Thievery's An Art Form ~ [WT]

semper
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Thievery's An Art Form ~ [WT] May 27, 2012 15:16:04 GMT -5

Post by semper on May 27, 2012 15:16:04 GMT -5

Sewanee Clark

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03436a - thoughts
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teal - lyrics/quotes[/center]

The house is huge. One of the best in District Ten, no doubt. Only the houses of the Victors are more grand.

Nobody is home – no lights, no sounds. I look up at the orange and red-streaked evening sky. It’s not completely dark, but it’s good enough.

I sneak around to the back door, pulling out a small mechanism from my pocket. Checking to make sure I’m still alone, I crouch down and set to work on picking the lock below the doorknob. Ever since I managed to snap this contraption off a dozing, drunken Peacekeeper, I’ve been able to clean up my break-ins. It’s come quite in handy; no more broken glass or doors kicked off hinges.

After meticulously working, the lock retracts and I slowly open the door. I pause – there’s no alarm, no dogs, and no people. I don’t smell anything wafting out from within that would signify occupancy, so I conclude that no one is home.

Even though no one’s here, I am sure to stay as quiet as I can. The door closes noiselessly behind me.

Despite the darkness, I can tell that this house is elegantly decorated. Rich idiots. Except for Mace. He’s actually pretty decent.[/color] Just imagining how much all of these items must cost puts a scowl on my face. Probably this lamp alone could give us enough money for food for an entire year.[/color] I look at the lamp placed in the middle of a square, wooden table. The body of it looks like a vase with some intricately designed golden handles on either side of the top, and the shade looks like it was made out of leaves. For a moment I consider just stealing the whole lamp, but we don’t need one. Instead, I reach in and unscrew the light bulb and pull it out. I then take a worn leather bag from my pocket and place the bulb in carefully.

I gather more light bulbs from various places throughout the house – most of which are just easy to reach – and make my way into the kitchen. There, I rummage through the cabinets and drawers, taking cans of dried fruit, berries, glass drinking cups, some silverware, and even a small cutting board. It’s a bit larger than my normal haul, but I don’t want to slip up the chance for these nice things.

As I’m heading out, I pass by a study room – but something catches my eye in there. Upon entering the dark room, I smell the scent of paint and wax. Smells like one of Myriail’s pieces of art.[/color] I snoop around the desk, and sure enough, there’s about twenty colored pencils all banded together in a bundle. She’ll like these.[/color] I put them in the leather sac, and I even take a few cans of paint and paint brushes. I don’t know exactly what all my sister uses for her art, but these might come in handy.

I cover my tracks as much as I can, being sure to lock the door behind me on my way out.

I don’t feel bad at all for stealing. I do it for my family. None of us make very much money, so the only way we can get nice things is by “borrowing” it from other people. My family all knows that I steal, but I don’t think it bothers any of them. Well, actually, I take that back. Ever since I was whipped in the District Square for throwing rocks at Peacekeepers, my parents have been worried about me. I don’t know why – I mean, I’ve never been caught and I’m always careful about covering up my tracks. It’s not that hard to be a thief. Whether they appreciate the things I get for them or not, that’s a whole new matter.

Entering my house, I set the leather bag down on the kitchen table, carefully pulling out all the light bulbs. First thing’s first, gotta be able to see.[/color] I pull a chair over to the light that is supposed to light up the kitchen (it’s either so dim that no light can get through or it’s broken all together), unscrew the old one and put in the new one.

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i hear the mountains calling me home

WT
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Thievery's An Art Form ~ [WT] Jun 5, 2012 2:03:08 GMT -5

Post by WT on Jun 5, 2012 2:03:08 GMT -5

The problem with—or perhaps the blessing of—relying on sound for warnings is that such habits develop into an almost paranoid reaction. Every noise is a reason to halt all motion; every sudden silence creates a shot of adrenaline.

This is what brings Myriail from her small room. Blanket drawn tightly over her shoulders, feet bare to muffle the noise, she steps into the hallway with wide eyes and discomfortingly open ears. Part of her wants to run for her wax, pretend that the sound she heard was a dream or a premonition, and fall asleep in the security of artificial silence. But silence has already fallen on its own, meaning that either something from the future tried to get through and failed, or something is happening right now. In the house. Well into the witching hours, when everyone was usually asleep. Whatever it is, she isn't stupid enough to want to charge at it, but she needs to know if she should wake her family and flee.

