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@pocketsforcoins
Shih + Pockets
[ - she pauses at the sight of the blade and keeps her hands up - he was bleeding, badly - ]
[ - he would die if he did not receive help - ]
“ You will bleed out - I can help you. “
[-the blade in his fingers begins to shake-] [-a lean form, settles back agianst the sand rock wall of the alley-] [-normally sharp eyes fighting for focus-]
[-a graveled, low response-]
“W h y...”
Max + Pockets
there was always something in the back of her mind that made her rather intuitive as to when a little help had been nearby. a single path her eyes take to see him placed a smirk on the woman’s lips. she gives a slight nod of her head for him to follow her to a more secluded area of the inn. somewhere away from prying ears.
Her nod has him waiting but a moment, before he makes to follow the Madam. A few more drunken men’s purses made a fraction lighter as he passes them by. Some times it is simply to easy, but he doesn’t at all take those times for granted. For tomorrow could see him starving again, after all.
The Little Bird and the Thief
She’d dealt with her first customer of the night- and knew that her second would not come for another hour. She’d known his tendency for her time was most of the night, and thus she had no reason to search out a customer to keep her occupied. Most men were gentle with her- because Viridis was warm and sweet and something about her sunny personality made the men want to treasure her almost. It was a fact that had not escaped her mistress, and thus she’d been shut up in this room- against protest, at first.
Tonight, she sits in her window, blue eye tracking the men below with a cat like curiosity. What did they do with the time they spent outside the brothel? What lingered beyond the shore she could see? What passions drove men into wooden contraptions and out into the depths?
Her gold, tan and white ensemble helps to make her look more innocent; especially compared to the incredible firey red hair the woman possesses. She looks almost an angel; presiding over the throngs of men below.
When her eyes wander up from the two men she’d been making up scenarios about, to a one she saw pass her window frequently. She has seen him many a time, and his gaze is unlike most- he is hard, yet there is something else to him that Viridis cannot seem to concoct a story to.
So, being who she is- she smiles. Oh, what a smile it is- as if her very soul seems glad to see him, and only him. It’s as if it’s meant- and only has ever been meant- for him.
Even if he knows better.
There’s a cocking of a brow in the shadows of his hood. A silent question written in sharp eyes. Is it him she looks at now? He is never one to assume, and yet there is a pointed air to her gaze now. One that can not at all be misunderstood. It is him, her eye courts with now, and oh that smile. How it must undo so very many men.How it must warm them in some way he has never felt.
Caution tells him it is a smile that is practice, a smile that is meant to draw you in. Meant to have you willing to spend every last bit of coin upon her time. And while that thought does weigh upon him, something else pushes it all aside. Some small spark, either curiosity or something else he hasn't a name for; and he’s rising from his place upon the empty barrel. Crossing the street, and disappearing from her sight, only to reappear again but a few moments later, perched like a cat upon the banister of her small balcony. His deep hood pushed back to reveal a face many know, but soon forget.
And for perhaps what might seem like to her an eternity, he makes no further movement. No further attempt of communication. Simply a continued silent question lingering in his eyes and expression. As though he has never seen anything like her in his life. And perhaps that is not so far from the truth. There were as many whores as there were pirates in Nassau, he would wager; but none quite like her. And he wonders again at why such a pretty thing like her would be shut up in her room during such lucrative working hours.
Eleanor + Pockets
There are the good days, and then there are the lean days. The latter always out numbering the former, much to his dislike. And it is a string of leans days, of having not but scraps gleaned from pitying kitchen girls in his stomach that sees him where he is. (Well that and one very lucky break.)
Standing outside the Guthrie’s tavern. The mid-morning sun already heating up the streets, though it isn’t something he’s altogether aware of. He’s lived here all his life--heat and sweat are a reality, as is hunger.
And it is the last of these that spurs his feet to step out of the growing heat of the day and into the shaded din of the tavern. His gaze tracking to the faded green of Eleanor Guthrie’s office. The weight of his luck, weighing down his belt. It isn't often the young man pick pockets another thief, at least not with out his knowledge that they are one previously.
