If he wasn't asking, was it still considered begging?

He crosslegged on the ground outside of the inn, his makeshift wheelchair folded up in a heap next to him. The small cart contraption was his pride and joy and only earthly possession aside from the few small trinkets he kept in his pockets. His entire existance depended upon the mess of wood and scraps of metal which he built several years ago in order to get around the streets. A tin cup sat in front of him and he watched as passers-by poured into the tavern attached to the inn, their pockets bulging with gold. He eyed them greedily, but said nothing.

Íomhar was cursed with being the only beggar with good hygiene in all of Arda he was greatly convinced. Every morning he wheeled himself to a horse trough and washed up because if there was something he could not stand, it was looking like garbage heaped in the gutter. Call it his spoiled rich heritage, but he just could not manage it. And for that reason, people did not always take him serious. As though they needed more proof, he thought bitterly. A paraplegic, he could only get around by either crawling or using his hand-made chair, and he sure as hell would not be caught dragging himself through the streets.

Clinkclinkclink!

"Thank you, good sir," said Íomhar as the three pieces of gold clattered into the bottom of the tin cup and settled there heavily. Iomhar's heart beat quickly when he realized that he was going to be able to eat tonight thanks to the generosity of this passer-by who did not even stop to acknowledge his presence.

Ah, but it looked like another gentleman was not to be outdone! A man in his early forties robed in the latest fashion strolled up to Iomhar with great ceremony. He pulled a large denomination of gold out of pocket and with a bit of show dropped it into the cup. Iomhar's face flushed and he narrowed his eyes as the man looked around him with a smug smile on his puffy face. I was once one of you, thought the beggar. I was once like you and now I'm not; you could be next! But Iomhar bit his tongue as the man and his buddies continued into the tavern, rauctious laughter rolling out of the small building as the doors swung open.

Iomhar sighed and leaned back against the wall, then quickly gathered the money out of the cup before someone else could come along and do the same. He pocked it amongst the tattered remains of his clothing and leaned his head against the wall once more. Closing his eyes, he wished for the millionth time that day that it had never happened. Exhaling deeply, he recalled that wishing was useless and opened his eyes. More people streamed by, but of course they did not notice the useless garbage that cluttered their feet. He snorted and shook his head. But the night was still young; he nudged the cup out further, and after a few moments someone dropped a piece of gold into it.

Okay, so maybe he was begging.

A young man, clad completely in black walked towards the beggar on the street. Normally, Karasu would not be out during the day, but he felt that he needed more informants on the streets. Despite his antisocial attitude, knowledge was power, and an assassin needed power.

He dropped 4 gold coins into the seemingly crippled man's cup, and turned to face him. "You need not my name. You need not my face. You only need the word Jyuushi, and the fact that I would like to hire you. I will return one hour after nightfall to hear your reply. At such time, I will tell you the meaning of the word. Good day to you." Karasu left the staring man to his devices, and went to prepare for the night's activities.

Iomhar watched as a few more people walked by, his eyes focusing on a particularly rich-looking man as he bustled through the door. He couldn't help but snort at him; rich? Yeah right. Just another person who put on his finest robe every time he stepped out the door. The man disappeared inside the inn, chattering and chaos swirling around him until the door swung closed once again.

Suddenly someone stood right next to him, putting money into his cup. Iomhar, from this perspective, could see just the man's knees and boots, entirely black. He glanced up and saw a young man, his whole apparel dark as night.

"Thank you, sir--" Iomhar started, but he ceased as the man spoke, and slowly Iomhar closed his mouth. Was this some sort of joke? Hey, let's mess with the cripple guy! But the word 'jyuushi' floated from the man's mouth and into Iomhar's ears, the young beggar's brain grasping firmly the word if for no reason other than the chance of more gold when the man returned. Hire him? Yeah right. But maybe a few more pieces of gold lay in store for him.

"Yes, alright," said Iomhar uncertainly as the man walked away, his eyes fixed upon him until he disappeared into the night. Strange it was, knew Iomhar as he shook his head and quickly gathered the coins out of the cup. Ah, at this rate he could actually spend the night inside for once. But he pocketed the coins quickly and sat back to wait for more charitable people to pass by with a little generosity.

