Imperial City Waterfront, Cyrodil, Rains hand 3E 428

As docks go, the Imperial City waterfront was less chaotic than most. Despite being situated at the capital city of the empire, most ships that graced its shores were trade ships, their journeys short and regular and their sailors less society-starved than those that infested the docks at Anvil or Senchal. Also, now that the Blight curse in Morrowind was finally at an end, there were less shiploads of people fleeing the disease, and less fuss caused by the lack of trust between Dunmer refugees and Imperial watchmen.

So apart from the usual ripples in the peace caused by pickpockets, gossips and over-enthusiastic hagglers, the waterfront was calm. For now.

The disturbance was brought about by a blur of grey-green cloth, pink skin and suppressed giggles which came tearing through the scene, more like some furtive little creature than a child. Two sailors carrying a crate onto a ship found themselves almost bowled over by the running figure, and yelled curses at her as she raced up the stone steps to the other side of the curved wall. On the other side of the dock, a Nord girl stood facing the wall, counting out loud: "1...2...3...4..."

Crouched low to the ground, 7 year old Lettie Feucomme scrabbled alongside the thick wall which separated the sailors and traders with the people living in the tiny shacks facing away from the docks. It was in one of these shacks that she often slept, though she couldn't be said to inhabit one in particular. A few of the people on the Waterfront owned one for themselves– Armand Christophe, a Redguard and Doyen of the thieves guild, for instance, owned his own house and had filled it with his belongings. Well, the word 'belongings' is used loosely here. They belonged to someone, at least.

But generally, those who didn't have the 2000 gold available to buy a house ate, slept and sheltered in whichever of the decrepit buildings wasn't too crowded. It was hardly ideal, but ideals are for those for whom the basics are granted, and this was certainly not the case for the small community of people that Lettie called herself part of. And in the end, even though it was small, tucked away and entirely inhabited by the dregs that form at the bottom of society, it was still a community, and one that would look out for each other, and give each other room to sleep when room was available.

Somewhere in the distance, Lettie could still hear her friend Erica counting to 10 for the third time. She stood with her back to the world, with one hand over her eyes, and with the other hand outstretched, fingers uncurling one by one as she counted. "3...4...5," then swapped her hands over and counted, "6...7...8...9...10!" Then with characteristic Nord lungs, she bellowed "COMING READY OR NOT!!!"

Somewhere far off, the other boy taking part in the game, a tiny Bosmer, yelled "Cheater! You said you'd count four times!", then seemed to let the issue drop in favour of finding a hiding place before Erica came hurtling after his cry. However, he needn't have worried, since as far as the two girls were concerned, they were playing hide and seek and he'd just joined in because they had had the grace to let him. He could hide as long as he liked, but the chances of them actually coming to find him were minimal.

Meanwhile, Lettie had scuttled round one of the shacks and into the Garden of Dareloth, a fancy name given to what was basically a bush and some grass with a low wall around it. Behind this wall was generally considered a good hiding place, but Lettie had bigger ambitions. Instead, she jumped up onto the wall, and wedged herself in the space between two ridges in the larger wall behind it. Then, with some difficulty, she manoeuvred herself so she had her neck and shoulders up against one ridge and her bare feet against another, then walked herself up until she was a good nine feet above the ground. There, in the shadow of the overhanging stone and outside of most people's field of vision, she was almost invisible.

And not a moment too soon, for as soon as she had got herself into this position did Erica come into view, walking slowly and looking all around her, running to look in every crate or barrel she could see, even those too small for Lettie's slender frame. Never looking up, though, Lettie noticed. People usually didn't. They seemed to forget that the world went on going past the tops of their heads.

After a good 10 minutes or so of intense searching, checking every place at least twice as though she could somehow have missed her playmate first time around, Erica was beginning to get frustrated, and Lettie's back was getting worn raw by the stone it was pressed up against. But in Lettie's world, stubbornness conquered all, so she endured the scratching until Erica sat down on the low wall with an infuriated screech, and said the magic words "Oh, okay! I give up."

