Minding your own business is always a good idea...

Occasionally, you come across someone that minds your business whether you want them to or not.
~~The wind outside doesn't howl, the candles don't flicker and there are no flashes of lightning. No. Get real people. This is a -modern- age. Instead, a figure appears rather quietly and unobtrusively in a corner of the tavern, tapping his wristfader with apparent annoyance as he looks around. His clothing is, of course, a stark, stylish black, which accents his lovely emerald green hair. His eyes are yellow, calculating and shifty, looking almost like a wolf's. As he stands there, watching the tavern, his hand falls from his 'fader and delves into his pocket, clenching around something in it. Somewhere upon his person, his arm being the likeliest spot, he's secreted a stiletto, black as everything else about him, including his heart.~~

*Nods to Neetles* Evenin'...

~~He steps out of the shadows, towards Blackwater, wearing a grin as feral and shifty as any bobcat or lawyer ever born.~~ 'Lo t'ere trader. How'ya bin?

*Fishes in a pocket, tossing a handful of Grickles on the bar... The barkeep brings a glass of red and a glass of white, not liking the look of Neetles one bit...* I've been fine, yourself? I do have a name...Blackwater Jones.

~~Wary of his personal space as only one raised on the streets can be, he glares around the backwater tavern, his fingers running over something just under the rich black silk of his shirt. Despite the heat, he seems to show no sign of discomfort at all.~~ Gocher'sef a name eh? Well, I allus bin one fer' -fair- tradin', so m'Neetlemyre Knickerbocker. Neetles'fer short. Ya' wan' me ta' call ya' Blacky', er yer' full name er' summat else? ~~Giving a light shrug, he reaches for the red, sipping with another flash of the grin...and those damned barracuda teeth.~~

*Sips his white to cover the fact that those blasted teeth -really- get on his nerves...* Neetles, huh? You from the town of the almost-same name? *Small smirk* Blacky'll work, or Beej, or whatever save 'Lovey' or late for dinner... You like fair trade? *arches a brow...this is unexpected...*

~~He shakes his head, the green hair staying maddeningly in place, though it doesn't look gelled.~~ Who knows? M'from 'tever back'lley th' foun' me in. Don' mek allotta diffrinse. Beej? S'better'n 'Blackey'. ~~His yellow eyes looks over at the man, and up a little, since he's not tall at all, and he snickers, running his tongue over the razor-edges of his teeth.~~ Fair trade. Equ'l werk fer equ'l...profit.

Beej it is, then... *Raises his wine glass in a bit of a toast* Back alley? *Shrugs, seeming not a bit disconcerted... He does note the 'helmet' quality of his 'do...and those God-awful teeth...* *dryly* Equal profit... You don't say...

Beej...~~He seems to roll the name on his tongue for s second, before raising his glass and taking a drink.~~ Nothn' like wakn' up in'ta mornin' an' knowin' who'yer friends'r. An' friends'll help ya' wit' a few things now'n'then. Like findin' people. Er' keepin' quiet 'bout ta' facts'as'they know. If you'wer m'friend, there woun'd be n'need fer' anyone ta' fin' out bout' them people ya' had...removed.

*Regards Neetles coolly* Yes, friends are good to have... I have several. Good ones. Good at what they do, I might add.... I still don't know why you insist on insinuating I had people -removed-, as you put it... *nods* Oh friends are good to have in a pinch... *Drops his voice* awright, how much to join yer 'fan club', sharkmouth?

~~Smiling innocently, the effect somewhat ruined by the cold gleam in his yellow eyes, he snickers.~~ Good'uns? M'better, I betcha. ~~He sips again, pondering the wine with agonizing intensity.~~ Put'cher mind'ta rest Beej. I ain't after yer' money. I wan' infermation I cain't get n'other way. Rumor'as't'cher good at findin' things fer te' right price. Figure'yer'livelyhood'nlife is te' right sum? You innerrest'd, er should I jus' mosey'n'over ta' the right ears?

