I don't own Thief, or any of the trademarked characters or places, I doubt anyone on this site does.
The bell tolled thrice.
Murky fog weaved its way through the twisting towers and dark graveyards of the city. Somewhere a watchman was heard to state; 'Three o'clock and all's argh' before falling permanently silent.
Varney stood out by the statue of saint Ventor, freezing his arse off. His grip tightened around his poorly made blackjack, nothing more than a piece of wood with a leather grip.
My feet hurt he thought to himself as he glanced across the roofs to the distant clock tower for the third time that evening. He wished he'd brought a dagger or something sharp, as bad as he was a burglar, he was infinitely worse a fighter, but he would rather have something to cut with. Not a sword though, he couldn't use one to save his life (which is what he'd probably need one for).
As he thought for the fifth time that night that this had been a wind up, a clear voice broke the silence;
'Sorry I'm late.'
Varney span, attempting to draw the blackjack, but it just got caught in his belt and he landed smartly on the floor, banging his coccyx.
'By the hells, Garret you scared the shit outta me.' The other man shifted. 'Not my problem you're scared of the dark, Varney. Now, I came here to talk, not watch you make an idiot of yourself.' All Varney could see of him was half a pale face and a glowing green eye, partly obscured by a hood.
'What do you want?' Varney asked his companion, who looked at Varney (his stare is sodding creepy) for a minute before replying, 'Actually, you may not be up for this.'
'What? Course I am! You remember the Moors manor job, right? I did great, whatever you need, info, a break in-' 'I need you to look after something.' Garret interrupted.
'What? I can handle that, no problem.'
Garret looked disbelieving, but in a fluid motion he held out a pale hand, small bag nestled in the palm.
'This is just for a few days, I need to do some work, and can't afford for it to be taken. Don't open it.'
Varney nodded mutely, taking the bag from his friend and pocketing it.
'Thought you didn't do tattoos.' Varney mentioned, looking at the hand.
Garret held it up to the light, showing the key branded onto the back.
'I don't.' this was not the only new thing Varney had noticed about Garret. He had a different walk somehow, as if he carried a tremendous weight on his shoulders.
Before he could say anything however, a screech echoed. The beating of wings was heard in the tiny square as a tawny owl flew purposefully to Garret, landing on an outstretched (How does he move without me noticing?) arm.
Garret pulled a roll of vellum off the bird's leg and read it.
'Orland, you idiot, they can't have.' Garret breathed with shock.
'Hold on,' Varney questioned, 'Who's Orland?'
Garret looked at Varney with an expression of tired annoyance. 'Varney, you know I told you there are some things you're better off not knowing? This is one of them.'
Varney was not happy with this response, but accepted it. Be fore he could get another word in, Garret had vanished.
I hate it when he does that. Varney looked around the square for a last time, before heading for home. It would be a long walk back to Stonemarket.
***
Varney was sat on his moulding bed in the cramped apartment building overlooking Terces courtyard and stared at the bag.
What Garret doesn't know, won't hurt him right? Varney looked around the room as a matter of instinct, wincing as he turned to sharply left, feeling his old scar spasm as he did so. Of course no one was there, the watchman he shared the room with wouldn't be back until seven and it had been months since anyone else had been in the room.
He propped his tired feet on the end of the bed and pulled the sack open.
It contained what looked like a small ruby but closer inspection revealed it to be a red metallic disc (I've got to stop thinking about rubies all the damn time) with some form of symbol on it. He didn't recognize it, but it looked like some form of language. Maybe he knew someone who would.
***
Garret slid through the streets of the city, unseen and unheard. He barely even needed to extinguish the torches any more since he'd returned to the Keepers.
There'd been some major changes after the brethren and betrayer incident, the organization took a more direct view of city affairs now, he had explained the sense in this at the council meeting, this time without fixing the vote.
He opened a glyph door and slipped through to Butchers Boulevard. Heading down towards the slaughter pens, he wrinkled his nose as it was assailed by the stench of offal and death. Past the pens, was a small circular space between the buildings, a blocked well at its centre.
An old keeper was stood by the well. Ever since the Hag debacle he had use a walking stick as some injuries just won't heal. As Garret ghosted towards him, he readjusted his glasses before turning to the thief.
'Well at least you turned up.'
'I don't make a habit of being late, Orland.' Garret replied, sheathing his dagger once he was sure it was the head Keeper. 'I thought you'd finally given me acceptance, not suspicion.'
'You left me to die at the foot of the museum, Garret, and failed to rescue me from the drunkard's lock up I was transported to. You stole my most valued objects and sold them so now I can't get them back. You killed our guards, beat several Keepers unconscious and ruined the sanctuary. Others seem to have forgotten this. My acceptance you have. My forgiveness, you must earn.'
'Easy, old man.' Garret said, calmingly. 'We all lost friends to the Hag. Even me.'
Orland sighed, and pulled his hand down his face. It had been a stress full month.
'I asked to meet here about the cult. They may be on the move.'
'What? It's far too soon for them to take action. They still haven't perfected the ritual.'
Orland nodded. 'True but they've gotten wind of us. The acolyte we assigned is dead. I think they're panicking.'
Garret cursed. 'What do we know?' 'That they have members in the workers the Hammers hired. We found the acolyte's torso at the top of the new clock tower. I hope you placed the glyph with someone we can trust. The cult has roots everywhere. Even in the watch.'
Garret raised an eyebrow. 'We'd best move then.'
A lone citizen wandered nervously past the well. There was nothing there but wind and shadows.