There was a delighted yell and then a one of momentary pain as Lettie let go of the wall and fell to earth with a bump. Surprised and annoyed at this, Erica pounced on her and pinned her down, laughing the whole time. Amid cries of "Hey!" and "Gettoff!" and "Not fair!", Lettie wriggled one hand free from beneath her, summoned up what little magicka she had under her control, grabbed Erica's nose and let fly with a fire spell. It wasn't a very good one – the lack of any sign of flames made the scene look quite comic to passersby, and without the control of age or proper teaching Lettie burnt her own hand more than she did Erica's nose. But the second or so of heat was enough to make Erica let go with a squeal and roll away. She touched her nose gingerly while her friend laughed.

"You made it peel!" she said reproachfully, then "That's not proper fighting."

"Yes it is!"

"No its'not!"

"Yes it is!"

On the Waterfront, it was generally believed that you use everything in your arsenal while fighting, even if it was just play-fighting. It was why there was no objections to Erica periodically rugby tackling her friend, even though she was three years her senior and almost twice as tall. It was also why Lettie was right, and Erica knew it. Still bruised from defeat, she said "You are so sneaky!"

Lettie jumped up and said "There's nothin' wrong with being a sneak." This was a phrase repeated often by Othrelos, a Dark Elf who could often be seen hanging around the market place. He'd teach others how to sneak too, for a price, and seemed to find some sort of pleasure in reminding the guards that he wasn't breaking the law, oh no, there was nothing wrong with being a sneak.

Erica had heard him say this often enough to get the joke, and forgot her defeat as she laughed at the playful mockery of another thieves' guild member.

"You just keep thinking like that and we'll make you a Prowler of you yet." This remark came from the entrance to the 'garden', and was said in the quiet, smooth accent of a Redguard. Armand was leaning on the wall, watching the two of them. He laughed as both of them jumped round to face him. They were an odd pair – the only similarity between them was the mud on their faces. Even at the age of ten, it was already clear that Erica would be a stunner once she hit growth spurt. Her hair was a shade of such pale blonde that it almost matched her pale Nord skin, while Lettie was quite ruddy for a Breton. This skin didn't seem to match her bright red hair, which was permanently tangled. Red hair usually comes with green eyes, but Lettie looked at the world through eyes that were marbled in different shades of brown, like polished wood.

The moment that Armand mentioned the guild, both girls forgot their joke and jumped at the opportunity to pester him. Both had tried their hand at pick pocketing a couple of times, and had often been taken along to distract shop-owners while older members pocketed items from the shelves, but the idea of having an active role in a heist was one that they both fantasised about.

"Ooh!" Lettie shrieked, "Does that mean I can go on jobs with Marc now?"

"Me too, Armand," Erica added indignantly, "You know that Mandil taught me to pick locks? Well I'm getting really good at it, I only broke two last time..."

"Keep it down." Armand said, his voice rising ever so slightly to compete with the young girls' pleads. It wasn't a request, and it wasn't a threat. It certainly calmed them both down, though, and before they managed to spill all the guild's secrets to any snooping watchmen that might be nearby. When he was certain they were subdued, he continued in a hushed voice.

"Right now, you're too young. Yes, you too Erica. You keep," he paused deliberately, "practising, and perhaps you'll be needed once I know you have what it takes. Remember, we work alone. Even if you happen to be in the same place and with the same goal, and even part of the same plan, you are still alone. You have to be able to look after yourself, because no one will do it for you." He paused, and was met with two blank faces. Evidently the vast proportion of this speech had gone over their heads. With a wave of his hand, he said "Off you go." They went without question, giggling once they thought they were out of earshot.

Armand smiled to himself. In his 30 years as Doyen, he had seen several guild members' children or younger siblings grow up and take their place in the world, and no matter how hard he tried he still found himself picking out the ones he reckoned would be most useful, even at these girls' tender ages. With those climbing abilities, even now he could see that once Lettie was old enough to pick locks, she could prove invaluable for getting to hard to reach items – she was quick on her feet too, courtesy of being born under the sign of the thief. To many this would seem an amusing coincidence, for a thief-born to become a thief, but Armand had seen so many use the extra nimbleness granted by that sign to make their way in his business that he often wondered if the tendency or the name had come first.

Ha, he thought, leave that to the book-worms at the university.

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