The night was cold. A winter gale blew through the streets of Elbion, brought down from the mountains and winding toward the river. Hidden behind gathering clouds that threatened to bring rain from the gulf, the moons played peekaboo with the dark figures who shuffled through the scant lamplight. It was late -- late enough that the barkeeps and tavern proprietors were beginning to yawn and their patrons had gone to their beds. Doon, it might have been called, but the winter nights wore on longer than those of summer, and the sun lingered beyond the horizon.
It was in this cold, bitter darkness that a small figure moved. A boy, it would seem, but Fife was no boy. She clung to the shadows between lamps and brightly lit windows. The wind whipped at her short, wild hair and her dark green cloak, stained and tattered and little protection against the biting chill of the wind. She slipped through the darkness, occasionally peering into a window until she lifted her eyes over the sill of The Lucky Pilgrim.
Inside, the elven barkeep polished glasses that didn't need polished. A small group of young mages laughed and spoke amongst each other, and a single patron was slumped onto a table in the corner, sleeping. Dropping below the sill, Fife continued toward the alley. She had cased this inn for several weeks, learning the habits of its barkeep and proprietor. She had watched the young mages for several days, memorizing their routine. Specifically, how they rose late into the day to leave or carouse in the tavern. Raising an eye to the second floor of the establishment, she counted four windows and guessed that, at most, there could only be three rooms -- four, at most.
The alley was shrouded in darkness, unlit by torch or lamp. This part was too narrow for a cart to pass through but the cobblestones were wore smooth down its center from years of foot traffic. It opened into another alley that ran perpendicular to it, wide enough for a very small hand cart to be brought through from the street at the far end. Two doors broke the exterior of the tavern's back wall: one to what she could only assume, based on deliveries, to be the kitchen, and the other she had seen only patrons using.
A back door -- a way for those staying in the rooms above to come and go with a bit more... privacy. She'd caught glimpses of hushed meetings, and even seen a few patrons open the door for pretty ladies who didn't ever stay the full night. It was locked but never guarded, and it was her best chance at gaining access to the building.
Lockpicking wasn't a particular skill of hers, but as she slunk toward the door to give this burgeoning skill a go, she heard the sound of laughter and muffled voices on the other side. Darting past the doorway, she pressed herself against the wall and held her breath as the door opened, shielding her behind it as a man bid a woman farewell in a chorus of giggles and smooches. Fife pressed her eyes shut, praying to the gods that the woman would take the alley the other way, lest she be spotted before her heist ever began...
Whatever god had sustained her thus far in life provided once more, and the woman began down the alley away from Fife. The man whispered goodnight to her loudly and lazily swung the door shut behind him. Moving quickly and silently, Fife managed to catch the door just before it latched but held it near the jamb as she waited in the darkness for the woman to turn the corner and for the steps within to recede. Her pulse was still whooshing in her ears when silence fell in the alley once more and the woman turned without seeing Fife standing there with her hand on the knob. Loosing a long, shaking breath, the young thief took a full moment to gather her wits.
This was her only chance; she had to get better. There wasn't a place here for her, as a young woman whose only skill was silence or as a pitiable young boy. Carity wouldn't keep her through the winter, and the thieves' guilds wouldn't take her without any proof of her skills.
With her resolve fortified by necessity, Fife slipped into the door. She placed a folded piece of paper in the doorway, between the latch and the hole to keep it from locking behind her, then turned toward the stairs. Fortunately she was light and quick, and ascended them with relative silence. Arriving in a narrow hallway, she counted not four, but five doors. Five? She mentally counted the windows again. Perhaps the room at the far end had no window? Fife was uncertain and looked at the nearest doors with hesitation.
After a short and careful investigation, she found that doors one and four were silent. Behind door two she heard very loud snoring, and someone was up and moving behind door three -- most likely the fellow who she had followed in. Standing there in the hallway wasting time, Fife took a moment to gamble on which room she'd try opening. How many people could be boarded in each room? In what order did the proprietor let them out? She didn't know, and there wasn't really a way to know, so she picked a door at random: door one, closest to the rear exit.
The interior doors weren't locked, thankfully. Silently lifting the latch, Fife cracked the door and slipped inside. Carefully shutting it, she calmed her breathing before she turned toward the dark room she'd chosen. By what she could see in the faint ambient light through the window, there was a small table near the door with a ceramic wash basin, a heap of gear beside a single straight-back chair, and a bed.
And, to her horror, in that bed was a sleeping figure.
Fife sucked in a quick breath and froze in place, watching the steady rise and fall of the figure until she was certain that they were, indeed, sleeping. Perspiration was beading up on her face in spite of the chill, and she drew a long, steadying breath before she crept toward the individual's gear.
She was trying not to panic because panicking was the best way to mess up and get caught, but her heart was beating so hard that she was sure it would alert the person to her presence. They'd wake up and grab her and they would finally kick her out of Elbion for good. Or, worse, she'd lose a hand or be sent to rot in some dungeon like the delinquent she was...
Fife's plans were quickly dissolving, and she was struggling to see in the lack of light. Running her shaking hands over the bags, she fished her hand into one and felt around. It was either food or goods, and at the moment she didn't care which. Drawing the bag from the pile, she clutched it to her chest and began to back toward the door with her eyes fixed on the faintly outlined sleeping lump on the bed. All she had to do was get out as quietly as she'd come, and she'd be home free!
But her luck had run out. Her heel caught the leg of the chair and she stumbled back, her hip bumping hard against the table. The water basin teetered, and she half-turned trying and failing to catch it. The basin tipped over the edge of the table and shattered, water and broken porcelain scattering across the floor.
