[center] [img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/ff/cc/02/ffcc024ba6f45f056636f4d9ee4717c6.jpg[/img] 
[b][sub][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bvf5F7UfQ3c]|| Soundtrack ||[/url][/sub][/b][/center]
[hr][hr][center][b][color=62CB86]The[/color] [color=85BA7A]Two[/color] [color=A8A96E]Tucker[/color] [color=CB9862]Twins[/color][/b]
[color=orange][sub][b]PLACE[/b] // The 12:15 Train from Benningsfield
[b]TIME[/b] // Midday[/sub][/color][/center][hr][hr]
The rhythmic rattle of an old train carriage; a soothing sway that could calm even the most distressed of souls with its endless, baby-rocking motion. One could lounge on the softly furnished seats, curl up into a tight ball, and tip their hat over their face in order to enter their dream filled wonderland; and this was precisely what Janelle was accomplishing.

She sat there on the rustic bench, snuggling herself into the corner, all while feeling the prickly nature of the fabric claw into her bare skin. The tiny barbs didn't even hurt nor did they inflict any sort of stinging sensation, instead they comforted her, scratching into her tiny body like a tightly wrapped blanket all while eating away at those pesky itches you discover while trying to get that much needed shut-eye. There she held her knees up towards her hat covered face, keeping her arms wrapped around her slender legs, the fingers woven together in an impossible to pull apart knuckle lock.

Opposite her, in their private room of solitude and sanctuary, sat her [i]'older'[/i] brother. The man had his legs bridging the gap between the two bench seats, using the end of the lounge that Jannel left vacant as a makeshift footstool for his heavy and hard-wearing boots. He held within his lap his beloved weapon of choice, a beautifully crafted string instrument that would produce a recognisable twang with each pluck of the cord. The fingers slowly played; the vibrations heard in a hypnotic harmony; and the calm melody of the banjo continued to fill the room with a tune of ambience and tranquillity.

Stephenson glanced out the window as he played, simply admiring the landscape that side scrolled past like a traditional theatre backdrop. The trees popped into view and left a few seconds later, while the hills and mountains in the distance moved across ever so gracefully. It was an odd sight that would never cease to amaze him as the objects of interest most far away felt as though they had more detail and depth than the props that whipped past only a few dozen yards away from the locomotive. His fingers suddenly froze, plunging the room into musical silence, leaving only the sound of the rattle from the train that pressed on.

Time continued to pass until the gentle query of the sleeping one chirped from behind the broad-rim floral hat. [color=cb9862]"Stephen... You stopped playing?"[/color]

Stephenson's attention turned towards his supposedly unconscious sibling, looking at the compacted body that made a noise yet hadn't even budged an inch. He peered at her through the rims of his round glasses to spot any sign of potential movement, past the tip of his bulbous nose that now pointed towards the join between the wall and ceiling.

[color=62cb86]"Hmmm..."[/color] it was a grunt of confirmation. Not even a small amount of effort was placed into opening his lips—the lack of effort to reply with a proper, audible response was remarkable. Stephenson lifted his hand towards his face and clutched the fat chamber of his wooden smoking pipe, taking a smooth puff of the fine tobacco that smouldered inside. He pulled the prince pipe away and ever so slightly opened his mouth, letting the smoke flow out like a stream to form a grey, misty cloud of status and superiority.

[color=cb9862]"Stephen...."[/color] A second question from the sleeping beauty in the same tone and curiosity as before, [color=cb9862]"How much longer 'til Blackfinger?"[/color]

This time Stephenson didn't even bother to make a sound. Instead he breathed through his nose with a heavy force of air, turning his his sights towards his banjo as he plucked one of the deeper tone cords. To the regular bystander it would appear as though the man was making every attempt in the world to ignore his sister, but for them this was sibling speak; a form of language perfected over a couple years shy of three decades.

Janelle understood his emotionless huff as she began the slow process of reanimating her nearly lifeless body, a morning ritual that—for this one time—was postponed to to the stroke of midday. A long arm stretch, the circular roll of her shoulders, and a tilt of her head to either side; it was a series of body awakening yoga stretches that gave her the much needed gift of free movement. Sneakily she peeked out from under her hat and looked towards her brother who was vacantly staring through the clear glass on the timber frame door.

[color=cb9862]"You didn't sleep again, did you brother?"[/color] Unlike the queries of before, this one had a tone of seriousness, a tone that felt much more adult in nature. 

[color=62cb86]"Nope,"[/color] his first words, [color=62cb86]"and you wouldn't sleep too if yer were the one carrying 'round a hundred dollars in your jacket pocket."[/color] Stephenson turned his head to face his [i]'kid'[/i] sister, looking at her over the top rim of his wire frame glasses, smirking a sly grin of confidence and amusement. She was the only person he didn't try to overpower with his expressions, she deserved more respect than that. After all, the two of them were a team and they had managed to get away with a sneaky little con that helped fund their holiday expenditure.

Janelle smiled as she rolled her eyes sarcastically, shifting her view instead to the open world outside, watching as the town of Blackfinger phased into view. The 12:15 from Benningsfield was pulling into a slow halt, on time and preparing for disembarking. The Two Tucker Twins had no idea what treasures were hidden in this town, how open and trusting the residents would be to unfamiliar newcomers, and whether they could use this new home as a place to lay low after their previous run of misdeeds.