general air of a crowded betting parlor, hot, uncomfortable, cramped, but merry. Liquor flows freely, as do compliments and flirting, and Lucius drops down onto a stool at the bar like a lady onto a divan. He spends his meager tip, tossed his way for giving a fake letter to the wrong person, on a pint and savors it.