rogue of the scions

          “Behemoth–? Now that you mention it, I did think that you’d put on a bit of weight.”

Be offended. He’s living for this roasting session.

          “My dear friend, that’s a half-baked excuse if I’ve heard one. Saving the world and all that is standard and natural for us handsome, dashing adventurers. I can do that, even with a Kingdom to care for!”

Of course, he knows the pressures that come all tied up into such a vague story, but is it not the way of these two idiots to keep pushing one another’s boundaries? His elbow digs straight into a rib.

          “Come on. I need something far better than that.”

Spluttering ensues. “Really?! Really--?!” It’s the trenchcoat, the trenchcoat! But it doesn’t stop him from poking at his waistline experimentally. Ouch, Edgar.

“Pah, half-baked or not, it still remains an excuse!” He retorts, though he’s grinning still; look at them, they’re twelve. “Even if it is all in a day’s work for those such as us.” Crossing his arms, he smirks, though it turns into a grimace when he’s elbowed swiftly, and he yelps, elbowing him back.

          “I can multitask… Unlike YOU and your loud feet, you–!! YOU!!!”  ‘You’ what? He hasn’t the heart to genuinely insult a friend.  “You may as well be wearing WOODEN CLOGS!”

Ah. Some things never change, do they? It’s barely even been a few minutes and he’s already riled up. Oh, how easily he falls into these traps!

          “–And what’s so important that you cannot invite me, hm? Go on, I’d love to hear your excuse.”

“Of course you can multitask,” he says, clearly not believing it for a second, before, cue pout. “Excuse you! Gods, a man swaps knives for a gunblade and everyone makes it sound like he’s suddenly turned into a lumbering behemoth!” 

Pout pout pout, he’s offended. (But not really. He’s kind of missed this.)

          “Oh. I suppose it was just the wind, then?” 

Snort.

          “Vanishing into the aether? Is that what you call being a hard-working member of society? I do have a Kingdom to run, you know. And what of you? Too busy admiring ladies for too long to come and say hi? You could’ve at least sent me a letter offering to join in.”

“The wind or your overactive imagination, your majesty.”

Can he give as good as he gets? Darn straight.

Tiny baby Thancred was not a true member of the Upright Thieves --- he was a freelancer, and worked with them for a time on commission, but stopped after a little while because it made him vaguely uncomfortable how prideful and passionate they were about their work when he...wasn’t.

In essence, tiny Thancred sold himself for jobs, any job, anything needed. A knife in the dark or something stolen or....well, that kind of job, he’d do it. Anything he had to in order to survive, if you gave him some coin or some food, he’d do it. Sometimes the people he’d work with would teach him a thing or two, the black marketeers or the ladies of the evening or the smugglers or thieves and whoever else; but basically, he sold himself to whoever needed something done.

He would never, however, work for pirates or anything connected to the Sahagin. In fact one of his first kills was a guy trying to pressgang him into a pirate crew.

As the story said, someone told him once that those who worked in the shadows in Limsa wore white to blend in, and he picked that up rather quick (a habit that’s stuck to some degree to this day, obviously).

Louisoix gave him the surname Waters to give him some measure of protection in places that expect that sort of thing. 

He had a trainer in Sharlayan that helped him hone his skills in espionage and that sort of thing, he was a chronic overworker even then to prove himself worthy of what was seen in him.

THE TALES FROM THE SHADOW AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I’LL MAKE A COHERENT HC POST ABOUT IT IN A SEC I JUST

"Well, that's an interesting question," Thancred muses. "But first I might warn you that I'm horribly biased in that...well. I don't think I need remind you what happened to me when I did that to myself not that long ago." He grimaces. "So from the start I'd err on the side of him pacing himself, and not overtaxing what energy he has."

He sighs. "Aside from that...must we play oblivious, still? G'raha is family to me, and as much as I'd like to go home, I'd rather him not harm himself to get us there. I know there are things that need addressing on the Source, but...I don't wish to force our friend to push himself any more than he already is. Is that a suitable answer?"

@silvcrtongued

For some reason, Ryne looks rather nervous as she asks Thancred to come with her to her apartments for just a little while. While the invitation might seem suspicious at first, there is in fact no-one there when they enter. Instead, there is only Ryne, watching her adoptive father with wide eyes as she takes a breath. “I was told it was your nameday today,” she says, deciding not to waste any time. “So— I have something for you! It’s nothing special, really, only…” The girl pauses and wrings her hands together briefly, a smile spreading over her face that can’t completely hide her anxiety, then continues, “You’ll see! So, find a seat, won’t you?” She’ll wait until he has, and then— once he does, she closes her eyes and steadies herself, before starting to sing.

He’s already guessed that this is about his nameday, so he’s not entirely worried when Ryne brings him back to her apartments; he’s more vaguely exasperated with whoever must have told her than anything else, but he doesn’t...he can’t find it in him to be anywhere near annoyed at Ryne herself. Why would he? She means only the best, and this is the very first time she’s able to celebrate his nameday with him. He...kind of owes her this.

“You’ll have to tell me who told you,” he teases gently, but leaves it at that, smiling and obediently sitting down where she motions, watching her. She seems very anxious, and honestly? It’s understandable that she is, but really very silly at this point; anything she’d give him is to be a treasure, because it’s her who’s given it to him. His own daughter. He...

He groans, but lets her drape across him, and simply shifts to get more comfortable where he sits, leaning into her in turn. “I knew you wouldn’t forget. Gods, most peaceful five years of my life, no one pestering me about my bloody nameday,” he grumbles, but there’s no real heat or resentment in it. He sighs, smiling tiredly at her. “Though...can’t say I’d trade this for that.” He’d much rather have them all here, bothering him about getting a year older, than them not being here at all.

“Ah, Maigo!” He’s easy to greet her even if his smile does falter at the nameday wishes; even so, she does mean well, and he will always appreciate people that remember that even if he’s his full sight here, he’s still a little too used to having a bad side to appreciate people sneaking up on him from there.