Driskill surveyed the busy street before him, looking for suitable targets. It had been months since he had last picked pockets, and he had long since given it up as profession, but he was feeling bored and mischievous today. He spied a shock of curly red hair amid the crowd and gave an impish smile, knowing that he had found his first victim.
It was not at all uncommon for people of any sort to be targeting Alistair. Indeed, it was something they were used to. It came with the territory of being notable, they figured, and often, they preferred to be a target than anyone they cared about.
It was not difficult for anyone watching them to realize they were inconspicuously armed quite well, and beyond that, that they knew what they were doing with a blade. A flutter of black silk ribbon on their arm proved that fact quite well and kept most people at bay... unless they wanted to try to earn that Ribbon.
They weren’t, however, often expecting pickpockets. Deadly assailants were more their concern than the loss of a few echoes or other loose small change items they might carry, but it would still be an endeavor to truly sneak up on the ever-wary Lexicologist on their way home.
[OOC: you do realize, fellow player, that uh. Alistair is no true friend to devils or anyone that calls them friend? This might be... interesting.]
