by Selestia » Tue Jun 23, 2015 5:50 pm
Constables were not often for the Docks; many of them stuck out like a sore thumb. Like the foxy gold-haired Perilat. Perhaps not a sore thumb, but the man did stand about a bit, almost impeccable aside the dockworkers and longshoremen. But it is a job to do, to go and check every once a while; updated wanted posters with descriptions and sketches were always being circulated, and a good place to disappear, to hop upon a ship and vanish, was right here. Regulars, those with long-term employ, know the detective, even when he was trying to be circumspect, tucking the gold hair back in a braid and hiding it from view in his collar, making his hair look short beneath the wide-brimmed hat. An old hat, but not overly so, no older than the boots on his feet or the dusty grey jerkin; he was trying to not look so proper, as immaculate as he normally did. A poor attempt to blend in, and some of the saltier of the workers and sailors would take notice of this. Not much he could do at this point, but keep on and keep on.
“Baaadger,” he drawls out, voice almost sing-song as he comes around a corner, boots heavy on the dock planks as he peers through a grimy window, looking for a particular purveyor. “Badger? Badger.” His lips press together, teeth biting them before he slaps the glass. “Badger!” A snort, a yell and commotion inside greets the gruff bark before the Constable goes for the door. “I know you’re in there, y’sorry slob. Get out here and don’t make me come in there—it reeks of that swill you like to drink.”
Badger was an older, portly man, all belly with sticks for limbs, his nose long and pointed over a peppered, heavy mustache, watery eyes tiny, squinting. The man looked like a…well, badger. He squints, blinking up at the lawman in the daylight from the door to the musty room. “What,” he squeaks, then clears his throat, making his voice falsely deeper. “What do you want?”
Perilat sighs, leaning against the wall near the door as he slides the parchment out from the jerkin, holding it up for the retired dockworker to see. “Keeping an eye out for this fellow. Y’seen him? There’s a little reward in store for whomever turns him in…” Incentive. Never forget the incentive. The old man guffaws, squinting to peer closer at the picture, and shakes his head. “Naw, ain’t seen ‘im. Y’want t’keep an eye oot?”
“That’s usually how it works,” the lawman replies dryly, tucking the sketch away. “Remember—reward’s not good if he’s on a boat and gone before we bring him in, Badger.” A slap of the weathered wood, and the Constable nods before pushing away, leaving the old man to his daytime napping. Old sod, but he was in the know—if anyone could find him…
Turning the corner, his footsteps slowed, still pushing the paper to its proper location against his breast as he sees. One eyebrow upturns slowly as he squints against the bright light, keeping his steps slow—and quieter. Surely…not. But oh-ho, the lawman would recognize that ridiculous, fancy hat anywhere. “Day’s lookin’ up,” he says to himself, feeling the corners of his mouth turning upward. If he has to spend time at the docks, at least the it would be in better company than hungover has-beens like Badger. He keeps his walk slow, ambling like, beyond the dock workers that gave him a scrutinous look—he did not belong there, did not look like either a worker or sailor. Not even one of the “management” types that mucked about and ran things. Too…unsalty. The man she was speaking to, he did not recognize off the bat—another dockman, sailor…he was not sure. He did not have the salty air of a longshoreman, but…neither did Perilat. It made the lawman’s curiousity pique slightly, especially when the horsewoman poked his chest and let her hand drop. Interesting.
He would not sneak up on them. That was rude—and sometimes dangerous. Do not sneak up on the folk you did not know…and definitely not on the folk you did know that carried weapons. Ailova was just that sort. So his footsteps are loud on the dock, the hardened heels of his boots making heavy thuds as he nears, turning up the tip of his hat with a flair, the grin spreading across a somewhat tanned face. “I know you’re a good hand with horses, but I don’t think kelpies and seahorses are going to fare well on land.”