the real menace sleeps in a borrowed haven;

[tidesof]

"Might I assume you've come to retrieve the Arm? Well, you'll be needing my help in doing so, won't you?"

That's how it had begun, however long it's been, now, because time is a fickle thing and he doesn't often think much of it outside of outrunning it. He'll not ever call himself a thief — he could never be something so common — but rather a procurer of rare artifacts, some of which he keeps for himself and others that he parts with for the right price, and in his finding of one royal tomb, he hadn't thought not to liberate it of its contents, even if he had ultimately decided to store it somewhere else out of the way. It wasn't as though anyone was actively looking to retrieve the Arms, right? And once he found the right sort of interested party …

Alas. The moment he had, and the moment he'd gone stealing back to his hiding place the rightful owner had seen fit to show his face. ( Damnable circumstance, he'll always think to himself when he recalls the precise situation. There might have been a better way to go about concealing his hiding place than blaming the work of daemons, but as they say, it's all water under the bridge and there's no use crying over spilt milk, or some such. He's not so blatantly disrespectful that he would think to deny the next in line to the throne of Lucis what's rightfully his.

Or. Perhaps he would, if he thought he could fetch an even greater sum than that which is finally-found buyer had offered. Not that they would have been able to harbor its true potential, but of course that's neither here nor there, because it's about little more than obtaining the largest sum possible when dealing within the realm of the lost, the stolen and retrieved. )

The name is Balthier, he'd offered upon their retrieval of the Arm — the Sword of the Tall, as it were, and he won't deny that something in him found itself aching upon giving it up — with the slight upward tilt of his lips that equated a half-smirk before he'd taken his leave, and at the time he'd been convinced he would never cross their collective paths again, much as the four of them seemed attached at the hip. Perhaps you'll think of me the next time you find yourself wanting for the unattainable.

A proverbial toot of his own horn, so to speak, but everyone that knows his name is well aware of his penchant for procuring the rare, the coveted, the unique. And it's never through such simple means as being in the right place at the right time, because it's all a matter of making nice with the right sort of people, offering favors and calling them in in turn, the constant shift of balance until he finds himself with just one more item that will fetch a pretty price, and he'll find himself sleeping soundly and easily on soft sheets for a handful of nights before it's back to the sometimes literal grind.

On again and off again, their fleeting interactions had come and gone and come again in the form of the product of circumstance — the right place at the right time, as it were, if only for the sake of situational awareness — and while he's come to know them all by face and by name, one of them ( the bespectacled one, tall and lean and mostly-silent in the background, erring on the side of caution until further counsel is needed of him ) continually catches at the edge of his intrigue, that careful gaze missing nothing, and not giving this particular bandit even half an inch of wiggle room, but of course, that could all be attributed to the need to ensure the safety of the future king.

( Or, given the current state of the crowned city, wouldn't that make Noctis king, now? Mm. A thought for another time, perhaps, when he has the time for it. )

This time around, he'd arrived at the glow and safety of a haven perhaps a moment too late, if the way the group was unloading their gear was any indication. He's lost track of exactly where he happens to be — perhaps just outside of Leide, but he can't be sure when the sun has already sunk below the horizon and cast everything in the shades of dusk that find daemons lingering just beyond the edges — and while he realizes it's ultimately the young prince's decision, his gaze again finds that of the one that seems to hold his attention, his curiosity, that level of intrigue that could be likened to the phrase curiosity killed fill-in-the-blank.

I'll not ask to share the cover of your tent, he hears himself say, even as the sky sees fit to open up above them and give over a few large, wet drops. Merely the safety of the runes, if you'd be so kind.

( He may not have ever been so well-mannered in the whole of his life. But then again, extenuating circumstances. )

He finds himself reclined in one far corner, just within the confines of that soft, blue glow so as not to infringe on the others' interaction; it's enough that he's asked to take up their space, really, some distant moral-based voice whispers in the back of his mind, and regardless of any previous intent, he's inclined to agree. He's quiet, and reserved, and all measure of things that normal circumstance wouldn't find, but he's not quite sure he wants to risk offending anyone with the authority to, quite literally, toss him to the daemons for a midnight snack.

And thus, he pulls a small, faded book from a pocket, scarcely able to read by the distant light of the fire, but it serves well enough to hold his attention until fatigue claims him completely.