The man he lifted this envelope from should not have had it, he knows that much. Eleanor Guthrie is not one to trust such deliveries to street urchins--even Pockets knows that. But how to approach such a thing without her assuming him the one to have stole it from its original carrier to start with?
What would she pay for the return of what he has come into his possession? What is it he has found? He doesn't know. He’s not the ability to read or write. But symbols he understands well. The Guthrie stamp is known by nearly everyone in Nassau, no matter their education or lack there of.
So for now he will linger here, haunt the small alcove where many of the messenger boys reside hoping for her to pass them a few bits of coin in exchange for running an errand. And only hope she will not be as stupid, as to assume him dumb enough to steal from her couriers and then attempt to make coin back by returning it.
But he’s been wrong before. He just hopes, his feet will prove faster than her muscle. Though he has little fear they won’t. He has out run O’Malley a time or two previously after all. But it isn’t exactly Pockets’ fault if the Irishman can’t keep track of his purse in the busy Nassau streets now is it?
Vane + Pockets
For as many times as he had run notes, and trinkets, and who knew what else from the pitch beach to the north end of Nassau he couldn’t count. But he could count how many times anyone had sent him to deliver something to Charles Vane. He could count that on one grimy, dirt ridden hand.
It isn’t all together hard to find the man, sitting at a table in a far corner of the brothel. Still other errands Eleanor Guthrie had paid him to fulfill had needed doing first, and its just after sundown the young man has found his way to the butcher’s current lodgings.
Coming to stop, he waits to be acknowledged, before stepping closer. Pirates are to be treated with caution even when approached at an angle they can note you. And he’s no interest in putting Anne Bonny’s blades to the test tonight; nor Vanes.
Max + Pockets
Hanging about the brothel is perhaps not the worst of ways to spend the afternoon. His pockets already lined with coins from a few patrons already so drunk they can’t tell up from down. But nicking things isn’t his only pretense for being here. The madam sometimes has odd in jobs that need doing, and maybe today he’ll get lucky. Maybe today she will have something that requires quick feet, and a silent tongue. And ever sharp eyes track her path through the tables, from his place by the doorway. Utterly disinterested in the rabble and the other girls mingling between them. He is not one to be distracted when coin is a possibility after all.
black sails rps–anyone want a starter? Or want to plot??
like for a starter?
Caught //Pockets + Ophelia
Captain Ophelia of the Sea Troll was not a forgiving woman - she had built a reputation up on it, in fact, and it was one she was quite proud of. However, when she had so suddenly found her own pockets empty of the few things she kept in them and she had swiftly caught the culprit, she had to admit:
she was impressed.
“ My crew tells me you do not have the courage to speak, and yet you have the audacity to attempt to rob me. Is there something you call yourself, little rat? “
He doesn’t answer, though his jaw flexes. So that is the talk now? That he is to cowardly to speak. He affords her a glancing glare. He has seen her face, in passing many times through Nassau. Though as of today he equates the face to a distracted woman, and a rather expensive looking ring, which he had lifted from her. Attempt? He had robbed her, and had made quite a nice bit of coin off most of her possession already. The ring all that remained of what he had taken.
Still it isn’t often he is caught, and even less often the one to catch him bother asking his name. Especially since she is very obviously a pirate. And perhaps not simply a crewman but something a little more important.
When the answer does come, it is a graveled sort of sound. As though he attempt to speak with shards of glass and sand packed into his throat. Though the sharp, almost snark like expression on his face gives little in the way of misunder- standing the tone the answer should have.
“P o c k e t s.”
Coin is a very powerful motivator. But so is hunger... so is h u n g e r.
Shih + Pockets
[ - he is lucky she is in a benevolent mood - ]
[ - does not draw her own blades but raises her hands to show she is - for the most part - unarmed - ]
“I speak truth. See?”
