Thatcher - 2

A freckled lad pops a squat next to the white-haired man, approaching from behind. His hands rest between his legs, and even as he speaks, his attention seems fixed elsewhere.

More specifically, his dirt-brown eyes track the clouds above.

"Been looking for a Docro," he begins. His eyes shift up, observing the features of the man. "Match the description."

Finally, he stands up.

"Looking for work--want to speak to you about opportunities."
(Thatcher)
A curious eye scrutinizes Thatcher. Certainly, only amateurs ask the Godfather for work in public. Exhaling smoke every second, the towering man responds in his usual unemotional way.

"Opportunities?" he inquiries, pausing for a moment. "And what are you willing to do, kid? Give me a reason. Grasp my attention."

Analyzing the answer, Luca reduces himself to taciturnity.
(Luca pyr Docro)
The lad shuffles his hands into his pockets.

"Have experience in business."

His eyes drift towards the sea. His face remained devoid of expression, though his attention seemed fixed towards the raised sails, the crashing waves, the hub-bub of sailors moving their wares.

"The unsavory sort."

The kid returns his gaze to the man to his flank.

"Can tell you more," he continues. "Seems crowded here--though."
(Thatcher)
When Thatcher enters the Docro Manor, a few suited men accompany him. They offer expensive drinks, apperitives - anything you can imagine... even drugs. Boasting their wealth is a common feature you find in this familiar structure.

"Take a seat." his authoritarian voice booms through the ambit, making himself comfortable before Thatcher. Usually, they'd meet in a more secluded place, mayhaps the meeting room - but Luca seems in a haste.

"What's your experience? And what do you expect of this family? Money? A quick job? Steady relations?" once more the Don asks, jade eyes staring.
(Luca pyr Docro)
A pair of blonde brows raised as they entered.

He was unused to the extravagance, but he did not let the manor corrupt his composure. The freckled lad takes a seat once he was directed to the parlor, leaning forward a bit and interlocking his hands. He stared forward at the empty seat before him for a moment, turning only after being spoken to.

"Raised by cutthroats," he began. "Deep Company. Broken bones--collected tolls."

It took him a moment to decide his next answer, but eventually, his lips parted once more.

"All of the above."
(Thatcher)
"Joining this family comes with responsibilities." his gaze intensifies, penetrating Thatcher with the stare. "Merely working for me is something, but joining my ranks means something else. I must know exactly what you desire."

Almost like a job interview - but definitely worse, considering the morbid activities Luca expects contracted men to do.

"Why did you leave the Deep Company?"
(Luca pyr Docro)
Again, Thatcher's brows raised. Only this time, they did so in a moment of self-reflection.

He probably should have been more specific.

"Need a purpose and a place," he continued. "Thought I had one on the Pauper's Bride."

His attention returns to Luca. The boy did not shy away from his stare--but rather--welcomed it. It was one that he had seen before, only among others. It was the gaze of a man who had seen the world for what it was: both the good, the bad, and the ugly.

"Realized that I was never really a part of their ranks. Just a mule."
(Thatcher)
The corners of his mouth leisurely ascend, but no teeth is shown. A casual, small smile, avoiding anything over-the-top, not even breaking the nonchalant countenance.

A cup of whiskey is juxtaposed to the wooden table and, from time to time, such splendiferous glass befalls upon his labiums. A refined drinker - there's no sign of alcohol altering his mind, despite drinking all day.

People who look for purpose in this manor usually find it - through darkened methods.

Often, someone with nothing to lose will enter his ranks. These people remind him of his father, Walter. No one abruptly becomes a crimelord. They start from below. And giving others opportunities might award his family with bright talents.

Nevertheless, they all have to prove themselves.

"My old man once told me."<i/> pausing, fume escapes from his lips. "A man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man."

"And people here might not be connected by blood - but they are still family. Do you understand this? I can give you a purpose, a place and a family. But you will have to swear your allegiance to this dynasty."

Arching an eyebrow, he scrutinizes Thatcher for the last time. "Truth be told, you can find everything you want here."
(Luca pyr Docro)
Thatcher found his eyes fixed on the man's drink for a moment. He had been around liquor quite a bit, though it was usually a mixture of sludge and rum that he never felt compelled to taste test.

"Fair enough."

A second statement is uttered in response to the promise of luxury.

"Not sure what it is I want--guess that's part of the reason I'm here."

He leans forward again, staring at the empty chair in front of him. Sitting in it was a version of himself that had yet to be realized. It seemed to be the case that the velvet was a blank canvas.

"Suppose I will find out soon enough."
(Thatcher)
"All doubt will fade into nothingness once you find yourself in this family. You can question any member."

Luca speaks with assurance. He's usually not the one recruiting men - but Thatcher's exuded enough potential to grab his interest.

The white-haired one extends his hand towards the blonde. "Our family has a few traditions. My men kiss my hand and call me Don to show respect."

Mayhaps two or three times whilst they were talking, suited men came close to the Godfather to kiss his hand. No altercations - they simply juxtaposed their lips to the apex of Luca's hand.

"Be aware that once you are inside this family, you can never get out." Thatcher surely knows what the Head of the Family mentions.


(Luca pyr Docro)
Thatcher glanced toward the mafioso, raising both of his brows.

The traditions were foreign to him, but they were ones that he would need to learn if he were to truly maintain a place within the family. Dirt-brown eyes rested on his knuckles.

Hesitation was a thing that had been beaten out of him long ago, and feigning it now would do him no good.

His lips find their way to Luca's hand.

"Name's Thatcher."
(Thatcher)