Garent stood amongst the marketplace with a curious gaze. He had never been to Riften before, and he had to say it was not like most of the cities he had so far visited. Given, Riften was nicer. The air was warmer and the sun brighter, it seemed, and the leaves were changed in the colors of autumn. These things made Riften seem nicer. How ironic, he found it then, that the townspeople were so incredibly rude. Upon immediate arrival the guards had tried to rob him, and shortly after he was somewhat threatened by a big man who went by Maul. No, Riften might have been one of the most beautiful cities but it certainly was not the friendliest.

And while Garent was not unaccustomed to being barked at by higher class citizens, even he found all this to be very demeaning.

He sat now on a barrel by the marketplace, dressed in the fur armor he had taken off some bandit. The Jarl of Whiterun had given him some nice steel armor as reward for his help, but Garent had simply sold it. He never liked that heavier armor, and in fact found it restricting. He had stripped the bandit by the side of the road. It was really only a pair of trousers, his chest was bare now. He didn't mind, of course. He had nothing to hide.

He was not a very tall man, and was really hardly a man at all. His hair was straggly and dark red, his skin pale. There were little scars on his chest, as though he'd been nipped with a dagger more than a few times. He watched the people come and go with interest. The woman selling weapons was a sour thing, quick, to the point, and ready to cut you down if you messed with her. Madesi was a kinder man, an Argonian who peacefully sold his wares; jewelry and other shiny trinkets. It was the man on the other side of the market that fascinated him most, though.

"Come one, come all!" shouted the man, "Come and see my Falmer Blood Elixir." Falmer? Those horrid creatures wandering blindly through old caverns? The snow elves? Garent's brow wrinkled at the thought. The reddish liquid the man was holding reminded him of a health potion. He was certain that wasn't it at all, though. There was a strange smell coming from even the bottles.

Garent shook his head and scoffed. "What a load of-"

"Got something to say, lad?" Grant nearly jumped out of his skin as he found the well-dressed man standing in front of him. His eyes widened. Then he had heard him, huh? Garent pursed his lips and looked the man up and down. Tall, strong looking, but he didn't look like a merchant. His clothes were expensive, but not suited to him. He didn't look like he belonged in them at all. His eyes were green and filled with fire directed straight at Garent. "Well? Are you deaf?"

Garent winced. "Nothing at all," he said quietly. He was no coward, but that didn't mean he wanted to go about picking fights. He had just gotten here, after all. And this man was big, he looked like he could snap Garent in half. No, Garent was no coward, but he also wasn't an idiot. He wasn't about to try and fight this man, who looked both older and stronger. "Nothing at all, sir," he repeated, his voice coming out humble as he had hoped.

The man's eyes narrowed, and then softened and he let out a chuckle. "I'm just kidding you, lad," he said, laughing now. Garent relaxed slowly, only now realizing how stiff he had been. He watched the man in surprise, and slowly began to awkwardly laugh as well. "Don't think I'd actually hit you, do you?" He shook his head, his laughter dying back down to a chuckle.

He looked Garent up and down and smirked. Garent frowned, not liking the feeling of being sized up, but tried to do the same to him. He had to have been in his forties, at least, but he looked good for his age. He was strong, his hair long and dark red just a shade lighter from Garent's. Finally, the man tilted his head downward and looked at him. "Running a little light in the pockets, lad?" he asked in a voice just above a whisper. Garent felt his face redden. That was what this was about? He was making fun of him? Garent knew he didn't look his best, he was probably covered in dirt and maybe a little dried blood. Not to mention, his eye was still a little swollen from the black eye he had gotten from that stable-master outside. Friendly fight, and he had won. Sort of.

Garent scowled at the man. "My wealth is none of your business," he hissed in return. He found himself standing from the barrel and shoving past the taller man. He felt a calloused hand wrap entirely around his arm.

"That's where you're wrong, lad," said the man calmly. He didn't look bothered by the very upset boy in front of him. If anything, he seemed amused by it. "Wealth is my business." He smiled. "Maybe you'd like a taste?"

Garent raised a brow curiously now. He wouldn't deny that he had never really listened to the law. In Whiterun, he had broken into Belethor's shop and stolen all the coin in his strongbox. He had only left after he had gotten bored picking the locks of the Battle-Borns and the Gray-Manes. He had been pickpocketing what he could. It was the only thing keeping him fed as of right now. Sure, he wasn't the greatest thief. He may have been a little clumsy. At least he had gotten this far without a trip to the jails. He studied the man's face. "What do you have in mind?"

The merchant's face broke out in a grin and he chuckled. "I've got a bit of an errand to perform, but I need an extra pair of hands. In my line of work, extra hands are well-paid." He let go of Garent's arm now, as if offering to let the boy go on about his business. Garent didn't move. How could he now? He was currently without a septim to his name, and to be frank, he was sick of sleeping on the street. Enough gold to buy him a night in the inn was all he really wanted, though he couldn't say he didn't like the idea of some spending money.

"What do I have to do?"

