(Untitled)

[puckishly]

As it turns out, Puck was not lying when he said that his hospitality would pale in comparison to Milliways.

This is because in order to be hospitable, it is traditional for one to first have a place of residence-- which, outside of Milliways, Puck does not. However, in the interest of keeping up appearances, he spent the day before yesterday

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[weeper_of_blood]

There was a warning, he remembers that much.

It's the only thing that keeps Le Chiffre from sneer at the place. But he's behaving, just giving a very slow arch of a brow as he peers about the place curiously.

"No matter. Everything serves it's purpose."

[puckishly]

Puck smiles at that, as if he were enjoying a private joke (which he is).

"That it does."

Out the window the sun has nearly set, and the sight of it over the rooftops is, at least, rather pretty.

[weeper_of_blood]

The smile gets replied with a smirk, not quite his own private joke, but amused enough by the situation at hand.

"And just so we're straight, any double crossing between the two of us should be put to a minimum for now. As amusing as it may be, I can't see either of us benefiting from such an action."

[puckishly]

"Oh, perish the thought, sir." Puck looks wounded. "I quite agree that such treachery should be in neither of our interests."

Unless he thought it was funny. That would be interesting.

"Now," he goes on, businesslike, "'tis nearly that time of night when I believe we shall have our best luck-- or at least it shall be in the span of some few hours. In the meantime, I've all the necessary cutlery for our endeavor, if you care to peruse it."

He tugs irritably at the collar of his shirt; it may be winter, but Puck's been just a little warm all day. Not to mention that McDaitengu's food is still acting up. He's never eating in Underhill again.

[weeper_of_blood]

It's been a long time since Le Chiffre was allowed anywhere near anything more pointy or dangerous than a knife and fork, and even those were occasionally plastic.

To say his smirk suddenly takes on a hint of eagerness at the sight of the selection might be a bit of an understatement. But he's looking, not touching.

"I'll have to trust your judgment on the timing," he responds, sparing Puck a glance from the shiny for a moment. "Though the time of day is agreeable." He always had been a strike-at-night kind of psychotic.

[puckishly]

Puck smiles.

Havelock's knives are very pretty.

"Of course, if you'd rather, we needn't wait so long." Sure, it'd be practical to hold off until the middle of the night, but Puck's never been what you'd call the patient sort.

[weeper_of_blood]

Le Chiffre's attention slowly drifts from the selection of shiny, to Puck, towards the sun set at the window, and then back to repeat the process. He does it several times as though actually trying to think it through. On the one hand, most his plans tend to screw up if he rushes into them, but on the other hand.. screw it..

"Indeed, as long as the sun's near to setting, we should be perfectly safe to begin our search." He's impatient too, he can't help it.

[puckishly]

He laughs.

"In which case, prithee arm yourself, sir. I think I've a place to begin."

[weeper_of_blood]

He doesn't need telling twice, and as is usual for him, his choice weapon tends to be smaller blades, pocket knives and switchblade sorts. There's even a longing sort of look as he finally gets to hold one.

"Thought ahead, even? That's what I like to hear."

[puckishly]

"I am nothing if not terribly prudent."

Says Puck, with an entirely straight face.

Then he grins, pocketing a knife or three of his own, and makes for the door. When he opens it, it shows a dim, narrow hallway-- hardly the bar they just left.

"If you will come along, then ..."

[weeper_of_blood]

The choice knife is tucked safely away, daintily so and a smart jacket pulled back over to make sure it remains unseen. He's used to worlds where carrying such items immediately gets you arrested, after all.

"Gladly," he retorts as he follows Puck out, maybe a tad on the twitchy side in his movements, but that's just the usual paranoia mixed with the thrill of the journey.

[puckishly]

The hallway is about as narrow and dim as it appeared from the door, with doors leading off into what are-- presumably-- the rooms of other tenants. Puck takes the stairs two at a time (they make a horrible rickety racket as he goes) and draws Le Chiffre out into the fading light of early evening.

The street is rather dirty, and already populated by the sort of societal detritus that tends to spring up after dark in these parts of town-- vagrants, pickpockets, ne'er-do-wells out for a stroll, the occasional prostitute. Puck glances Le Chiffre's way and smiles.

[weeper_of_blood]

Le Chiffre follows, admittedly somewhat hesitant on occasion as certain doors were passed and the stairs were taken, descending those at the normal method one does with a stairway; one at a time. Even some of the creaks from them have him glancing over his shoulder, but it's a new world and he's allowed to be uncertain. It's like driving a new car, it just takes a bit to get used to.

Their arrival upon the street, however, distracts him entirely from the paranoia and pulls into a state of calculating curiosity. Puck gets a smile in return, because this is just what they need.

[puckishly]

It really, really is.

Puck continues to smile, sweetly.

"Well," he says, conversational, "I should say that there were too many eyes here for our business to be attempted, but mayhap if we progress a little we shall have some luck."

[weeper_of_blood]

"A very wise decision," he agrees, already making a slow move away because he's eager and looking at everything there is to possibly look at. New stuff intrigues him!

Mathematicians like him like to think lots and lots about how, who, what and why.

"Some fine choices out tonight. Plenty of possibilities where Jesus may be found."

[puckishly]

"Oh, we can only hope," Puck laughs.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to our murderous protagonists, the answer to their somewhat less than pious prayers is shuffling about only a few alleys away.

He tends to be identified as "Mad Bill," though any insulting epithet will do, and for as long as anyone can remember has been a favorite victim of the neighborhood children. On this particular evening, having spent an unproductive day in search of some scrap of meat or drop of ale to make him forget for a moment the myriad indignities and hardships of his life, Mad Bill has retired to the dank alley that is-- more often than not-- his home. There, his not-quite-sane muttering is more than a little audible to passers-by, most of whom start to hear it, then scowl and move on.

A few blocks away, Puck's eyes are slightly more luminous that they should be in the darkness.

"It is, at the very least, a charming sort of evening."