Jyuushi.

Whatever did that mean? Iomhar tried to forget about it as he watched people pass by, but it always purched at the back of his brain. Just forget it, he told himself. It was nothing.

At nightfall, Karasu left his humble abode, and walked to where the crippled man was. Along the way, he 'bumped' into some fat rich men, gaining quite some coin! "This will do nicely for the beggar's downpayment." he said as he continued his walk.

As promised, an hour after sundown he arrived at the pub, and saw the beggar sitting in the same spot. He seemed almost asleep, but that would not deter Karasu. He walked up to the cripple, and dropped a coin in the man's cup to get his attention. "Have you accepted my offer?"

Daydreaming again. No, not so. Reminiscing. The way things used to be before the dreaded cart accident that left him . . . as he was. And then the next accident which left him even worse. Must his existance be full of life-altering accidents? He remembered the rich, colorful world in which he used to live; his house was fancy, his parents rich. He knew quite a few pretty girls, but before he could properly make their acquaintance, he had been ripped out of his world. And become crippled. Which led here, into this dank, darkened world of the gutter where he had no choice but to beg.

He looked up suddenly to see the man dressed in black again, looming over him. If there was one thing that annoyed Iomhar about his present life (okay, there were many things, but one in particular at that moment), it was the fact that he always had to look up to people. Physically. Mentally. Financially. A gutter rat, a street dweller. He had no choice but to rely on other people in order to survive from day to day. But even worse he had to crane his neck and squint through the falling rays of light in order to see which fine gentleman was so kind enough to give him a coin. Of course, now evening had come and the only light came from the torches flickering inside the tavern, but still.

"I cannot promise you anything if I do not know what you have offered," responded Iomhar curtly, his eyebrows narrowed at the man in black. There was no way, Iomhar knew, that he was about to do some other man's dirty work. Especially since no doubt he would get caught--after all, he was freaking crippled.

Karasu was mildly surprised! This beggar was smart, smarter than a beggar should be. He would find the answers to this soon enough, but right now there was a question to be answered. "You will have to do nothing but sit here and listen. Listen to what the people say, find information on whoever you can. I need an informant, and people tend to discuss things like they would normally in front of people in your... situation. If you can give me what I want, I will get you what you want." he said to the upward facing man. He noticed the makeshift wheelchair that sat next to him.

"I could get you a shiny new wheelchair, but that may compromise you position, losing me potentially valuable information. I can get you money, food, water, the necessities of life. Even a comfortable bed. All you need to do is watch, and listen to what the people say. Specifically for personal information, things that I might be able to use. The rest of the information I can only give you if you accept this offer. So I ask again, do you accept?"

A half-smirk crept across Iomhar's clean-shaven face as he looked up at the black-clad man. A bed and food? Well, Iomhar couldn't beat that. Of course, he despised the fact that but a few years ago he would have laughed in the man's face for such a suggestion, but now it seemed oh so tempting. He could just imagine escaping the biting cold that came with the frosts of night and curling up snuggly into a warm comforter. A roof over his head was something he desired every night as people spit on him and threw garbage at him just because he was a crippled beggar.

But not a stupid one. Slowly he shook his head. "No, I'm sorry," he responded. "My desires are above wordly goods." Snort. That was a good one. Iomhar's face displayed a look of complete complacency. "I only collect money for what I need, and I distribute the rest to the less fortunate."

Gods, he sounded like a downright saint! If only he could claim that what he spoke was the truth, for though they sounded completely stuck up and righteous, he could not help but wish that he were that kind. But no, he hoarded all of the money to himself when there were people in even worse positions as him. But there are many more in better, he reminded himself. Many more. And people only shared with him not out of the goodness of their hearts but because they hoped that the gods smiled down upon them. Sickening.

Iomhar pulled the cloak closer around his shoulders and stared carefully at the man with a steady gaze. No, he would not work for him; he would not lend his services to a man whom he could not trust, a man who appeared in the night like a thief.

