A Thief in the Making
A slight figure, coal black cloak swirling, dropped down into the street softly. Sparing only a single glance for the harsh, forbidding stonewall at his back, he made his way down the street, never leaving the shadows. Darting into the lee of a small building, he watched the Sheriff's forces with narrowed eyes. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a rocky, hard-edged pebble skittering across the cobblestones. Heads snapped round, not heeding a shadow in the corner of the eye, or a quiet splash on the edge of hearing. A dark form leaned back against the algae slimed, mildew stained wall, turbulent black waters churning around his midriff. When the watch officer turned away, muttering curses under his breath, he made his way down the swirling river. Reaching for damp, moss stained jetty, his foot slipped, and he was submerged in dark water. Almost carried away by the current, he surfaced and staggered onto dry land. Dousing the torch that was bracketed in the street ahead, he ducked through twisting alleyways and shadowy roads. Crouching in a narrow doorway, he studied a smudged, torn scrap of paper, stained with unidentifiable substances.
'If you ever need a cheap place to stay, try the boarding house up on Hill Street. Use the name Fenning, and say Jason sent you.'
He shoved it into his pocket and leaned against the door, reaching for a thin metal wire. Hairpins, fence wire, forks; his mentors had said he could make a lock pick out of anything. Several clicks and a strange 'thunk' later, the door opened at his touch. Locking it behind him, he ventured upstairs. Knocking on a solitary door in the third landing, his keen ears picked up grumbles, clatters and the heavy thump of a bedstand falling over. A crackle heralded the lighting of a torch. A surly, dark haired man in a stained nightshirt, brand in one fist, stout oak cudgel in the other, materialised in the threshold "yeah?" The cloaked figure smiled in the depths of his hood "I hear you have a room to let?" The landlord snarled "come back in the morning. I ain't got time fer curfew breakers." The stranger said softly "the name's Fenning". The man straightened up "Jason sent yer? I'll want the first month's rent now." A clinking purse landed in the center of his palm "second floor, door on yer left." The shadowy figure accepted the proffered key silently, spinning on his heel and leaving with a swish of a black cloak.
A slight figure, coal black cloak swirling, dropped down into the street softly. Sparing only a single glance for the harsh, forbidding stonewall at his back, he made his way down the street, never leaving the shadows. Darting into the lee of a small building, he watched the Sheriff's forces with narrowed eyes. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a rocky, hard-edged pebble skittering across the cobblestones. Heads snapped round, not heeding a shadow in the corner of the eye, or a quiet splash on the edge of hearing. A dark form leaned back against the algae slimed, mildew stained wall, turbulent black waters churning around his midriff. When the watch officer turned away, muttering curses under his breath, he made his way down the swirling river. Reaching for damp, moss stained jetty, his foot slipped, and he was submerged in dark water. Almost carried away by the current, he surfaced and staggered onto dry land. Dousing the torch that was bracketed in the street ahead, he ducked through twisting alleyways and shadowy roads. Crouching in a narrow doorway, he studied a smudged, torn scrap of paper, stained with unidentifiable substances.
'If you ever need a cheap place to stay, try the boarding house up on Hill Street. Use the name Fenning, and say Jason sent you.'
He shoved it into his pocket and leaned against the door, reaching for a thin metal wire. Hairpins, fence wire, forks; his mentors had said he could make a lock pick out of anything. Several clicks and a strange 'thunk' later, the door opened at his touch. Locking it behind him, he ventured upstairs. Knocking on a solitary door in the third landing, his keen ears picked up grumbles, clatters and the heavy thump of a bedstand falling over. A crackle heralded the lighting of a torch. A surly, dark haired man in a stained nightshirt, brand in one fist, stout oak cudgel in the other, materialised in the threshold "yeah?" The cloaked figure smiled in the depths of his hood "I hear you have a room to let?" The landlord snarled "come back in the morning. I ain't got time fer curfew breakers." The stranger said softly "the name's Fenning". The man straightened up "Jason sent yer? I'll want the first month's rent now." A clinking purse landed in the center of his palm "second floor, door on yer left." The shadowy figure accepted the proffered key silently, spinning on his heel and leaving with a swish of a black cloak.