Roleplay:Information wanted, will pay.

Date: Feb. 15th, 2016
Orin hops down from a caravan that's carrying a number of folks, a sort of informal public transit if you will. He has dark shadows beneath his eyes and appears tired, or maybe that's just how he looks normally. With a nod to the other folks who preceded him here, he approaches the board and makes a few notations in a notebook.

Molly slides her mismatched colored gaze toward Orin when he steps off the caravan. Dark shadows are nothing when compared to a half-scared face, so no judgement is made on his appearance. There is a brief nod to greet him.

Orin finishes whatever notations he's making and sighs, shaking his head at the sum of his notations. He rubs the stubble on his face and considers the board one last time before tucking his notebook away in a messenger bag or briefcase, depending on how generous one wants to be. He offers Molly, who has borne witness to whatever frustration is happening here, the ghost of a smirk. "Crime wave," he says, as if that explained it all.

Molly offers up a lazy shrug of her shoulders at the offered excuse. She might be a witness to said frustrations but again, very little judgement is being passed. "Hey, we've all got rough days, I guess." There is a very casual perusal of Orin though because of his 'crime wave' comment. Don't worry, the chick with the half-scared face is not checking Orin out, she clearly has a ring on it. It's not the most impressive rock, but still. Safe. She is trying to figure out if Orin is perhaps a Knight? Pendulis Watch? Cop? "What sort of work do you do?"

Orin grunts in response to Molly's comment. Rough days indeed. "Rough days is one way to put it," he comments, finding it odd to be making conversation with this disfigured woman. He wants to look at her directly to be polite, but the scarring makes that feel too much like staring. Or maybe he does stare, a little. Can't be helped, the impulse is only human. "Private investigator, currently investigating a serial killer on the loose. Targets women, F.Y.I. If you know something, say something." He taps his pen against his notebook, exhaling like he doesn't expect that to yield anything.

Molly looses a very low and soft growl at the staring, the first indication that the woman standing in front of Orin is probably not human. It is an involuntary response that comes as a result to the staring, it didn't matter how long she rocked these scars. It was hard to get used to the notion. A hand is lifted to grab the brim of her hat, tipping it so that it is angled sideways to partially cover her face. Very specifically the scarred side. Outside of the hat tipping, she tries to act like the staring wasn't happening. Just casual conversation. "No. No serial killers. No information to offer up."

Orin is along similar lines giving himself a mental social cue to quit his staring. After a point the mind grows self-aware, or at least ideally, and in this case it does. Around the time Molly adjusts her hat, Orin drops his gaze to the ground, scratching the hollow of his cheek, as if in thought. "Yeah, they always seem to strike with no witnesses around," he comments, clicking his tongue in an aw-shucks kind of way. "If you hear anything," he reaches into the pocket of his cords, digs out a card printed on stocky paper, which he hands to Molly. "I'm paying for information. Orin is me."

Molly takes the card between two index fingers and flips it so that the face of the card is toward her, so that she can read it. There is a nod of acknowledgement, the card tucked away into her pocket for safekeeping for now. Or to be lost next time she washes her clothes, because who ever really remembers to check the pockets? "Yeah? Gold is good incentive. If I hear anything, I'll be sure to let you know." More as an after thought she adds on, "Molly Myrtle-Malone is my own name, work down at the Quagmire. The sleazy like to roll through there, so maybe you'll get lucky and I'll pick up some dirt."

Orin draws a slow inhale, bobbing his head to mark their mutual agreement. "Thanks," he says, his expression staying level as she gives her name. Maybe their grandmas are beefing, but Orin's too much of a lone wolf and smoker to really pay attention to things that are outside of his orbit of attention. Which his grandma's beefs definitely are. It might be something he picks up on the future, but for today, he's eyeballing the caravan that's approaching. "My ride. Careful out there," he says, offering her another one of those lazy smirks and climbing aboard as the thing rattles to a stop. He pays the fare and sits himself between two people who look homeless. Public transit, man.