Everyone has their own tricks and displays. Most commonly it's musicians, strumming their guitars or tweeting along on their flutes, with the occasional accordion player marching through town and annoying people into paying for silence. Others are artists perched on street corners, bragging about their speed and accuracy justifying their prices.

Duke Laurent is a magician.

Well, he doesn't quite call himself that yet, although he's firmly on his way; bored housewives are especially easy to impress, and the most willing to part with their change for a card trick. It would be all-too-easy to lift bills and coins straight from dress pockets, but he's a busker, not a swindler; money means little to him if not earned by his own efforts.

Today was relatively successful; when Duke picks up the tophat left for patrons throw tips in, he's pleased to find it full of francs. Some days are worse than others, but at least tonight he can afford a meal.

With the sun going down, and the audience having long since dispersed, the young man moves to start packing up; most of his supplies— the cards, the knives, the cups— all fit in the bag around his waist, but he'll have to carry the folding table all the way back to— well, wherever he's staying. Maybe that kind madame will allow him to rent another room for the evening.

Before he can finish tucking everything away, a shadow falls across his table in the dying light, and Duke glances up in the hopes of one last show. Ah, it's you— he's not quite sure he caught your name earlier, but he'd seen you in his gathered crowd.

"Bonjour," he croons, nodding his head politely. One of his hands is already delving into his bag to fish for something, anything to entertain with. "Were you here for another show?"