Either he was getting world weary, or the thieves these days were getting younger and younger. And sloppy...Simon watched with a well trained eye as the bouncy elf-mix worked the marketplace. He himself was waiting in the shade of the farrier's barn, inside the doorframe so he could keep an eye on Fairwind. The Percheron gelding had thrown a shoe and was unhappy to have the farrier refitting him, but the grey horse seemed to know that Simon was not in the mood for playing Nippy Bitey.
Okay, she wasn't sloppy. The zombified ex-thief watched her bump-and-snatch technique critically and saw that she was relying on her big eyes and winning smile a lot more than- well, no. There was the once with the nobleman, who didn't seem to realize his jeweled pin was missing. Then the very clean cut on the purse on the back of the belt of the man getting his boots shined. Hm.
The elven woman made her way across the courtyard, mark by mark, being careful not to get too much attention. She seemed to be heading for the inn, so Simon made a split decision and tossed a coin to the farrier's assistant.
"Stable him when you're done, please. I've decided to spend the night at the inn after all." His voice hadn't done any improving. He still sounded like a three pack a day smoker who was on his last half of a lung, and he hated it. Once upon a time, he mused, he'd been as sticky fingered as the elf. Those were days long gone...or maybe not so long.
His quiet stride took him across the courtyard, too. The sun was beginning to set and the sky, oh it was glorious. Threads of amethyst and gold lit up the pink and red horizon, forcing him to stop and appreciate it over the rooftops. A spark of his old mischievous joy lit up in him and he decided to approach the other thief. Perhaps old times didn't have to die.
The inn was styled to look quaint; the sign above the door proclaimed it to be "The Dancing Pig" and it had a cartoonish sow dancing and drinking a pint of ale illustrated on it. The three story building boasted a stone and clapboard exterior, trying to look more quaint and rural than the city surrounding it. Was it some sort of schtick? Probably. If it was designed to reel in travelers and comfort seekers, then it worked. The place was crowded with what seemed to be an entire shift of workers (mill workers? Dockmen? Factory workers? Didn't matter) getting drunk, singing songs, and heckling the entertainment on stage. Knife-ears wasn't too hard to spot, so the taller thief approached.
In his experience, there were two ways to gain respect when you were in the lightfingers line of work. You could lift something impressive, or you could leave something where it didn't belong. When he'd been much younger, his first jobs as a padfoot had been leaving messages on bedside tables and in coat pockets of his gang leader's blackmail targets. The fact that he would double dip the job and come away with coin purses and other trinkets just meant his boss had to pay him less. Getting the elf's attention would come from the same skillset, so Simon considered the best means of making a statement, made his move, and sat next to her.
"Nice little jabber you've got...keeping it oiled and sharp, I see. 'Take care of your tools, and they'll take care of you,' my old fence used to say. Glad to see that such wisdom is still being applied." After commenting on the dagger he lifted from her belt (it really was well taken care of. Maybe he misjudged her earlier), he handed it back, hilt first.