*Drains his glass and slides it across the bar for a refill as he ponders the Other's words* I suppose you could say that I am quite accomplished at finding hard-to-get items... *a curt nod is his only show of acceptance of the price* Whatchya lookin' for? *A tip of the head to the 'keep as he retrieves his glass*

~~Is that a moment of hesitation there? Nah...couldn't be...~~ I wan'ta know who'm folk's're. Fer' starters s'all. ~~He seems overly quick to add that last disclaimer, running his tongue nervously over his teeth, regarding the man before him with suspicion and a raised emerald brow.~~

*Smiles, secretly rather relieved... He removes a pad and a pencil from a pocket, the wine going untouched* Your parents, Neetles? All right, I'll see what I can do... First off, though, I'll need some info... Do you know for sure 'Neetlemyre Knickerbocker' is your given name? How about your birth date? or age, we can at least pinpoint a year using that... Ah... The city you were found, or grew up in? *Pencil poised, all business, now.*

~~He snorts at the smile from the trader, and shakes his head.~~ This's jus' fer' starters! ~~He motions towards the pad, the most evident movement he's made all evening.~~ Ah dunno. S'not, I'm thinkin', cause when They foun'me I were'n't more'n a littl'sod. Birthdate? Eh? Sheeit! I don' know that! Think'm somewheres 'tween 16'n'20, if y'think that'll hep ya'. I don'really 'member t'name. Got holes'n'...ne'ermin' that! ~~He glares, amber eyes narrowed to slits.~~ Yer' gon' keep this'n'the sly! Ya' hear?

*Blanches slightly* Ooookaaay... *Does several calculations in his head and a few on the paper, finally writing out five separate years* Sixteen and twenty? *Considers Neetles again, frowning as he realizes different lifestyles can age or preserve people... shrugs* For starters? Fine. All right... Think about this city... any fragment of a name come to mind? Anything that'll help... Any names from your very early childhood. *Speaking quietly* To be kept under wraps, I know... And, partially from curiosity and partially because it may help, who're They?

~~He watches curiously as the trader tallies up the the years of his life on the paper, remembering after a moment to look hard.~~ I jus' don' -know-. Ain't ev'n certin'twas te' same city alla'those years. 'T'was allus hot. I 'member tha'much. Chil'ood? Eh? Yer' a queer sort, ain'tcha? Don'member bein' a kid. Don'member mucha'nythin' afore five'r'six years'go. ~~He glances over and up again, yellow eyes returned to their predatory slits, teeth bared over so slightly.~~ Them. Y'know. T'Berties.

Hot? Mmm... Desert city, perhaps? Sand? Annoyingly constant breezes? Just...relax, don't try to force yourself to recall... *Said because it's helpful and also because those -teeth- are too close to his neck...* The Berts... Clever group, them, always looking for a new, sure-fire plot to take over, aren't they? *Scribbles a few possible clues and queries on his paper, then sips from his glass... He watches Neetles for a bit* You don't recall being a child? How...sad...or something... *Shrugs again, feeling awkward and a teeny bit sorry for this man* I am a bit odd... It depends on the definition of 'queer', I suppose.

Desert? Soun's 'bout'right. ~~His eyes narrow almost to the point of being closed as he tries to route through the black fog enshrouding his past. Finally, she sighs, shrugging and reaching for his glass again.~~ Can't. Jus' ain't -there- 't'all. ~~Those teeth indeed...he doesn't seem to notice that in all his nervous flicking of his tongue, he's cut it on those razor-sharp little lovelies and stained them a soft pink.~~ 'Spose so. ~~A shifty look is cast in the treader's direction.~~ P'fer not'ta talk 'bout 'em much. ~~He shrugs again, snorting.~~ Got me s'm spiffy-look'n scars...figger 't'mussa been innerestin'. ~~He grins once more, actual humor this time.~~ Odd-like, though've adda'trader'two wit'te' ot'r kin' s'well.

*Tentatively returns the man's grin, noting the faint stain of blood...eep..he swallows another mouthful of wine, doodling on the pad* Don't have to talk about them if you don't want to, but I must say anything you can think of that might help, well, would help. Interesting scars? Particular shapes, or just from injury? *Shuffles his meager scarification facts, noting a complete lack of, or extremely well-concealed wings...* Um... I'm afraid I didn't quite catch your last sentence...?

