Jail's just another Alehouse

The world shifted fuzzily. He was supposed to notice people's eyes more, but instead, he saw their souls in their pockets and ribcages. He saw the faint outline of their hearts, the tension in their muscles, and the scars they tried to hide. Keys, pieces of parchment, small blades, and speckles of coins floated against their skin, their clothing just a ghostly outline that faded in and out with its opacity.

The Amnesiac rubbed his gruff eyes in the corner of his cell as a haul of new criminal arrests paraded outside the bars. He'd been tossed in here after he told a shopkeeper where he hid his keyring. Apparently, the shop been robbed last week, which cast suspicion. When the Templar asked him his name, he didn't know what to say. The Amnesiac was grisly, smelly, and knew more than he ought to, and the Templar percieved all of this.

For a while, the Amnesiac was alone in his cell, which gave him time to think: He should not tell people what he saw, and, he should think of a name. 

But now, another man was tossed in beside him. What did he do? The Amnesiac avoided looking at his new cellmate, aware of how strange he must appear when his eyes roved through skin and into bone. 

[color=orange]"How does one even get by in a place like this,"[/color] he asked the other, healf-hearted that there could even be an answer.

Usually, he was breaking himself or people out of prison. This was the first time anyone had asked Colt to willingly go into one. The unusual request had the thief suspicious, upping his price by a few a couple hundred to ease the twist in his gut. Was this age, or was he getting sick, Colt wasn’t sure and none of his magey friends were around to wiggle their sparkly fingers and check.

Despite feeling a little out of it, Colt still played the part of the drunkard, swinging dramatically off one guard while singing. [color=#c10300]“...Countin’ all the arseholes in the roooooom, well, I guess I’m not aloooone, I’m not aloooooone.”[/color] The guard, bless him, was visibly grown tired of the lads antics, gripping his shoulders roughly and shoving him through the cell door. Colt stumbled on cue, the song suddenly cut off for making sure he didn’t plant himself into the floor. [color=#c10300]“RUDE!”[/color] he’d cry back, stumbling back to the now closed door to holler at the guards retreating back. [color=#c10300]“Could’a hurt ma’sel!” [/color]

His cellmate hadn’t been noticed until he spoke, causing Colt’s head to sharply turn.[color=#c10300] “How does anyone? … Usually cos they’re stupid. Sometimes luck. Other times…”[/color] he raised his arms, giving the man a mock bow.[color=#c10300] “Other times the drink, plus luck, plus stupid. Stupid is as stupid does.” [/color]

Maybe he shouldn’t have had that bottle or two of rum for this. Na. He’d be fine, might even be fun doing it, but it would certainly be a story.

OOC: Song - Volbeat: Still Counting

Jorah rubbed the curls of his beard thoughtfully, eyes still glued to his cot. Then, almost in surrender, his other hand joined the former, and he pressed them so hard into the sides of his cheeks that his face deformed, stretched. He was trying so hard to remember.

Liquor. He remembered wine. He knew the crisp, sweet flavor of it. The thought of heady giddiness - it made him aloof? 

He shot a quick glance at the rambling man, a comedic, bowing skeleton. Jorah found himself staring at the way his jawbone bounced as he spoke, before glancing over his body, whatever objects he had in his pockets outlined with a color there were no words to describe. He swallowed, returning his guilty look to the floor before continuing.

Stupid, and luck, and drink. I see... he trailed off, changing the slant of what he was saying abruptly, You are humble and wise. For what do I owe the good luck that such wisdoms are tossed in beside me? He offered what was left of his face in a smile.

It was a kind, and yet a wry, lost look that hung in his eyes. Like those of confused old men, or young women who lie to themselves.

Colt sighed, slumping against the nearest wall. Definitely shouldn’t have had the second bottle, oh well. Eyes lazily took in the cell and in the process of making various mental notes he’d conclude the only way out, was the way they came in. His brow skewed when his gaze finally fell back on his cellmate, poor man looked like a lost sheep, wrangled off in the middle of the night by some ‘napper. 

[color=#c10300]“It’s no’ all tha’ bad. Chin up, bud.”[/color] Colt started, but then wisdom was cast on him and there was no hiding how his head threw back and he cackled,[color=#c10300] “Me? Wise? Na. Na. Just savvy, this is payin’ well bein’ here.” [/color]

Be it the extra confidence the rum brought out, or the fact he was just going to have fun on this job, Colt scuttled over to his companion’s cot,  the kind look an instant invitation. Folding his lanky limbs under him, he periodically used one hand to keep him upright while the other rested over his knee’s. Colt’s toothy grin though pulled back slightly, lines beginning to appear across his brow.