Another sound, this one briefer but louder, has her shooting her head up and around to face the kitchen. Moving carefully, with all the stealth of someone who learned in childhood to avoid drawing attention, she finds the proper doorway and presses herself against the wall next to it. Her heart races, but no increase of volume next door indicates that she's been heard, so she takes a deep breath and slides her face to the right until one eye manages to peer into the next room. Instantly she relaxes. Where she expected an interloper, she finds only her brother's familiar shape—although what he's doing on a chair in the kitchen at this hour, she can't fathom—

Her eyes catch the bag sitting on the table behind him. Thieving again, then. Though neither surprised nor exactly disapproving (goodness knows she's filched her share of supplies, for sanity's sake if not always physical necessity), Myriail frowns slightly. If he made it back home, that means he was careful, but she can't help but worry.

Myriail doesn't announce her entrance. There's no need to; footsteps are footsteps, whether they belong to a younger sister or a returning homeowner, and she has no doubt that footsteps are one sound Sewanee is well attuned to. In the silence she clunks her elbows on the table and rests her head on one hand, using the other to brush matted curls from her forehead as she watches her brother work. The bulb looks shockingly delicate in his large hands. Somewhere in that image, something—the glint of the bulb reflecting every iota of light in the dark room, the fragility of untried glass beneath overworked fingers—begs to be drawn. Without direction her fingers twitch downward, but there is nothing for them to catch.

Flustered, Myriail sits up, pulls both hands inward, and distracts herself with speaking. "Where'd that come from?" It comes out sounding accusatory. Hoping to soften the blow, she adds, "Anything else that useful?"

((Ahahahaaaarhg. *dies* First post stickiness. Sorry about that. On the bright side, yay Clark siblings! *dances*))

'the way we lived' in stylized text, with 'character directory' as a subtitle underneath

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Thievery's An Art Form ~ [WT] Jul 26, 2012 10:08:08 GMT -5

Post by semper on Jul 26, 2012 10:08:08 GMT -5

Sewanee Clark

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245a7a - actions
03436a - thoughts
3d9ad1 - speaking
0969a2 - others' speech
teal - lyrics/quotes[/center]

It takes a few tries. Twist, wait. Unscrew, screw back in. Wait. I bite my tongue and give a short, gruff sigh. If it’s the wiring that’s not causing the bulb to light up, then I’ll have a whole new set of things needing to be “borrowed,” and it’s going to be messy. Not to mention it’ll take quite some time to get the length of wiring required and the risk of me being caught will escalate very quickly. I’m not even going to think about that until I’m completely sure it’s the wiring and not another faulty bulb.[/color] I unscrew the clear glass ball and examine it.

I’m unaware of the sound of footsteps until there’s a sudden “thunk” sound behind me. If it were my parents they would have said something, so I know it’s not them. That only leaves my sister. I twist the light bulb in again and wait semi-patiently for the interior wiring to come alive with light, but it’s still dead and dark. A scowl twists my face.

”Where’d that come from?” A pause. ”Anything else that useful?”

Useful.[/color] I scoff. This bulb was anything but useful. I roughly take out the light bulb again, examining it in the dim light. ”Some hot-shot’s giant house,” I answer absentmindedly, my eyes still trained on the glass orb. ” I got some utensils, cups, food, and even a cutting board. Look through the bag and take whatever you want.” Sooner or later she’d find the art supplies I found. Even if my parents found it instead, they’d hand it to her without a second guess. I know she loves creating colored works, so every chance I get I snatch up some pencils or wax or what have you. Usually I can only find paper for her, but whenever I come across a rich stash like I did at that mansion, you can bet anything that I’d wipe them clean of any drawing or coloring utensils.

”Fucking dammit.” The bulb refuses to light and I refuse to be played by it any longer. Even though the wires are intact, something is wrong with it, obviously. I wouldn’t have gotten this damn bulb if I knew it wouldn’t work, but the lights would’ve had to be on and I can’t do that. Turning on lights makes you get caught.[/color] I step down off the chair and toss the infernal glass ball onto the table that holds my bag. I doubt anything can be salvaged from the damn thing, but I’ll leave it up to Myriail. Maybe she’ll use it as an art piece, or something.[/color] I pull the chair back to the table and sit down, setting my elbows on the hard surface and resting my face in my hands.

