What'chu starin' at?

bio. Independent blog for JACK "DODGER" DAWKINS. Inspired by CHARLES DICKEN's character from OLIVER TWIST with flavors from OLIVER! THE MUSICAL, DODGER by TERRY PRACHETT, and historical imagination. by: нιℓαяү

Rules.Standard Verses & AUs.Interest Tracker Permanent Starter Call (TBD.)

Competitions. Hades rolls his eyes, sagging slightly in his seat. Another idiotic activity that everybody owes to Mr If I Can’t Win I’ll Smite Thee. Does anyone expect normal behaviour from himbthese days anyway? Hades has no logical qualms with Hera and Aphrodite going at it, but Athena the Smartass? Out there giving women a bad name cause everyone thinks this is women are all about? Why oh why has Zeus blessed him not only with this lovely office but also dumbass nieces and nephews. “Is it that himbo from Troy who only gets by thanks to his looks? Do they really think he has enough brain up there to judge anything, ever?” The gods have stooped low, low indeed. Humans now judge them, like some drunk merchant chooses from a row of virginal slaves. The divine propensity to fuck with the lower class has been getting on Hades’ nerves for quite a while by now. “It’s gonna be Aphrodite anyway, have you seen her new nosejob?” His flames flaring red for an instance and then returning to their usual blue, Hades summons a goblet of wine and downs it all at once. The cup hits the floor, rattles and rolls across the marble slabs. “Anyway, I want you to contact Hephaestus. The imps have broken a few mechanisms, I need a fix asap, because the Fates have predicted a war. And tell Hephaestus what his wife is up to these days.”

“I figure if’n brains marked any part of this competition, it would’ve gone in a very different direction,” Hermes drawls. Athena aside -- and she usually marks a much more intelligent body’n what was displayed at the little competition-- Hermes couldn’t believe folks didn’t see the ploy for what it is. Mayhap ‘cause he marks himself something of a trickster and always appreciative of a good jest, but once he heard the rumors that Eris had some influence over what happened, then he isn’t surprised to hear the results.

Nodding along a little to the question though, he adjusts the strap of his bag holding his messages on his shoulder. “Yeah, Paris of Troy’s set to make the decision, and wool for brains if ever their marked a fellow.” 

How on earth he became the one to make such a ruling, Hermes can’t even begin to guess, and usually the gods is s’pposed to be knowing such things. Well, the result is gonna provide h’entertainment anyhow, and keep him busy too, sure as certain. 

Watching as the Lord of the Underworld cycle through his tempers, one brow arched as the goblet rolls its way across the marble floor, he finds his attention drawn back from the rolling bit of a glitter at the reminder of a job needing doing.

“Hephaestus, yeah, yeah,” Hermes says, summoning a bit of scroll to jot down the message ‘bout imps and machinery ‘fore giving the god a look over the scroll. “If you’re thinking he ain’t already knowing, then you ain’t knowing Hephaestus.” The bloke marks as suspicious as he is crooked, neither being particularly his fault, but it makes him ‘bout as cheerful as Hades. 

Vesemir raises an eyebrow at this logic. The kid’s logic tracks, though it does little more than amuse Vesemir. He’ll admit that, to some degree, he is rather impressed. Not by any large degree but enough that he considers for a moment how to proceed. Not many children volunteer for a life like his… but he had, once. And anyway, the kid might survive as a pickpocket like this for a while, but what kind of life can a boy out on the streets really expect? One day he’ll likely turn up a nameless body in some alleyway.

“Suppose you’ve got a point,” Vesemir replies, “I do have…. them magicks… for seeing.” He turns the boy’s vocabulary back on him, not with anything more than genuine amusement. They’re having fun, see? Witchers have fun. The ones who make it, anyway. The ones who live. 

He shrugs. “So this is what you do then? Pick pockets for a living? One day your hands are going to get too big to go fully unnoticed. And it won’t just be those with Witcher senses. I’d say it’s honest work, but—” he shrugs, “—I won’t pretend to care all that much about honesty.”

“Got any parents?” he asks, as if it were a normal thing. As if he were just making regular conversation.  

Dodger near mimics the shrug of the Witcher, ain’t nothing much else to be doing. Ain’t figuring the bloke is gonna turn him over, elsewise he would’ve done it already, but that doesn’t mean Dodger’s ready to let his guard down. Takes more’n a friendly chat with a stranger to get him to relax.

So he takes a bite into the roll instead, savoring the remaining bit of warmth and delicious taste as he considers how to answer. “It’s a living,” he says after swallowing the bite, meaning it’s enough to keep him alive and that’s all that matters. He knows that they’re folks what ain’t calling it ‘honest work’ as such, but Dodger’d much rather live’n be honest.