[- a hitched sort of breath -] [- the gash along his side is bleeding. -] [- he can feel it oozing, sticky and wet down his skin beneath filthy clothes -] [-the blade betwix his fingers lowers though only marginally -] [- sharp eyes dart over her form and then down the alley way in both directions.-] [- the teenager resembling something like a frightened feline. -] [- an unoccupied hand settles against his wound. -] [- a hard gaze focuses upon her again and narrows in a silent curiosity -]
{What does she want?}
offline
rp tagging game. repost, don’t reblog! tagged by: wasacoyote
name of your muse. Pockets
one picture you like of your muse’s fc.
two headcanons you have for your muse that you never told anyone.
1. Pockets longs for a family. One that won’t try to kill him, or stab him in the back. Both literally and figuratively. But he keeps that longing buried deep. 2. Pockets is well aware (now) that his mother tried to kill him, and some times he does still have nightmares about it.
three things that your muse loves doing in their free time.
1. Sleeping 2. Swimming 3. Haunting the pitch beach at night, and listening to pirates trade stories from a distance.
four people (/groups c:) that your muse loves:
1. He 2. has 3. no 4. one
three fond childhood memories.
1. The first time he ever had a pastry, stolen from one of the Nassau bakeries. 2. Every time he went to bed not hungry. 3. The first time successfully pick pocketed someone.
two things your muse regrets.
1. All the times he wasn’t old enough or big enough to fight back. 2. Being taken advantage of by someone he had thought was his friend.
one thing they’d go through heaven or hell to save/change.
1. He would do anything to be a pirate.
tag ten people: [whoever follows me that would like too!!]
Open// Pockets +
Mid-morning is not the best hours for his less legal ways of making coin, and it is usual to find him haunting the pitch beach. Especially when there are recently anchored ships in the bay. He used to run errands for many people all over the city when he was younger, and he is not above doing such work now. Anything to make a little coin, is never beneath him.
He sits apart from a small group of other boys, younger than himself. Scraping dirt and filthy out from beneath his nails, with the tip of one of his smaller blades. Sharp eyes darting about him now and then. Hood resting back against his shoulders, he looks as ragged if not more so than the children. But he is not concerned. The younger boys can carry messages same as he it is true, but children are children. And someone that needs something addressed, by more experienced hands, will come along. They always do.
The Little Bird and the Thief
It is not often his gaze rises above him. The sky has nothing to offer but emptiness. A kind that reminds him of how empty his stomach often is. But tonight has ended well. A stomach full of lift bread, and enough mead to wet his tongue but little else. And perhaps it is simple boredom that has them drifting up. Or a simple passing fancy to look up at the stars. But which ever it might have been, it fades in the wake of what catches his sharp eyes.
Even in the dimness of the evening he can see her for what she is. He is no fool. That window belongs to the brothel. And yet there is something about the way she looks down at the street beneath her. A watchful, but distant sort of look; that almost makes him ponder what it is she is thinking. Why she watches what she does, what she looks at, why she is there at all. These hours are business hours, for many in Nassau, and by the sounds of laughter and other revelry pouring from the brothel doors across the road--there are many looking for company.
He shifts in his seat upon an empty barrel outside the closed shop at his back, his gaze fixated upon her. Hawk like and studying. A curiosity in her that he has not had in anything in a very long time.
{What is it that you look for?}
Shih + Pockets
“Be still - I will not harm you.”
[-startled is a fine word for it -] [-a cautious blade already born between dirty fingers-] [-the scent of salt and something sweet-]
{Pirate.}
Headcanon - 005
A hard life leaves marks, and Pockets’ skin is riddled with many. The most prominent of course is the one to his face. Which he received when one of the children he had grown up with, tried to double cross him. The other boy ended up being caught for the crime they had together committed, but with no proof of Pockets’ association the other boy suffered the penalty alone. And Pockets separated himself from his ‘family’ soon after and never looked back.