Horrified and afraid, Fife spun back toward the bed with eyes gone wide and the satchel clutched to her chest.
It was in this cold, bitter darkness that a small figure moved. A boy, it would seem, but Fife was no boy. She clung to the shadows between lamps and brightly lit windows. The wind whipped at her short, wild hair and her dark green cloak, stained and tattered and little protection against the biting chill of the wind. She slipped through the darkness, occasionally peering into a window until she lifted her eyes over the sill of The Lucky Pilgrim.
Inside, the elven barkeep polished glasses that didn't need polished. A small group of young mages laughed and spoke amongst each other, and a single patron was slumped onto a table in the corner, sleeping. Dropping below the sill, Fife continued toward the alley. She had cased this inn for several weeks, learning the habits of its barkeep and proprietor. She had watched the young mages for several days, memorizing their routine. Specifically, how they rose late into the day to leave or carouse in the tavern. Raising an eye to the second floor of the establishment, she counted four windows and guessed that, at most, there could only be three rooms -- four, at most.
The alley was shrouded in darkness, unlit by torch or lamp. This part was too narrow for a cart to pass through but the cobblestones were wore smooth down its center from years of foot traffic. It opened into another alley that ran perpendicular to it, wide enough for a very small hand cart to be brought through from the street at the far end. Two doors broke the exterior of the tavern's back wall: one to what she could only assume, based on deliveries, to be the kitchen, and the other she had seen only patrons using.
A back door -- a way for those staying in the rooms above to come and go with a bit more... privacy. She'd caught glimpses of hushed meetings, and even seen a few patrons open the door for pretty ladies who didn't ever stay the full night. It was locked but never guarded, and it was her best chance at gaining access to the building.
Lockpicking wasn't a particular skill of hers, but as she slunk toward the door to give this burgeoning skill a go, she heard the sound of laughter and muffled voices on the other side. Darting past the doorway, she pressed herself against the wall and held her breath as the door opened, shielding her behind it as a man bid a woman farewell in a chorus of giggles and smooches. Fife pressed her eyes shut, praying to the gods that the woman would take the alley the other way, lest she be spotted before her heist ever began...
Whatever god had sustained her thus far in life provided once more, and the woman began down the alley away from Fife. The man whispered goodnight to her loudly and lazily swung the door shut behind him. Moving quickly and silently, Fife managed to catch the door just before it latched but held it near the jamb as she waited in the darkness for the woman to turn the corner and for the steps within to recede. Her pulse was still whooshing in her ears when silence fell in the alley once more and the woman turned without seeing Fife standing there with her hand on the knob. Loosing a long, shaking breath, the young thief took a full moment to gather her wits.
This was her only chance; she had to get better. There wasn't a place here for her, as a young woman whose only skill was silence or as a pitiable young boy. Carity wouldn't keep her through the winter, and the thieves' guilds wouldn't take her without any proof of her skills.
With her resolve fortified by necessity, Fife slipped into the door. She placed a folded piece of paper in the doorway, between the latch and the hole to keep it from locking behind her, then turned toward the stairs. Fortunately she was light and quick, and ascended them with relative silence. Arriving in a narrow hallway, she counted not four, but five doors. Five? She mentally counted the windows again. Perhaps the room at the far end had no window? Fife was uncertain and looked at the nearest doors with hesitation.
After a short and careful investigation, she found that doors one and four were silent. Behind door two she heard very loud snoring, and someone was up and moving behind door three -- most likely the fellow who she had followed in. Standing there in the hallway wasting time, Fife took a moment to gamble on which room she'd try opening. How many people could be boarded in each room? In what order did the proprietor let them out? She didn't know, and there wasn't really a way to know, so she picked a door at random: door one, closest to the rear exit.
The interior doors weren't locked, thankfully. Silently lifting the latch, Fife cracked the door and slipped inside. Carefully shutting it, she calmed her breathing before she turned toward the dark room she'd chosen. By what she could see in the faint ambient light through the window, there was a small table near the door with a ceramic wash basin, a heap of gear beside a single straight-back chair, and a bed.
And, to her horror, in that bed was a sleeping figure.
Fife sucked in a quick breath and froze in place, watching the steady rise and fall of the figure until she was certain that they were, indeed, sleeping. Perspiration was beading up on her face in spite of the chill, and she drew a long, steadying breath before she crept toward the individual's gear.
She was trying not to panic because panicking was the best way to mess up and get caught, but her heart was beating so hard that she was sure it would alert the person to her presence. They'd wake up and grab her and they would finally kick her out of Elbion for good. Or, worse, she'd lose a hand or be sent to rot in some dungeon like the delinquent she was...
Fife's plans were quickly dissolving, and she was struggling to see in the lack of light. Running her shaking hands over the bags, she fished her hand into one and felt around. It was either food or goods, and at the moment she didn't care which. Drawing the bag from the pile, she clutched it to her chest and began to back toward the door with her eyes fixed on the faintly outlined sleeping lump on the bed. All she had to do was get out as quietly as she'd come, and she'd be home free!
But her luck had run out. Her heel caught the leg of the chair and she stumbled back, her hip bumping hard against the table. The water basin teetered, and she half-turned trying and failing to catch it. The basin tipped over the edge of the table and shattered, water and broken porcelain scattering across the floor.
Horrified and afraid, Fife spun back toward the bed with eyes gone wide and the satchel clutched to her chest.
// Raigryn Vayd //