And he frowns at the idea of his fingers getting too clumsy for the work one day. It’s a delicate balance, ain’t it just. He’s the Dodger, Good Ol’ Dodger, quick and clever, and better at what he does than anyone, but he knows a body’s luck is only good to last for so long, and even the quickest and cleverest can get caught in the end. Mostly he tries to ignore such worries, seeing as they never put food in his belly anyhow, and he takes another bite of the roll.

     MAYBE THAT PREY wasn’t all that powerful to begin with, if their skin was so yielding to a pair of sharp teeth.  powerful.  sure.  right.  

     “ and these powerful strangers have, what — dragged you into a contract to get rid of me?  protect one of their own insufferable cowards from being dragged into the dark like one of their victims? ”  his voice is soft, controlled, but with every word jesper feels himself tensing like a coil.  “ i don’t know who or what you are, but if you’re here to speak on their behalf — you’re wasting time and air.  don’t be like this idiot, ”

     he kicks the body, harder than necessary for something cracks wetly.  “ as i said, lad: run along now.  if you’ve no business with me, i’ve no quarrel with you. ”

Dodger shrugs a little. At least the body marks the clever sort, or clever to some extent, and from his choice of prey, Dodger at least can give him a few points in his favor, but that only goes so far, ‘specially when he’s hungry too.

Hands lift in a show that he ain’t armed -- at the moment anyhow -- and his voice matches the pitch and pace of the beastie. “I ain’t faulting you for your targets,” he says, sparing a final look at what remained of the vampire’s most recent victim. No great loss that one from what Dodger’s found, a serial rapist and lowlife what left broken folks behind him. “But leaving a body drained of blood in the middle of the street for all to see? That’s sloppy, mate.”

When the other kid decided to help him, Haytham suddenly gave him a smile – he completely forgot he was lost for a moment. He had never had a friend of his age before, and certainly not because of lack of trying. His mother didn’t like when Haytham spied on the neighbors, even though he just wanted to befriend the Dawson sisters or Tom Barrett, another child who lived in Queen Anne’s Square, just next to the Kenway Mansion. Haytham wasn’t trying to be a gossip, but he felt lonely most of the time since his own sister wouldn’t even talk to him. This kid trying to help him was the first glimpse of light of he could find in his childhood – a chance of having a friend, even though his mother would never approve him. Haytham was sure he could find a way to convince her or even deceive her.

The question now was: did that kid want to be friends with Haytham? He recalled the time Tom Barrett tried to speak with him through a hole in the padlocked door between their homes – the boy didn’t sound interested in friendship, just the rumors about Haytham’s father being… something. Something Haytham couldn’t say because he had no idea what his father used to be. But here he was hoping that Dodger would want to talk, to befriend him for real.

“I’m Haytham Kenway.” He replied with excitement as he followed the other child, hands rubbing to warm his palms. “Nice to meet you, Dodger. I wonder… why you dress like an adult?”

My, this marked an eager sort, Dodger noted, keeping an easy pace so’s the lad wouldn’t get near overwhelmed with their march through the city. Although Dodger near knew every nook and cranny, he knew the cobbles could be treacherous for a body unfamiliar with them, and in more ways than one. But from the look on the lad’s face, Dodger might’ve thought he offered the lad a month’s wages or a bit of something delicious to eat; lad looked near starved sure as certain, but not for the things what Dodger found himself worrying over. He gave a mental shake of his head, Nobs.

Giving the kid a look at the odd question, his shoulders bunched underneath his jacket subconsciously before relaxing. “Er, dunno much your meaning,” he said, uncertain. Do nobs usually wander ‘round asking why folks was wearing what they was wearing? “It’s the clothes I’m wearing, huh.” Meaning more the clothes he was able to find, but he wasn’t much sure how to tell the lad that neither. “Why? Why you dressing like that?”

The lad’s canny ways would certainly help him get around in life, but on the Flying Dutchman his twisting ways have no point. An eternity upon the cursed vessel ahead, he’d better abandon this childish hope.

Admittedly, the first mate is not find of children in general. They lack discipline, though Dodger seems to make up for it with his wits. He reminds Maccus of monkey, always ready to come and snatch an unattended item. At times he’s tempted to throw Dodger over the railings and watch sharks do their job with him. But the little imp does have some uses, and the first mate never gets rid of other crewmen without a silent nod from the Captain.

He shakes Dodger a little, pushes him several steps backwards. The lad’s face is hardly looking him in the stomach.

“The rum is for the working men. What’s yer job? Strolling across the deck delivering messages, ohhh, that’s a lot of hard labor! Go ask the Captain.”

The Captain has never been prone to fatherly affections, amd Dodger gets the same treatment, more or less. But there is a fat chance the boy will come with his permission. It won’t matter, for the Captain is the ultimate authority. The first mate dares not go against Jones’ will, not because he can’t, but because he doesn’t want to.

