I don't really know what to say. I think the summary pretty much describes it.

Last edited May 23rd 2016.

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The Earl and the Urchin

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The man handed two photographs to the boy, stating: "Information on the location of either is worth half a shilling."

The boy grudgingly took them, scrutinised them and then looked back up, his eyes still somewhat narrow. "How recent are we talking?"

The man did not hesitate. "Three months."

The boy hummed slightly at that. "They were both here last month, but I haven't seen or heard of them since."

"Are you certain?" the man asked, earning himself a decidedly snappish look.

"Unlike some, I've got a good memory for faces," the boy scoffed.

"Do you know where they went?" the man asked.

The look sent his way proved decidedly calculating. "That depends on how much the info's worth to you."

Again, the man did not hesitate. "Two shillings."

Neither did the boy. "Cheap."

"Five," the man suggested.

"Do you really want to find these people?" the boy asked, having the gall.

Really, in any other, the man would have found such behaviour infuriating rather than endearing. "Ten."

"Why?"

Well‒ "You might call it a casual interest."

"Is that all?"

Hardly. Still‒ "Is it not enough for you?"

"It seems like a lot of money for so little effort."

Indeed, but‒ "Appearances can be deceiving."

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Appearances could indeed be deceiving.

Despite hating Innocence and humanity in general, the Millennium Earl had an admitted soft spot for children. Particularly those destitute but resourceful, that had not been coddled or spoiled rotten by well-meaning elders, appealed to his tastes. It was hardly more than a passing interest though, one that oftentimes ended in some small act of charity before the recipient disappeared from both sight and mind.

This one was different though, the Earl privately supposed; to the extent that 'peculiar' might even be considered applicable.

The first time that the Earl had laid eyes upon him was during the winter of the previous year, at the scene of a fatal accident. Even though said accident had managed to attract quite a bit of a crowd, the Earl had taken note of the youth standing close to the scene, holding back a clearly distraught but mostly quiet comrade.

There had been something about the youth's expression that had made him pause; a deadpan kind of look that proved deceptive when the youth ‒ acutely aware of his brief scrutiny ‒ abruptly shifted his attention from the battered body on the cobblestones to the Earl where he stood, and levelled his human appearance with a look that was so cold it proved searing.

Searing or not however, the look had only been maintained for as long as it took the Earl's coachman to reach him with the news that local law enforcement would ensure that the mess would be taken care of and that they would be able to continue onward without much delay.

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That second time had been that very night, when the grief of the distraught boy from before had summoned the Earl to him. However, before the Earl had managed to even make his presence known and way before a deal could even be made, the youth from before had turned up with another youth in a tow, addressing the bereaved in a tone that was as hard and as flat as the look that accompanied it.

"Bates, if Artie saw you now, he'd want to kick your arse. Hell, like this, even Wisely could kick your arse."

Wisely. That definitely piqued the Earl's interest, and when the group left, he made careful note of their respective appearances.

The boy called Bates was quickly passed over in favour of the latter two, who had proven all the more intriguing.

The one called Wisely had messy brown hair and looked to be both the tallest and the eldest out of the bunch. However, he was obviously deferring to the shorter youth whose hair was similarly messy but definitely had some red to it, and presumably also more of it beneath all that dirt.

Again, as if somehow sensing his scrutiny, the leader of the pack snapped his head around, silver-grey eyes snapping to the darkened corner wherein he had concealed himself, remaining there just long enough for the Earl's interest not to wane.

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The third time had been in the early spring, when the boy called Bates ‒ whose full name was apparently Charley Bates ‒ had tried and failed to get away with picking the Earl's pocket.

Surprisingly, the Earl had found that he recognised him, and his curiosity regarding the fate of the other two had him drag the sputtering Bates off into an empty alleyway rather than to the appropriate authorities. As expected, his enquiry regarding the others was met with some amount of confusion, one that was swiftly followed by suspicion and obstinate silence.

Though sorely tempted to try out other more forceful means, the Earl had forced himself to remain patient. He had hauled out his pouch, withdrawing about a guinea's worth of shillings and presenting it before the aspiring pickpocket. Said pickpocket in turn had looked like he had never seen so much money in his entire life, which may or may not actually have been the case. "A sign of my goodwill, Mr. Bates."

The boy had obviously been startled by the familiarity and had remained wary, though there was the underlying hint of desperation hidden in his eyes; an underlying desperation that would no doubt undermine what stubborn resistance still remained if the right reassurances were given.

Providing said assurances, the Earl had been granted a brief account that indeed, the others were still alive. However, there had been obvious hesitance in admitting that they were both well, for reasons that would become apparent to him later that night, when the redheaded leader of the group had both figuratively and literally descended upon his doorstep; it was actually Sheril Kamelot's doorstep, but when it all came down to it, that was a mere question of semantics.

Either way, since the child had actually gone through the effort of climbing a tall wrought iron fence as opposed to waiting outside of the gates, the Earl figured that he might as well go and find out what they wanted.

"Good evening."

Out in the dark, silver-grey eyes narrowed in response to his greeting.

