Feb 03 16:28:36 107 PA
From Chronicles
Hail. Why hail? The small bits of ice are mercifully not heavy enough to do more than pile in nuisancesome drifts of watery slush. A pair of working streetlights form small globes of illumination, and lean-to tents behind them shelter those brave souls trying to earn a few extra credits before seeking a roof. If they have a roof to return to. One brave soul kneels before a blanket under one of those street lights, the swirl of white falling about him like a snowglobe, his long white jacket falling about him like an angel's wings to shelter his body from the cold. Sebastien's damaged head is low as one exposed hand flicks through bits of leather and twisted bits of steel, and he occasionally taps the steel against the concrete below to listen to its temper as he sorts through the junk. The resulting mess of straps and D-rings and fasteners left before him could be anything, but wearing it would be uncomfortable to say the least!
One brave soul is out buying a few things, necessities for sure. A scruffy, skinny teenager heading through the market, the heavy coat's collar turned up to protect against some of the hail. She steps forward, speaking in a low voice to the owner of the blanket, a muttered conversation where money exchanges hands, but nothing visible is bought. The teenager shoves the credits in her pocket, deep into the coat, and gives the blanket owning person an abrupt nod, "See you next week." She glances down at the mess of straps and so on, "Bit old for that, aren't you?"
Sebastien slips his other hand free to grab up a loose bit of leather and begins threading it through the steel bits, assembling something with sure, practiced hands. His head lifts as he works, an amused smirk lopsidedly crossing his features as he eyes the young woman standing over him. "I'm not sure I'm old enough for it!" He replies with some humor, though he squints a little into the hail falling on his face. "Besides," he adds, looping the leather about his hands as his eyes squint at that youngster, barely seen in the dark, "Whomever said it was for me?" He tugs his hands apart, and the leather cracks between them.
"Doubt you could get someone to wear it for you." The teenager's cockiness is obvious, as she returns the smirk, "Unless you are paying. Folk'll do most things for money." The implication is obvious, and she shares the joke with the blanket owning person. "I'd bet you five credits that you can't get someone to wear that without paying them." She sniggers, her gaze flicking over what could be seen of the man, and she shrugs, tucking her gloved hands deeply into her pockets.
"Five credits?" Sebastien asks with an upswept eyebrow. "I don't get out of bed for five credits." He looses one hand from the leather, letting the strap dangle in his hand as he glances across at the merchant with amusement dancing in his eyes. "You will have to do better than that." He rocks back on his heels, frowning slightly as he inspects the woman more thoroughly. "Unless of course, that is all you have? Yes? Well. I will get a woman to wear this. She will come here with me this time tomorrow. And when you see this, you will be in it next." Sebastien quirks an eyebrow at that, returning that defiant stare with a smirk.
"I wasn't offering to pay you to get out of bed, old man." The cocky reply, given with an uptilt of her chin, a jerk of her head, "And my body isn't for sale, not even for a bet." The clear statement is given as her eyes give him a once over, a more thorough one this time. "And if I were, I'd go for someone younger. Like not half dead." She shakes her head, glancing down at the straps with a scornful look. "God, you can't move for old perverts these days."
Sebastien laughs at that, a deep belly laugh that echoes throughout the cold night. "Half dead? What do you know about death, you green sprout? You've never lived." He winks and passes the contraption back to the salesman. "Fifty," Sebastien counteroffers. "She won't wear it, so it's obviously not eighty credits' worth of parts!" The laugh offends and the teenager prickles, straightening and giving Sebastien a glower, her eyes darkening. "Yeah right. I'm not some stupid old man that wastes money on a piece of crap that used to be a horse halter." The salesman gives her a dirty look which she returns with interest, shaking her head. "Worth about forty at best." She comments, "And even then, the horse won't wear it."
"Honestly," Sebastien replies with a grin, "I think she will. With some ah, new leather there," he points at a place where it's cracking. "And there." He winks up at the girl. "THis 'old man' has a friend with a line on some quality leather. She does clothing too, if you want something made in the past, oh ..." Sofiya gets a thorough eyeballing. Probably to judge her wardrobe. "Fifteen years." Sebastien reaches for some money, trading it for the bits and pieces, and does his level best to hide a delighted smirk as he turns from the vendor.
Sebastien's eyeballing gets returned and she lifts her chin, giving him a scornful look. "I'm not fifteen." She almost snarls the words, bristling visibly, pulling herself up to the full height, for what that is worth. "And I don't wear leather." The wardrobe speaks of low cost, second or perhaps even fifth hands, and, oddly, a mix of handsewn clothes. "Hope she likes it." Again, scorn, delivered in grey eyes glaring up at Sebastien.
"Twelve?" Sebastien asks with a chuckle, and he quietly rises to tower over the youngster. Under the swaying ends of his jacket are the a pair of teal slacks reminiscent of what she'd see at the hospital. "Well. If you ever wish for an education on what an 'old man' can accomplish, go to Harry's Gym. Ask for Sebastien. Wear something you can move in."
"Yeah yeah, bring it on, mate." The casual reply is offered with a cocky grin, a jerk of her head and a quick step forward. "Might be small but I'm not twelve." Her voice is low, her pride not letting her back down in front of the people she knows here. "You name the time and day, mate." Her steps take her right up to a step in front of him and she stares up at him.
Sebastien nods his head, lights dancing in his eyes. "Alright little sprout. Sunday. Noon. Best to be there a little early to shower and change." His lips purse then, and the old man glances aside at the street vendor. "What's her name?" He waits, and adds, "So I can get her name engraved on the championship belt, bien sur!"'
"Sofiya. Not sprout." The words are short, clipped and she glances at the vendor, giving him a sharp look. He steps back, hands up, amused but not getting involved. "Sunday at noon. You got it." She returns to glaring up at Sebastien, hands on her hips, "Don't be late. If you need to back out, you just leave a message with Rasputin."
Sebasien raises that harness, rattling it in the air between them as he eyes the little girl, and with a one-handed dismissive wave the young knight turns to walk away. Hunkering a little into his jacket as the sky flashes overhead, and then jogging as the hail turns into sleet. The joy of winter. Isn't it spring, yet?!