~~He frowns, repeating his words slowly, trying not to slur them as he often does, rushing to get everything said before anyone moves too close.~~ Ah sed' Odd-like, not'ta ot'er kind', though've traded wit' them'a time'r'two as well. Bett'r? ~~Snickering, he decides the best way to get his point across is to display, and he begins rolling the sleeve of his shirt back. On his right forearm, traced up and down, are geometric patterns of some kind, made with the point of a knife no doubt. He looks up once, frowning slightly, and pulls the cuff back down.~~ Thos' gonna' hep ya' any? Got 'em al'over. Almos' like a'treasuer map er' somesuch. ~~Snickering at the child's fancy, he licks his lips and takes a wary step away from the trader.~~

Oh, I see... *Nods, a genuine smile gracing his youngish face, he falls back on the oh-so-popular shrug* 'Course, I've got queer friends, too... That -should- set me apart from -most- traders... *Peers at the scarred arm before him* Howabout that? And you're certain you don't recall getting them? *Softly* All over.... Who'd do such a thing? *Louder* Treasure map? *Chuckles, albeit weakly* I don't know... May I draw the ones you showed me and compare them to my maps? It might help, won't, can't hurt...

~~Faintly surprised by the actual smile, he offers another grin in response, though he manages to keep his lips shut for the most part.~~ Eh, y'don' seem'a bad sort. S'why m'pickin' on ya, 'stead 'o some oth'r sneak. ~~Shrugging, as though that should somehow make the man feel better, he nods.~~ Think'ad 'member gettin'm, but ah'can't r'call a lick'o it. ~~He considers for a moment, then nods.~~ Jus' don't -touch- me! S'all I ask...~~Trying to be helpful, he rolls the sleeve back out of the way again.~~

Better you than the Imperial Guard, I s'pose... *This muttered under his breath as he turns to a clean page, deftly sketching the pale lines, not getting -too- close, respecting Neetle's' wishes for the simple reason of there's really no reason to touch him, and he doesn't really want to, either...*

~~He snorts, the term 'Imperial Guard' having a vague sort of meaning to him. Knowing it's trouble, but not being able to recall why...he almost sighs in frustration.~~ 'F ya need t'see th' rest'uvem m'lright wit' 't. Jus' summplace 'lse.

*Finishing his sketching, he holds the notebook near Neetles' arm, comparing them for accuracy...* Good. *Puts the notebook down and takes a long pull of his wine, noting with some disappointment that it has grown warm* Bleah... *Drinks it anyways, not being one to waste wine*

~~He raises an eyebrow at the drawing, snickering softly.~~ Heh...whaddya know? When t'ain't on me, it don' look 'alf-bad! ~~His wine is long gone, though he finds himself wondering at the slightly coppery taste in his mouth.~~

The rest of them? Maybe... Let me see what I can do with these, first... *Cocks a brow, biting his lip, hard, to contain a smirk* Someplace else...? I'm afraid I only know of fairly public places in which to meet... *Decides to shut up to save his skin* *Regards the sketch again* Yeah... Maybe they're just for decoration. *shrugs*

~~He nods once more, catching the almost-smirk, and glares, his stomach giving an unholy lurch.~~ S'not what' a'meant dammit! Fookin' sicko'... ~~As he trails off muttering, he yanks his shirt sleeve back down, feeling vulnerable and exposed all of a sudden.~~ ~~Still grousing, and still feeling ill-at-ease, he snorts rather rudely.~~ Som'body's got'a som'nerve, ''deceratin'' on -my- hide!

*Coughs, suddenly quite aware of having gone past the boundaries of taste, decorum, and the fact that they actually don't know each other well enough to make jokes-come-innuendoes...* Erm, sorry... wine on an empty stomach, goes straight to the brain... But it's true, if you want privacy, if I need to see the rest, you'll have to pick the spot 'cause my place, little as I use it, is the only unpopulated joint I know... Who knows, maybe your finders were too chicken to have it done to themselves....

~~Whatever semblance of ease previously displayed is gone now, replaced by a hard-edged efficiency as he nods and bares teeth in a mock-smile.~~ Yeah? S'what they -all- say'n then... Ferget it. Jus' do whatcher s'posed to. 'll drop ya' a note'r'somesuch inna day'r'two. ~~Glaring, he snorts and turns.~~ See'ya Beej.

*Grimaces to himself, feeling quite glad Neetles didn't give a demonstration of how sharp his teeth actually are... He catches the phrase 'that's what they all say', but chooses to leave it for another day* I'll be around, I've got a bit of business in this area. See you, then. *Watches Neetles go, frowning at the notebook before accomplishing his own fade, extraordinarily puzzled...not only by the mystery of the Others' lineage.*

~~With an angry tap on his 'fader he's ~~gone~~

Continue minding Beej's business...