"What can I do for you, child?" the Earl eventually proceeded, and the eyes remained narrow.

"You can take your charity and go to Hell," the boy finally snapped, stepping forth and into the light escaping from the open doorway in which the Earl himself stood.

"Charity, is it?" the Earl commented, taking a step forward himself and shutting the door partially behind him, eyeing the pouch held out towards him.

When he didn't take it immediately, a look of considerable exasperation crossed the child's face; it remained perfectly visible to him even in the relative lack of light.

There was a beat of silence as the child shifted his posture slightly, apparently coming to a decision.

In the moment that followed, the Earl readily caught the pouch lobbed at him.

"Make sure that the sum's right," the boy instructed, his voice clipped. "If Charley's lying, then I'll bloody throttle him."

The Earl opened up the pouch, pouring out its contents into the cup of his palm. "And why is that, pray tell?"

The eyes continued watching him and coldly at that. "Because I don't feel like owing you anything."

"So," the Earl proceeded. "As per my understanding of your logic, stolen money is perfectly acceptable, whilst money given freely is not?"

A positively withering look was sent his way, but he hardly paid it any heed. "One shilling's gone."

The narrowed eyes widened a fraction and were then averted, glaring darkly off into the distance. "That goddamned twat…"

Noting the word but making no comment, the Earl proceeded to pour the money back into the pouch. "If charity is no good, then you may consider it blood money if you like."

The eyes widened slightly and then narrowed, but they were still staring off into the distance. "It was Artie's cockiness and stupidity that got him killed, with some help from your coach," the boy then proceeded, turning his head to look at him. "He was too busy celebrating his latest catch to pay attention to the road ahead."

"Even so, a human life is a human life," the Earl countered, regarding him closely. "Isn't it worth at least one shilling?"

He actually earned himself a small chuckle at that; the first sign of amusement ‒ albeit wry ‒ that he had up until then observed.

"You're only worth as much as you can give," the boy scoffed. "And if you give nothing, you get nothing."

The "And then you are nothing" was heavily implied, but remained unsaid.

"Give and take, is it?"

There was a mild shrug in response. "I'll have your shilling tomorrow evening at the latest," the boy said, obviously ready for imminent departure. "Then we're even."

"And if I'd be willing to settle the debt in some other way?"

The boy stiffened at that. "If you touch me, I'll kill you."

Oh?

The boy shifted his posture slightly, levelling him with a look that was anything but warm. "And I'm not giving you Wisely either, even if he's a smartarse, or Charley, even if he's a twit," the boy said, remaining tense and obviously wary. "And I'm not touching you either," he then added, with all the more venom to it.

Oh. "I can assure you that I make no habit out of assaulting children."

The look sent his way informed him of just how little weight his assurance carried. "You've got more money than you could ever need and no need for a pickpocket, and besides that and my body, there is nothing that I have that you could possibly want."

"And if my wish is to trade the money owed for information that only you can provide?"

There was a brief pause during which something changed, and something beyond that of mere distrust glimmered in the boy's eyes; a calculating look, almost. "And what information would that be?"

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Red Herring was the name of the clever waif that gained the brunt of the Earl's interest, the leader of a small gang of street urchins. There were five of them in total, ranging in-between the ages thirteen and sixteen. Initially, they had started out as three; Jack, Charley and Tom were the youngest, but had stayed together since their mutual decision to ditch the workhouse.

Back then, Jack had been the leader of their little group, seeing that he had been deemed the most cunning. However, he had been ousted from both positions with the inclusion of the gang's senior members, first from his position of leadership by Red and then from his position as the most cunning by Wiseacre Wisely Cunningham, aptly baptised as such by Red due to being an insufferable smartarse.

In return, Wisely, who unlike the rest of them could read quite well and had no qualms about showing off, bestowed the rest of them with some last names for the sake of irony. Thus, Jack became Jack Dawkins, Charley became Charley Bates, and Tom became Tom Chitling, aptly named so after some of the characters in Wisely's favourite novel. Red was in turn bestowed with the surname Herring after rolling his eyes at the argument regarding which of them would be better suited for the name Oliver Twist.

Apparently, Red had then declared that Wisely, despite being the oldest and the tallest of them, was also the meekest in the bunch and the least adapted to his surroundings, and that as such, he was the best suited for bearing the name. Wisely himself on the other hand argued that even Oliver Twist could throw a mean punch if the situation called for it, to which the others conceded with the reservation that Red would still be able to kick his arse, because that much went without saying; Red was not the leader for nothing after all.

Wisely might've been sixteen and almost two years Red's senior, but Wisely himself wasn't even ashamed to agree when the other's commented that he wasn't even an eighth of the fighter that Red was. Then again, Red ‒ whoever he had been before joining the gang about four years prior ‒ was in a class of his own, as Jack, Charley and Tom had come to discover firsthand and rather painfully at that.

They were five. With the sudden departure of Jack "the Artful Dodger" Dawkins to the afterlife as opposed to Australia, they were now four.

Soon, there would be only two.

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