Limbs jangle ‘round a bit as the First Mate gives him a final shake ‘fore sending him stumbling backwards. Scowling up at the bloke, Dodger knows better’n to try to return swing for swing, seeing as he has a good eye on the bloke’s middle and not near much more’n that. Might be quick and nimble, is Dodger, but when a body’s as bulky and mean as the First Mate, there’s only so much he can do. And oh yes, can’t go forgetting the teeth.

After the stumbling, his backside connects with the side of the ship. Ah, nowhere to go. Well, not that there’s much in the way of hideyholes on the ship and ‘specially not near the rum, but it ain’t much in Dodger’s nature to stand his ground neither.

“I am working! How you figure I’m getting so thirsty, huh?” Dodger protests. Ain’t near his fault he can’t be doing much in the way of hauling the riggings, seeing as the rigging marks near double the size of him. He supposes he could be placed in charge of cleaning the Flying Dutchman, but that’d near mark a job in the half, ‘specially from all the grime near covering her haul.

If he was not already impressed by the urchin’s vague recognition of him - however obscure the suspicion that this man was far more than he seemed no doubt remained in the other’s mind - his opinion only improved with the boy’s discretion. Charles could see that this one was very well adjusted to the harshness of his streets and had learnt not to trust a soul. London never gave without getting; it was only natural that its crooks followed suit. 

But he did not have all afternoon to dally round this fetid rookery. He had an engagement with the prince consort this evening and must consider the time required to de-lice. Glancing from side to side, Charles moved closer into the filth-ridden alleyway where they stood so that the shadows all but engulfed him, leaving discernible only the darkened outline of his towering silhouette. 

Sure that no poor wretch lingered near him save the one he addressed, the man reached a gloved hand into his cloak to produce something delicate and glistening. A necklace of diamonds and sapphire. Certainly not something one comes across through pickpocketing, but a very precious thing that one keeps locked away securely in the Bank of England, or hidden in some grand estate. 

He closed his fist before the lad could make so much as a move to reach forth. “Take me to your fence, boy, and I promise that you will not need to feel the brutal splinters of the penny sit-up for quite some time,” he said. “But know if you choose to mislead me, there will be repercussions.” A shrewd young man ought to realise when he was dealing with the type who could arrange to have the entire Dials cleansed at the snap of a finger if wished. 

And yet Dodger found himself curious near despite himself, or ‘least despite all the warnings and trainings he’d lived through thus far ‘bout meeting nobs in darkened alleyways. Nobs never did have much time for folks like him, so if’n one figured on taking an interest, it marked nearabouts the body’s life to figure out the source of such interest. And yet something ‘bout the man continued to tug at his gut, coaxing him closer than a prudent Dodger might’ve done. At the least he kept an eye on his way out, making sure he had the distance and way to bolt if it came down to it.

Didn’t near regret his decision neither as the bloke revealed the bit of sparkle-- and my more’n a bit of sparkle -- before snatching it away. Mouth dropping open in surprise and gaping like one of them country yokels what happened to finally make their way into the city, Dodger stared for a long moment at the closed hand, hardly believing the glimpse of glitter he’d just managed to see before looking up at the man.

My, just who was this fellow? A body didn’t near have glitter like that ‘less they found their way to a particular sort of job, the sort of job what Dodger could only dream ‘bout. And even then, they’d most like have a body already in mind what knew how to deal with such pretty things rather than folks what Dodger knew. ‘Less this man marked the owner of the necklace and needed it off his hands for one reason or ‘nother.

Every sailor worth their weight in gold had their fair share of stories. Somewhere largely exaggerated for the amusement and horror of those around them, others to get the weight of a terror off of their shoulders. Anne didn’t fall into either of those categories, but rather one of her own: befuddlement and idle curiosity.

“Well,” the pirate began as she leant back in her rickety wooden chair and rested her mucky boots atop the table between them. “You know how we lost a lad last Monday? I have reason to believe it ain’t as cut and dry as him falling off the top deck pished. I reckon we would’ve heard something, thing is, that night, as I was laid in my hammock… I could hear nothing but the unsettling quiet for the longest time. Not the lap of the sea against our mighty vessel, not the singing or sniffing or snoring of working or sleeping men.” She drew another thoughtful puff of her pipe. “Shortly before he went missing, I heard singin’.”

Dodger settled back in his chair for the story, taking the mug of rum with him. Not much else to do on the shore that evening anyhow, or at least he didn’t have the appetite for near else, and it would be nice to spend the time with Anne.

