Clemente
Torchline has become his favorite stomping ground as of late. Though he cannot enjoy the beach during its busiest sunlit hours, it does little to dissuade him. The streets of Torchline perfectly parallel those of his home city, with its depravity and dark underbelly that you'd rather skirt your eyes quickly over to avoid being sucked inside. He spends so much time in the new land that the streets, hidey-holes, and general traffic have imprinted itself into his brain.
Once a street rat, always a street rat.
The pickpockets, after realising he is no easy target, have mostly left him to his own devices. Recognizing in him the same grunge and grit that coats their own souls perhaps. Others however, are not nearly so lucky. Which is what draws his attention as a feminine voice shouts out, drawing his gaze to the commotion. It's familiar enough that people just sidestep the two, not bothering to help one way or the other. Clem vacillates between doing the same or stepping in. It certainly isn't going to be the first person to have something of their jacked today. But he lifts himself with a groan as morality nags at him, stepping smoothly out from the crowd and tripping the runner with a well-placed leg.
It's child's play to snag the woman's stuff before the disoriented child can get back to their feet. Eyes meet, and Clem sneers at the furious youth, waging a silent war with their gazes as Clem flashes his fangs like a feral dog. The kid hesitates, but seeing the woman still advancing clearly decides to find easier prey and goes streaking off. Clemente isn't excited about having to rebuild his cred after this to prove he's no sympathizer with the tourists (as if he himself isn't, but the other street urchins accept him easily as one of their own) but he soothes the grumpiness by turning to the frantic woman and offering up her bag with a put-upon frown. "Y'gotta be way more vigilant with yer shit here lady. Most people ain't gonna step in and help ya." He honestly questions whether he should have either.
Once a street rat, always a street rat.
The pickpockets, after realising he is no easy target, have mostly left him to his own devices. Recognizing in him the same grunge and grit that coats their own souls perhaps. Others however, are not nearly so lucky. Which is what draws his attention as a feminine voice shouts out, drawing his gaze to the commotion. It's familiar enough that people just sidestep the two, not bothering to help one way or the other. Clem vacillates between doing the same or stepping in. It certainly isn't going to be the first person to have something of their jacked today. But he lifts himself with a groan as morality nags at him, stepping smoothly out from the crowd and tripping the runner with a well-placed leg.
It's child's play to snag the woman's stuff before the disoriented child can get back to their feet. Eyes meet, and Clem sneers at the furious youth, waging a silent war with their gazes as Clem flashes his fangs like a feral dog. The kid hesitates, but seeing the woman still advancing clearly decides to find easier prey and goes streaking off. Clemente isn't excited about having to rebuild his cred after this to prove he's no sympathizer with the tourists (as if he himself isn't, but the other street urchins accept him easily as one of their own) but he soothes the grumpiness by turning to the frantic woman and offering up her bag with a put-upon frown. "Y'gotta be way more vigilant with yer shit here lady. Most people ain't gonna step in and help ya." He honestly questions whether he should have either.
Your mother started drinking like the whole world died
And You've been waiting for a miracle all your life
And You've been waiting for a miracle all your life