Now this was a confusing situation! If only he had told the cripple more, he could have justified killing him now. It seemed that the only thing holding the man back was the facts that, A, he had only seen Karasu twice, B, appearing in the night like a murderer was not a very good impression, and C, Karasu didn't exactly look like someone you could trust.

"Very well. I'll give you some more time to think, but now I will stay here with you, so that you may get to know me. I understand your reasons, and I myself would most likely not work for a strange man dressed in black who I had only seen twice. I just so happen to be free tonight, and besides, what are you going to do, chase me away?" Karasu said jokingly, hiding his intentions like a true assassin.

Iomhar raised an eyebrow. Yes, this man did seem familiar. And now that he thought about it, he had recalled seeing him before--that one time in the alley that one morning not too long ago. He had claimed it as his alley, which was rather absurd because no one actually owned the alleys, especially men like this fine specimen here. And now he wanted to lurk around him.

"Do you think it is wise," started Iomhar, though he really should have thought better of speaking at that point in time, "to be seen with the beggar? Especially if I may be working for you?" He turned away and watched several men stumble into the bar, already inebriated from recent ventures to other liquor-selling establishments, their calls loud and rowdy in the early twilight. A gentle breeze blew throught the street, bringing with it the stench of filth and the stomach-churning smells of the gutter. Ah, a fine evening in the streets of Lomedor. Perhaps many people would never whiff the odors that greeted Iomhar's sensitive nostrils since they passed by in such a hurry and with distinct goals in mind, but alas, Iomhar could do nothing but wallow in this putrid state.

He turned back to the young man. "I suggest you go on and find someone else. I am but a beggar--I do not deserve whatever job you offer; it is better that you find someone much more acute than I and offer him this mysterious job." What Iomhar did not add, of course, was for the man to just cram it. He was frightening away potential donations with his dark presence, and with each missing gold coin, Iomhar knew that he would have to spend another few minutes on the streets.

As though to show that he was finished speaking to the man, Iomhar turned away and brought out a stale crust of bread from his stash in his pocket which he had found discarded in the streets earlier this morning. Garbage, no doubt. Fortunately Iomhar had been so lucky to chance upon it but moments after it had been strewn aside, and he had snatched it up to save for later. He hadn't expected to eat it right now, but he hoped that the man would get the point and leave him alone. Slowly he chewed upon the bread, his attention back to the men and the occasional women as they entered the bar. A few people emerged and one dropped a worn coin into Iomhar's cup, and he said to the man, "Gods bless." He quickly snatched it out of the tin recepticle and stowed it away in his pocket with the rest of the coins. Ah, yes, tomorrow morning he ought to go to the market and see if he could buy something nice for once instead of scrounging around for scraps. And if he had enough left over, he would rent a room and get cleaned up properly for the first time in, well, let's just settle with awhile.

The cripple talked at him for a while, trying to brush him off, no doubt. Karasu was not going to leave, and he hoped the man would realize that. When it seemed that people were taking notice of him, Karasu thought about the cripple's actions, and used his skills to meld into the shroud of night, hiding him from passers by.

"I'm not leaving, you know. People won't be perturbed by my prescence now, also. I've used my... unique skills to make myself hidden, and now only you know that I'm here. Oh, by the way, here's some gold. I found it on the ground. Some people can be very clumsy, ne? Leaving something of that value lying around! They must have been rich." And the person was rich. Or, at least he was. Someone was going to be very surprized once he got home.

Iomhar chewed stony-faced on his bread as he watched the people come in and out, in and out. Their actions blurred in his vision as he could not get over the uncomfortable gaze of the black-clad man. The door swung open numerous times, and with each arc it let out a burst of noise, music and the smell of booze. Iomhar grabbed his cup and brought it closer towards him, then adjusted his legs slightly. Call him silly, but he had this fear that his legs would one day fall off from innactivity. He tried his best to keep them moving each day in order to avoid such things happening. You're crippled, not cursed with leprosy, he always reminded himself, but fear constantly won.

