Important. Grateful.

The words as they're delivered sound as if they might entice a less critical ear, but when that gold-tiled pool births forth John Blake, he comes out as suspicious as he is naked (and twice as mad). He certainly isn't convinced. And isn't it convenient that they suggest he holds his questions? Either someone's heard of him and knows what to expect (questions), or it comes up a lot. One doesn't need to be a detective to know which, but it probably helps.

Upon seeing the barracks, the institutional half-dozen beds, the uniformed clothes and shared bath facilities, even exhaustion can't drive him into that bed. Instead, he hops a wagon to Cadens. He's told he needs to be back at the outpost within a few hours of the sun going down. For his own safety. More to darkly ponder upon. And honestly? Good luck with that.

It's a couple hours to the city and fending off the exhaustion nipping at his heels requires Blake to engage. He's average in height, average in build, average looking, and while he certainly does normally carry himself quite authoritatively, here and now his only interest is appearing as inoffensive as possible. Quiet, but not timid. Stoic.

He still doesn't know how or why, but he has a who and a where. That's a start. The what becomes a bit more elusive. In the meantime, even the passive downtime of this trip doesn't have to be a total loss in his quest to gather information.

"You made this trip before? What should I expect to see out there?" he asks whoever will answer. His Gotham accent is clipped - city-like, as if he's been living double-time his whole life and just doesn't have time enough to waste on words. Beyond that, his close-cropped hair (typically styled) sits a short, dark mess atop his head, recently faded in some professional's chair. The color isn't far off from his eyes — dark and dark — and the circles settled underneath don't help his approachable appeal.

He's (probably) nicer than he looks.

Should anyone wonder what it's like to make a career of sticking their nose where it doesn't belong, one should need to look no further than Blake. With every inch he's given, he takes a mile or more in his pursuits. Beyond tracking the murmurs surrounding political intrigue (which Blake has translated to mean propaganda at the expense of others and used to line someone's coin purse) he's tempted into places where he might belong and plenty where he might not.

It's much later — dodge after dodge on what he assumes is a short timer (followed by a short leash) — that he finds himself perched in the midst of some raucous action in one of Caden's gambling dens. With a coin he'd found along the way, he picks something that doesn't involve cards — knucklebones – and holds his breath through the first win.

A half-hour after he takes the seat he hasn't made a ton of money, but as far as he can tell he's earned at least enough to get him some clothes that will help him feel more like himself.

"He's cheating!" someone yells, and Blake's incredulous turn to offer his best what the fuck are you talking about face is met with the crash of someone who just can't believe the odds. Coins fly, bodies tumble, and it could be worse, but the surge of people around him tells Blake that there's a better part of valor necessary here.

He only manages a quick grab — a half-handful of the coins he'd won (fairly, he reminds himself) — before dumping out into the street. Almost immediately he pockets the coins without counting and takes on a casual walk as if nothing from the darkness might come up behind him (so there's no reason to care or look).

He's just about feeling he's dodged a(nother) bullet without extraordinary measures when four pairs of feet shuffle hurriedly after him. A sigh escapes him and upon turning to face them, still walking backwards, trying to walk away, he pops up his hands to implore peace.

"Wasn't lookin' for trouble, just a fair game," he calls out. He should stop here, but in a situation like this, Blake can't help himself. "Don't be a sore loser," he adds. Wrong idea, apparently. The main guy bristles, his three cronies form up.

"Looks like we're doin' this," Blake mutters, fists coming up as the pounding boots herald the charge. One-on-four isn't exactly great odds, but it isn't as if he knows anyone around to call for backup...

If it isn't so obvious by now, Blake is a busy body. When he's not making trouble, he's making waves. When he's not making waves, he's making plans. When he's not making plans, he's taking notes. After a point, it's nigh-impossible to spot the guy without a notebook and pencil, pen, whatever writes. Call him suspicious (because he is) but something about the— mindlink (for lack of a better term) unsettles him in a way few things touch, makes him want to get back to the basics.

And so, at any time, day or night, one might run across the man lurking, observing, studying. Where he's meant to be, where he's not. In a heated discussion or passively allowing someone to unload. Maybe even creepin' a little.

At Portam Hall, he asks loudly about the hefty tax burden applied on purchases. He's wondering where the taxes go, what they benefit. Perhaps the way he goes about it is a little too straight-forward, but he's asking the right questions and that's what matters (to him).

Skirting around Fort Wilbridge, he seeks information on the conflict buzzing on the lips of those around him. People are unsettled, the conflict seems mired, and without any context, it's hard for him to even see the players, let-alone the reasons. Anyone who shows interest in sharing will get his (and his pencil's) undivided attention.

It's the run-down part of town that really draws his time, though. He's there more than once, taking in the haphazard structures, eyeing the social dissonance. It could be worse — so much worse — but that people struggle at all sets his resolve starkly. They had said he was important. Was this why? Was it because they knew all it took was enough time for him to really open his eyes before he'd be committing to the good fight and every lost soul around once more? Anyone keeping similarly open eyes may notice that every time John Blake returns to this part of town, he brings someone something someone needs: food, a piece of clothing, tools. How he gets them might be as mysterious as his motivations.

[ Pretty much anything goes! I am especially attracted to "yes, and" scenarios where we can just go ham. Blake is a particularly good foil for damn near anyone, I promise you this. And you will never quite know what to expect. You will especially win my heart if we can 1.) skip past introduction threads (I can give a primer at any time); 2.) include comedy in our thread; 3.) start in the middle of literally any kind of action and see where it takes us; 4.) show me anything you find unique about this game. Beyond that, I could just really use some good old cooperative fun. ]