“Have a lil’ faith, will you? I’m not going to die because of a scratch.” Jacob snorted at the kid’s comment. If it was someone else mentioning that, he would have gotten upset – because Jacob was reckless, yes, but he was also a capable fighter. Nonetheless, he knew Dodger was mocking him in a playful way, and that he cared for Jacob’s health. The leader of the Rooks couldn’t simply vanish – the dreams of building a better London would have died with him. Everyone knew that, even his twin sister. Jacob cared a lot for the people, he didn’t want their future to be shattered because of bad luck. The poor had too much of that for a lifetime.

Or maybe he was overestimating himself. As always.

He gestured at Dodger to follow him to the train station, striding as he crossed the streets. With luck, they wouldn’t have to deal with Blighters in the middle of their way to their destination. “A nob? Pfff. More like a thief, that’s how I’d call him. But sure, he dresses up as a nob, is a businessman, all that boring stuff. Don’t mock his accent, though. He’s from New York.” A chuckle, shoving a man aside to pass by the crowd. The stranger yelled behind him angrily, but Jacob pretended he didn’t exist. “I believe he can use your help too, lil’ lad. Information, mostly.”

“I’m believing, I’m believing,” Dodger reassured, waving a vague hand at the Rook. But truth be told, of all the things Dodger believed in, which didn’t mark all that much, he at least believed in the stubbornness of Jacob Frye. If there ever lived a body what might see a thing done by determination alone, that body marked the one before him. As long as he didn’t take an untimely knife to the back anyhow, but even then, Dodger colored himself surprised at the number of times Jacob’d recovered from wounds Dodger would’ve called more’n fatal so mayhap his faith ain’t all that misplaced.

            The noise that Leonardo made was nothing short of affronted. “It’s– - Organized!” Just not in a way that anyone who isn’t himself can understand, it seems. All the same, the artist deflated some. “I have too much going on to keep the place in the kind of shape that other people, who’s opinions I value very little, by the way, would find acceptable.” Perhaps not in the physical sense, but mentally, Leonardo leaps from project to project like a man possessed. “It isn’t your fault of course. I appreciate your assistance in this matter,” however minimal it might be, it was better than nothing. “And you will, of course, be handsomely rewarded.” 

“i wish not to be seen,” thomas whispered harshly, “and if you lead them to me, i’ll make good on my promise!” emphasizing his words with a pointed finger towards the boy. he had gotten caught up in unexpected trouble, the likes of which were no doubt related to his particular line of work; and he had darted into the alleyways of seven dials, thinking that the miserable disorder of the place would lead his pursuer— or pursuers, he hadn’t bothered to count— astray. only— he seemed to have gotten lost too.

ah,     but     what     answer     would     satisfy  ?    ABOVE     THEM     GRINS     THE     CRESCENT     MOON   ;     a     kindly     smile     tonight     were     it     not     for     the     wolf’s   -   head     doorknocker     staring     down     in     silvered     shadow     [   …   ]     a     jagged,     mocking     grin,     as     the     cold     air     of     the     night     sweeps     over     his     doorstep.     ‘   that’s     right,     is     it?     funny,     i     don’t     have     a     housekeeper.   ’     in     some     terribly     misguided     and     terribly     human     act     of     kindness,     HE’S     SENT     THE     STAFF     FROM     TALBOT     HALL   :     and     so     he     might     have     bought     the     lie     were     it     not     for     THE     WOLF     WITHIN.     (   ancient     stone,     and     storm     clouds     gathering     above   :     COULD     THERE     BE     A     MORE     PERFECT     EXAMPLE     OF     A     GOTHIC     MANSION   ?   )     ‘   so     what     is     it     you     want,     huh?   ’     before,     suspicion     unroused,     larry     might     have     granted     the     boy     a     tour   ;     before,     he     might     have     taken     more     care     to     observe     the     manners     with     which     he’d     been     raised   ;     BEFORE,     BEFORE,     BEFORE     [   …   ]    fatherless     and     feckless,     he     shies     and     snarls     toothless     as     a     man     unused     to     his     reign   :     ‘   get     the     hell     out     of     here.  ’    

Dodger shrugs, a small smile on his mouth. Ah well, marked worth the shot ‘stead of having to jump right in the middle of things. Trickier to dodge when a body finds themselves in the middle of things, huh, and if the bloke might’ve taken the bait, wouldn’t need to be so twitchy now. After all, just ‘cause a monster calls a place home, don’t mean nothing needs to be done ‘bout it. What makes a monster appearances alone, and Dodger’s met some monsters what look right human. “My mistake then, door must’ve swung open on its own like,” Dodger says, cheerfully lying with a tone in his voice to reveal such a thing. Whatever might be going on in this mansion, better the bloke to be at ease’n not, although Dodger knows he has his work cut out all pretty like for him now.

           Her eyes narrow, and her arms move from being crossed to her hips as she contemplates. “Well even if you are telling the truth, you still are considered an eye witness, which I guess means you are to be in my charge for now.” Considering the fact she never wanted children, she kept managing to find the ones lost and astray.