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((I'm sorry it took me so long. Dx ))
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i hear the mountains calling me home

WT
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Thievery's An Art Form ~ [WT] Sept 15, 2012 0:53:01 GMT -5

Post by WT on Sept 15, 2012 0:53:01 GMT -5

The light bulb flop is disappointing but not surprising. Good luck does not grace Clarks often, and when it does it tends to backfire. Had the thing lit up, only to proceed to explode, Myriail would not have been shocked. The bag, though—that still holds hope. Myriail listens intently to her brother's description as she slides over a chair and starts rooting through the contents, studying each new object for a moment before setting it down. One by one an arc of distinct stacks forms around her, forks on the left and cups on the right, food and other objects neatly arranged around the sack. None of it is particularly interesting, but it's all useful; kitchen replacements can get expensive, so even duplicates are always welcome.

She doesn't so much find the pencils as realize, with a skirl of breath too sudden to suppress, that they are in her hands. A hint frantically, she looks back and forth between the box and her brother, hoping he sees her wide-eyed gratitude. While Myriail's own supply is doing well in terms of quantity, this set is far superior to anything she could hope to swipe from her beleaguered art teacher. Several already seem badly worn when she pokes inside, but that does nothing to temper the thrill of imagination. Colors she hasn't blended properly in months, realistic skies, subtle pattern shifts... Properly excited now, she digs out the last of the bag: a small sketchpad and, wonder of wonders, an almost brand-new eraser. Almost reverently she curls her fingers around that last, wondering how well it works. This will take some testing, but-

Something rhythmic—footsteps?—breaks her concentration. With a sharp exhale she turns, but the sound vanishes before she can pin it down, leaving behind an unsettlingly clear echo. Then Sewanee curses and tosses down the broken bulb, and even that remnant of noise is shattered.

Suddenly she wants out of the room with a desperation she can't quite justify. Enthusiasm drained, she sets the eraser and pad next to the pencils and stands gingerly. "I'm going to put this stuff away," she says as she gathers all the silverware in one fell swoop, then steps away without bothering to see if he follows or even acknowledges the words.

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Thievery's An Art Form ~ [WT] Jan 17, 2013 18:25:57 GMT -5

Post by semper on Jan 17, 2013 18:25:57 GMT -5

Sewanee Clark

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I sit with a huff, frustrated at the light bulb. The one in the kitchen has needed to be changed for quite some time, and of all the things you steal, I would say that bulbs are the most noticeable. If people realize a bulb is missing – those things can’t ever just disappear on their own[/color] – then they know that someone has been there. People usually don’t notice utensils missing unless they have just enough for everyone in their family. But then again, you can just get lucky and people won’t really realize it’s missing or they think someone else messed with it and just forgot about it. It really just boils down to covering up your tracks again. As long as you’re careful, people will just assume the culprit was someone in their family.

Myriail has put the stolen goods into separate piles on the table. We weren’t in dire need of any new silverware or candlesticks or anything, but it never hurts to have duplicates – and even though we have extras, we still can’t afford to break or lose one.

My eyes trail along the items until they come across the art supplies I specifically snagged for her. I know she’s seen it because I never took it out of the sack; but as I look at her face, I thought she would react differently. I’m not that good at showing compassion or anything other than anger or bitterness, so when I do care for someone – like Myriail – I may not be able to talk about things but I can do things for them. I guess I had expected her to smile, or something, maybe even a ”Thank you, Sewanee,” but she looks as if she needs to go away.

”I’m going to put this stuff away.” Before I can really react she takes up the silverware and moves off, leaving the art supplies behind. I watch her retreating form for a few moments and then look back at the pencils, eraser, and paper pad. Does she like them?[/color] I consider going after her but stop. How do I even ask that?[/color] I’ve never been good at communicating and every time I’ve tried, I’ve somehow failed miserably.

All I have to ask is “do you like it?”[/color] I bite my lower lip, listening for the sound of clanking silverware. ”The, um…” I begin hesitantly, calling out from where I’m seated at the table, ”the art stuff – do y’ like ‘em?”
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i hear the mountains calling me home