The bread tasted flat and unappealing in his mouth, be it from the mold or the fact that the mysterious man still loomed over him, Iomhar did not know. But he chewed it slowly and steadily, his jaw set as he worked away on its all-too-crisp crust.

"Kill me now," he said finally, not bothering to look up at the black-clad man. "Kill me and be done with it. I know that's what you are waiting for, so you might as well be through with it and find someone else to do your bidding. You offer me no incentive but money; you tell me nothing about the job I must perform; you speak none about your name or who sends you to the gutters to find a cripple to do your bidding. I have no reason to trust you, and I will not be bought out by gold. Believe it or not, I was once far richer than you; I have had my fair share of money; I do not need any right now at this point in time. I have seen what money does to people."

The man spoke, and Karasu understood. This was no ordinary beggar, he was one of those beggars who fell from power. This just got better and better. He said things, things that were plainly obvious to Karasu. Yes, he could kill the cripple. No, he would not, though.

"The reason I offer money is that money is all that I have to give you. That and a job, but if you don't want free money, well, more free money, then fine. I was hoping to help someone who needed it. And if you are mad at me for offering you money, then perhaps you should ask for bread, instead of begging for gold. Don't tell me that you don't want money when that is all that you are asking of others. Hypocracy doesn't appeal to me, and just for that, I'm not going to kill you."

Iomhar smirked, but there was something lost and rueful in the half smile which appeared on his lips. He shook his head slowly. "We all need food to survive," he said. "And what buys that food but money? There is no such thing as free money, my friend, for everything comes from somewhere. For the money I receive is earned by someone else. And I suppose you can say that I earn my share, too, by sitting here and showing everyone this beautiful cup." He lifted up the battered tin cup as though he were toasting the black-clad man. "I may be a failure, but I am a well-educated one. That is more to say than many of the people who wander these streets." Falling from power had been a blessing in so many ways, even if Iomhar wanted not to admit it. He often looked back on the ways things used to be and scoff himself and his old habits.

He turned and faced the man as he set the cup down on the cobblestones with a small clank. "Good sir, you are much more of a hypocrite than me; I stay on the streets because I am scum. You are still scum and you parade around like otherwise. Please, leave me to be and I will not alert the authorities about your presence. Sure, they may not listen to a crazy lunatic such as me--" he snorted here, for he knew that lunatic meant things more than just a penniless beggar-- "but at least I do what I can to keep the hypocrites at bay."

Karasu smirked invisibly from the shadows. "Oh? I am a hypocrite? You know nothing about me, other than I dress in black, and can hide quite well. Walking around the streets and associating with ones such as yourself does not make me scum by this world's standards. To most, I am merely a kind soul, not wanting you to be lonely on this cold and unforgiving night. To you, I am a nuisance, and I intend to keep it that way! By free money, I meant that all you had to do was sit here, and get gold. And you will gain nothing by alerting the authorities. I have performed services for them on many occaisions, and they know how I work. They approve, saying that I am not only getting rid of thorns in their sides, but giving the homeless something to do, making it less likely that they will steal." Karasu said. The man would be hard pressed to fight this!

Once again, Iomhar shook his head sadly. No, no, this man just didn't get it. He was not scum for associating with Iomhar; he was scum for being another money-hungry person out on the streets. There were many ways to be scum. But Iomhar let it drop; no use arguing with him--it only stirred up more conversation, which is exactly what Iomhar didn't want.

The wind blew gently through Iomhar's hair, and he thought how much he needed it cut. It hung just below his ears and scratched at his chin. Iomhar wanted it gone, but at the same time he couldn't look to well-maintained or people would never believe that he was a beggar. Which was silly, but he supposed he couldn't blame them.

"Go," he finally said. "Find another beggar who would like your assistance." And with that, Iomhar grabbed his wheelchair and put his hands upon the wooden rails. With a grunt, he lifted himself up off of the ground with his hands and collapsed into the chair. He righted his legs carefully, and then removed the brakes from the chair. He had his money, but tonight he would not be staying at the inn; getting away from this man was his first priority. "So long," he told him as he pushed off and began to wheel himself down the street.