Late at night on the 36th of Achtus, 2718
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Xavier Zhirune had been a street rat once, well, a sky rat, a pirate, an orphan of sorts. They'd been a stolen child instead of an abandoned one, taken from their mother and father who they were quite sure loved them and sold to whoever wanted their pale, half-bred, lanky self on board their airship. They'd not been uncared for, however, for the crew that took them on wasn't heartless—on the contrary, they seemed keen to have a lithe sliver of moonlight wriggling in tight spaces, cleaning up messes, and making cute faces to sweeten the deal with both clients and other merchants. They'd found their place among a group of folks who were hardly honest traders, learning to pilfer pockets and read a crowd, picking up a few instruments and discovering they were a natural at all kinds of performances.
Xavier had, apparently, been born to put on a show of things. Anything.
"Well, a'right, maybe a few folks noticed." The albino wick winked with a conspiratory sort of tone to their soft voice, resisting the urge to use one of their sleeves to wipe the blood that was now staining the boch's little face. Her mention of not having anywhere to live and hardly a place to stay soured their expression a little, no matter the cheerful voice the girl chose to deliver things in. Violet gaze flitting to the small furry creature that peeked out of her belongings before returning to the child's face, "No home? Not even one with a decent roof, eh? Dze, I don't have one, either. I jus' borrow everyone else's."
The willowy Gioran grinned, though they'd toned themselves down a bit in the company of a child, refraining from admitting they'd borrow a bed, a body, or an entire home when they could or pay for a room when they couldn't. Tonight, like last night, they'd rented themselves a room—which was waiting for them—but the mention of Brunnhold brought an unmistakable hint of color to their pigmentless cheeks and deepened their grin into an expression that delicately balanced nostalgia and mischief,
"You gonna go t' that fancy school, chip?" Hummed the musician, vaguely sure the young, eager pickpocket was tekaa like themselves, "Oh—saw me? Oes, Crosstown Court's a nice score for a pina boch like y'self. Ent anyone pay y' much mind, did they? Ne—I don't—I ent takin' ging from th' likes 'f you. Didn't steal anythin' that weren't yers anyway—fair 'n square if y' got 'em first."
Waggling lithe, bejeweled fingers in exaggerated dismissal, Xav shook their head, refusing the coins and the watch, "Ne, boch. Travel's expensive, at least when yer no' th' one flyin' on th' ship, ye chen. I jus' came from that way, an' once th' Arova frosts up, it ent gonna be a fun trip. Keep th' watch an' th' coin—you'll need it."
They paused, violet gaze wandering over the dirty, bloodied thing that probably needed a few extra meals and a really long bath. With soap. With a lot of soap. Soap with bubbles.
The albino wick wasn't really someone to ever admit they liked children. Or were good with them. But they'd been a child once and they'd certainly been an orphaned child for what felt like ever, even if it was just barely half of their existence. They'd scraped by on their own or with a hand up from some stranger. Even if the lil' thing had tried to pilfer their pockets, they had this moment to be the hand up for someone else.
It was ... well, it was alright. They could do this sort of thing, this altruism thing, without too many strings attached. They were just intoxicated enough that the world was softer around the edges and everything seemed like a plumb good idea, that being fair generous with some bloodied boch on the street with a pet furry sausage wouldn’t get their pretty, pale self cott in the dark and their silver jewels stolen while they stained sheets with the last of their life. Surely, this wee thing was decent enough, what with their big, nanobo eyes and their sweet offers of stolen goods returned.
What harm could there be?
"Listen, I ent th' best o' vroomancers when 't comes t' bodies. I like sparkles an' songs, but y' got a bit 'f a bump there on th' ice an' I did what I could. Maybe I fixed 't, but maybe I didn't." Xavier cleared their throat, a motion that to the not so casual observer would have given some of them away when they swallowed but to the far more casual observer revealed very little since they weren't really looking for the reality of what the pale musician really was. Not that they were anything but themselves anyway,
"If I say y' can stay with me so I can keep an eye on yer brainbox, y' gotta promise not t' rob me blind, ye chen? A bit more change in yer pocket ent gonna hurt me any, ne, but there's some 'f m' things y' can't have. Oh, an' y' gotta wash. Maybe twice."
That last bit was said with the most serious of sideyes, the willowy creature of moonlight smirking with a bit of challenge to their tone, hooking a long thumb in the woven strap of the oud slung over their shoulder, "Boemo?"