"Simple, I'm going to cause a distraction and you're going to steal Madesi's ring from a strongbox under his stand. Once you have it, I want you to place Brand-Shei's pocket without him noticing."

Garent glanced over, firstly at the Argonian who was calling out his wares in a friendly voice. Then to Brand-Shei, the elf who seemed just as friendly. Garent had grabbed a bottle of wine off his stall the night before. He turned back to the merchant. "Why plant the ring on Brand-Shei?" he asked. The elf didn't seem like a bad person. In fact, he was one of the nicer citizens of Riften. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of getting the man into trouble.

The thief frowned, not thrilled with the many questions, but after a pause he said, "There's someone that wants to see him put out of business permanently. That's all you need to know. Now, you tell me when you're ready and we'll get started."

"I never agreed to helping you," Garent snapped, taking the man by surprise. "What will happen to Brand-Shei afterwards?" The thief stared, shocked, and then shook his head.

"I didn't think you'd be so soft hearted, lad. Maybe you're not cut out for this." When this didn't get Garent to agree, the man sighed. "Fine, fine. He'll get sent to jail for a few days, then they'll let him out. Now, are you in or not? I don't have all day to wait on you and your sentiment."

Garent bristled at the scornful words. His eyes narrowed at the older man who was more than a few inches taller than him. "I don't even know who you are," he pointed out, looking the merchant up and down. The man scoffed. "For all I know you're some double-crossing killer."

"Killing's not my line of work," the man replied tartly. "Enough stalling now, lad. In or out?"

The boy hesitated and took another look between the stands, something that obviously annoyed the other. Finally, Garent sighed. "I'm ready. Let's get this started."

It had been easy work, mostly. Garent was never the best at lock picking, but he had the strongbox open within the first minute and had slunk over to where Brand-Shei sat without a sound. He had hesitated before doing it. This wasn't right. Stealing little bits of coin and food was one thing, but stealing something and purposely framing another innocent person was something entirely different. He did it, though. He carefully planted the ring in his pocket, for once with a feathery touch. Once it was done he slipped away, sitting on the wall and listening to the merchant's distraction.

When it was all over, and everyone had dissipated, Garent walked over to the stand. "Looks like I chose the right person for the job," he commented, "And here you go, your payment, just as I promised."

Garent grabbed the bag of coins and took a peek inside, much to the merchant's obvious amusement. One hundred gold pieces, right there. He would sleep well tonight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw guards approaching Brand-Shei's stall. "The way things have been going around here, it's a relief that our plan went off without a hitch." The guards were telling Brand-Shei to empty his pockets. Garent felt sick, and turned back to the thief.

"What's been going on?" he asked.

The older man waved off the question. "Bah, my organization's been having a run of bad luck, but I suppose that's just how it goes. Never mind that. You did the job and you did it well. Best of all, there's more where that came from. If you think you can handle it," he added with a crooked smile. They were taking Brand-Shei away, weapons out. The boy felt guilt somewhere deep in his stomach. Most of the people he had stolen from were rude, or had somehow crossed him, or were too rich for their own good. He had never framed a poor man and sent him to jail. That was wrong. He pushed the thoughts away, though. There was no room for sympathy in Skyrim, as his old friend had once told him. There was only room for prosperity in rare cases, and survival.

"I can handle it," he said, almost robotically. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was just to prove to the older man that he could. Garent knew he didn't look like much, and surely so did this man. He wanted to prove himself, though. He was no weakling.

The thief smirked. "All right, then. Let's put that to the test." He began packing up the bottles of Falmer Blood Elixir in a box. "The group I represent has its home in the Ratway beneath Riften. In a tavern called the Ragged Flagon." He lifted the box of the elixir and looked around to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything. Garent noticed he didn't reach for his satchel. "You get there in one piece, and we'll see if you've got what it takes."

He turned then and headed the other way. Garent's eyes widened. "Hey, wait," he called, running to catch up with the other, "I didn't catch your name."

The thief turned around, a slightly annoyed and puzzled look on his face. "You know, we don't usually give out names so freely around here, lad." He held the box under his arm.

"Yeah, well I'm not from around here," Garent replied, striding over to meet the man. "Come on, I'll give you my name? It's Garent."

"Garent," the man echoed, almost scornfully.

Garent's eyes narrowed. "Yes, it's Garent. Shut up, it isn't that odd a name."

The thief chuckled. "All right, Garent," he drawled out, making the boy's face flush. "It's Brynjolf. Now get a move on, either get through the Ratway or don't, choice is yours. But I tell you, that hundred gold pieces won't last you forever, and unless you want to spend the rest of your life on the street, you'll find your way to the Flagon."

Brynjolf turned then, without waiting for a reply, and disappeared towards the Temple of Mara. Garent looked down at the bag in his hands and sighed. Something told him the man was right. He wouldn't last forever on the streets. At this rate, he might as well at least try his hand at making money. If the pay was this good, why not? He turned and strode off towards the inn. He would settle it out tonight, in his warm bed, with a bottle of mead. Maybe two, he thought, as he felt the bag of coin bounce against his leg as he walked.