<div class="floatleft">(http://images5.fanpop.com/image/photos/27000000/Mr-Gold-rumpelstiltskin-mr-gold-27041840-1920-2560.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Mr. Gold<br/><strong>Occupation:</strong>The Man with the Evil Plan.<br/><strong>Time: </strong>Morning, 1st Day A.E.<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Storybrooke Streets<br/><strong>Tagging: Barry, Chas, Jasmine, Lothar, Meg, Mildred, Corvin</strong><br/><br/>There it was. That one moment, that one little snide remark, that was exactly the thing that fed into a deep, deep fire burning at the very core of the man that was Mr. Gold. The man who was once a coward, the man who was the once and present cripple. It never failed to prompt a gut-churning rage, regardless of how many who had fed this fire he in turn had fed to a different sort of flame. Or dismembered. Or turned into a statue. But that was in another life -- now he was a creature of mundane subtleties, of resources and connections.<br/><br/>For that one brief instance, his surroundings ceased to exist. Jasmine, the fortune-teller, forgotten. Barry the bearish giant, forgotten. Only that thin line of vision between the man with the bad leg and Lothar Wrynn, the town sheriff, was lit with the brightness of the day. Mr. Gold's mouth twitched, his lips formed a thin line as he leveled the full weight of his glare at the impertinent young man. "Do you like your job, Mr. Wrynn?" he asked, his voice loud enough to carry but measured and sharp enough to cut - as always, it came with the distinct note of his Scottish accent. He said nothing else, no further pressed threat, no suggestion that he might pull some levers in the political structure of the city to see him removed from his position -- he trusted that the implication, coming from him, was enough.<br/><br/>After all, all influence, favors and money owed aside, all that gone, all he really needed to do was talk to their good mayor and say 'pretty please'. Well, only 'please', an arrangement he could never stop congratulating himself on, especially since the dear 'evil queen' still thought he was just as the others: tricksy and clever by nature, yes, but still an ignorant little sheep under the sway of her Dark Curse.<br/><br/>Oh, she might suspect -- she probably did. After all, everything that transpired now,<em>he</em>had enabled. But she couldn't<em>know</em>, and therein was the fun. All he had to do was give her a real, genuine look of worry and say the word.<br/><br/>The moment passed, his face relaxed again, as did the fingers of his hand around his cane and he turned his attention back to the Indian woman who was speaking to him.<br/><br/>His offer of a handkerchief denied, which he pocketed again with a little regret -- after all, a bit of her blood might have come in useful at some point. He offered her a terse smile, then nodded. "Suit yourself, dearie."<br/><br/>Inclining his head to the side, he listened to her financial plight, which brought a frown to his previously concerned expression. "No need for the details," he cut her off when she started bringing up some of the local residents with more obvious fairy tale-related names -- clearly Regina had run out of ideas at some point. "It's still early. We've a visitor from out of town and I'm sure plenty of people might be tempted to consult your cards to see if she 'might be the one', since we so rarely get them."<br/><br/>He raised his hand, index and middle-finger tucked, together, and made a dismissive gesture in the air to try and stifle any sure to come protests in advance. "We shall speak of the matter again in the evening, when I come to collect. Matters of finance are best discussed in a private setting,<em>dearie</em>." Another terse smile followed -- in truth, he had considered skipping his rent run this day in favor of attending to other matters, but it certainly wouldn't hurt to interpret the fickle fancies of the fates. Especially on this day.<br/><br/>The antiquarian turned his attention away from Jasmine for a moment, to look over her shoulder -- a few others were beginning to walk up to them, to make their presence known. Perhaps because of the spectacle or reasons of friendship, but they were of little concern to the suit-clad man.<br/><br/>One was Megan Holden, the other Chas Fortier. Neither of whom was of<em>major</em>interest to Mr. Gold; the animal control-worker had his occasional uses, but he wasn't entirely certain who Megan<em>was</em>and to try and find out was a risky bit of business he wasn't really too keen to engage in. He saw Corvin Diaval, too, passing by -- he briefly acknowledged the man's gaze by meeting it, but nothing further. They knew each other, of course, from their legal work, but for Mr. Gold it was only a thing he did occasionally. Precious few could afford or were owed enough to acquire his legal services.<br/><br/>It was getting a wee bit crowded for him. And there were other things to occupy his time with. Such as the judge whom he espied next to her car, a little further off from the assembled group.<br/><br/>"As it seems you're well attended, I shall call my leave," he declared. Quickly clearing his throat, the man nodded towards the two who had been there from the beginning. The new-comers, he opted to ignore outright. "Ms. Misra. Mr. Louis."<br/><br/>A moment later his back was towards them and he stepped on, in his usual laborous manner. The clatter of his cane brought him towards the woman who had drawn his attention, Judge Voigt. A perfectionist if he ever knew one, perhaps even more so in this incarnation that was bereft of true power. It amused him and perhaps in the past this had shone through in his behaviour at times.<br/><br/>"Judge Voigt," he called out. "The nature of my work brings me here as much as any other place in town, but I don't think I've seen you in this particular part before." He didn't follow up with an inquiry, or anything else, just let it stand as a greeting -- perhaps this way, she would feel compelled to explain her presence more so than if he did.<br/>