cunningas: (adrien: worn out)
The man who sits by the crossroads doesn't look particularly remarkable to any who pass him by. His clothing is, after all, rather shabby and held together by patches and prayer. He wears a wide-brimmed hat that looks like it may have once been a respectable shade of black but is now so faded and dust-covered that one would never guess. By his feet rests a travelsack, just as patched, faded, and dusty as the rest of his clothing and within it he carries all of his worldly possessions. Carefully, he keeps his foot over the bag's carrying strap so no enterprising thief might snatch it away easily. He wears no jewelry to flash and glitter though there is a twinkle of mischief in his eyes and when he smiles as he is prone to do, his teeth flash white on his face. Of everything that he wears, his boots are new, won the night before in a game of chance.

His chair is nothing more than an old crate, repurposed and he leans back on it, his shoulderblades against the wall behind him. All through the afternoon he sits, from noon until sundown and it is a rare moment indeed that doesn't see him with a small crowd arrayed about him. The man tells stories and often, as he does so, he performs tricks, small conjures, sleight of hand, minor miracles that awe and amaze his audience. For this entertainment, by the time the sun goes down, he has accumulated enough cash in dribs and drabs to get himself a decent bunk for the night.

Of course, not all of that cash was given to him by his adoring public but he'd never felt overly guilty about making use of his rather light fingers when the situation warrented it. And sometimes when it didn't.

The day being done and his money made, he picks up his travelsack and slings it over his shoulder. It should be galling, for him, living this life not out of choice but necessity. It certainly was, once, but he's grown accustomed. In some ways, it is that that galls, of all things. A rut he can't climb out of. Just another thing to ignore as he makes his way to the rooming-house that holds his bed for the night. He'll move on to another part of town the next day, wouldn't do to overstay his welcome.

Not unless he really felt like having an up close and personal chat with the Feds or something.

He pauses on the steps of the rooming house, mentally counting up his coin. He looks up at the building, then back down the street. He could stay in a cold, empty bed this night or...

...well, he's got enough for a girl, he might as well use it.




ooc: )

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Loki

December 2013

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