[color=#c10300]“...You ok though, bud? You look a tad peaky, yourself. Hangover? Shitty things, prob have one after I finish and head home for a nice kip.”[/color] Colt sniffed in a deep breath and then sighed glumly,[color=#c10300] “fuckin’ hate ‘em, but I’d rather be booked for drunken disorder than anything else.”[/color] A finger tapped the side of his nose, voice lowering a little though the secret wouldn’t be a secret since he had company. [color=#c10300]“Colt needs his hands if we’re getting out later. Mum’s the word.” [/color]

Peaky... Jorah muttered, his accent mimicing Colt's quite well. Then he slipped back into his Antivan skin. Maybe, it is as you say. A hangover. But I don't know. You see, I woke up in a forest several days walk from here. I couldn't speak well, but that sorted itself out in about a day. But I still can't remember much... of anything. Who I am.

He turned sharply to look at his cell mate. A desperate pout leaned on his brow.

Do you think I look like a Raphael? Or a Pedro?

Colt’s balance slipped back onto his ass as his new found friend explained his woes. [color=#c10300]“Awwww man, that’s shite. Sure, there have been times I wished I couldn’t remember shit, and for a while you do, but it hits you later like a… a… what’s the wor- Avalanche! Thaat’s it.” [/color]

[color=#c10300]“Day’s though,” [/color]he whistled, [color=#c10300]“that’s different.”[/color] Colt’s hands found his lap, but he leaned forwards a little, brows uneven and head tilting side to side. After a moment, his lips pursed in thought before offering a shrug.

[color=#c10300]“Dunno man, but I’m Colt. How bout we just call you Smithy, unless of course you like either of them. Pedro’s fine, Raphael makes you sound a bit of a knob though.”  [/color]

Smith, the amnesiac repeated, attention shifting from Colt to what lied past the bars of their cell. I'll take it. It will always remind me I have a friend, somewhere, he said warmly. You be careful with whatever makes you forget. Maybe it is what made me forget, for all we know. He spoke as a kind neighbor might tell another neighbor their pig got loose and which way it went. Then, he shrugged, and let the door slap shut on his problem. He had a name now, and nothing could be done about the rest of it.

So I'm Smithy, he said, enjoying the word. And I got this, he said, pulling out the slim spoon. Slim enough to jig a lock, which was hard when you couldn't see the inside of the mechanism, but Smithy thought he could fiddle with it. He looked long at the lock, holding the spoon. He hadn't fiddled with it because he'd been wondering how he knew he could fiddle with it. But now that Smithy's buddy was in here with him, he figured he ought to stop thinking of just himself.

Good size, yes?

Colt’s teeth flashed with his widening grin and he’d nod at Smithy. He'd offer the man a hand to shake, “Nice to meet you Smithy, and aye, I’ll try I suppose. There’s a few things I’m on the fence about forgetting though,” like a silver haired elf. He’d blink, cos technically there was another one, but that bitch he had so far avoided a repeat encounter with. He’d suppress the shudder that threatened to crawl over him as he recalled her magic and lovely reminder of how she nearly had him shitting his pants. "Women, right?"

Fucking mages, really.

As the spoon came out of his new friend Smithy’s pocket, Colt’s hands wrapped around the utensil, head spinning around to check the door and any other viewpoints into the cell. “Oooh we don’t flash our toys, Smithy,” he’d chuckle, gently urging the man to put it away. “Gotta wait till it’s a little darker. Night time is best for when we start,” he’d motion turning an invisible lock, face contorting to one side, “schinkin’ it and heading home. I think yours might be too big, but I got some nice thin bits for these garbage locks.”

Suddenly he frowned, head half thinking ahead and where he’d be heading next, but what about his new mate Smithy. “...Speakin’ of home though.. You do remember where that is, aye?”

Ah, I see..." Jorah raised a furtive eyebrow and lowered his voice.

Home? Perhaps - I have forgotten myself, he managed, an Antivan oxymoron profoundly real, he realized. Flustered by this weakness, he continued to ramble. Is that what you call these? 'Thin bits'? Jorah said, pointing steadily at the place the young man kept them on person.

With a light chuckle Colt made sure the man secured away the spoon. He wasn’t currently aware of what the cell locks were like, but experience had taught him that most were poorly designed.

THe answer to his question though had his expression deflate with a slow sigh, Well, not gonna lie Smithy, that’s pretty tragic. Then he said something weird, it made him blink hard enough his head shifted back to regard him. A carefully wrapped set of picks had been sewn into the seam of his inner shirt, right where the man pointed.

You sure you ain’t a mage? he quizzed, hand shifting to rub over the seam absently, like he was just patting himself down. How you do that?