Silence is Golden
Bang! Smash! Clatter!
Loud noises coming from down stairs wake a family, who were sleeping peacefully in the night. A father and husband is filled with fury and drive, ready at all costs to protect his kin. He asks his wife and small daughter to stay in the bedroom closet, no matter what they may hear, then heads down the stairs. The middle-aged man clutches a club tightly, his knuckles turning bone white with the force of his grip.
As he enters his living room he notices the front door has been kicked in. The old hinges are bent and broken by the forced entry, rendering the wooden barrier useless and in need of replacement. Everything else seems roughly in order until another crashing sound is brought to his attention. He runs into the kitchen, as a pot soars through the air, nearly taking off his head. It smashes into the wall next to him, and his family's meager savings are strewn along the floor.
The man's gaze angrily darts in the direction the thrown pot came from, only for his indignation to drop coldly like his heart, deep into his stomach. A young man in green stands before him: his lithe, muscular frame brandishes a long sword expertly. The tip is pointed at the father's chest, mere inches away from piercing his heart out through the back of him. The young man looks at his elder with cold and calculating eyes. He doesn't speak a word, his face is as blank as a statue before it is chiseled from the stone.
The burglar motions with his eyes: looking from the old man's gleaming, fearful eyes, down to the gems sparkling with the moon's light shining on them through the windows, then back to the man. He needn't speak one word. It's clear what he wants, and they both know it. The older man thinks to raise his club to strike, but just before his arm can move an inch, he feels the cold steel pushed against his chest. The younger man, clearly experienced in the subtleties of combative language, read his targets movements before he was even sure of his commitment to them, and countered with an ultimatum: he may have the money or his life, but not both.
Defeated the older man drops his club and looks to the money on the ground: a concession in his eyes that the robbery can continue unhindered by his efforts. The green clad rogue points the tip of his sword down towards the money, then back to the man's chest. Bending over and sweeping the sharp ceramic off the gleaming jewels, the older man complies, taking them all in hand and handing them off to his dominator. With an outstretched hand the currency is taken and stashed in a leather wallet hanging from the young raider's belt: his facial expression remains unchanged throughout, leaving the home with his dead eyes locked on the poor man he'd mugged.
After exiting the once quiet abode, he quickly mounts his trusty steed and makes off like a bandit into the night. Having singled out and picked off each house in this village individually in a matter of days, some with stealth, others through extortion, and a few just plain robbed blind, he rides through the midnight hours to his small cabin deep within the nearby woods. He knew that he wouldn't be followed, for most who enter these lost woods were known to contribute to its namesake.
He pulls a key from a pouch on his belt and unlocks the ramshackle hut. Creak! The door groans as the rusty hinges swing the door open into the humble living space. After carefully closing the door behind him, the young man removes his green cap, and his shaggy hair falls out in all directions. He messily ruffles the dirty, golden tresses out of his eyes and sighs in relief. The small satchel of gems clatters and rustles as he walks to one corner of the cabin. A small chest sits atop a pile of the various colored precious stones, its lid slightly ajar revealing the bounty within. The figure's deep blue eyes gleam with a luster matched only by his ill gotten wealth as he begins his post earnings ritual of adding to the hoard and counting it all up. He uses a sharp rock to scratch into the nearby wall the total amount he'd added on this night as well as the grand total he'd collected thus far.
Time is running short, and he worries that perhaps it is time to put a firm boot to the throat of his greed, but then his eyes drift back to the hoard of wealth. Synapses fire in his brain, and the thoughts of stopping any time soon are pushed away by more sinister and pressing ones. The night was late, however, so the young man decides it is time to rest for now. He lies down in bed and thrashes about for a few hours, haunted by flashbacks to a time yet to pass. A horseman rides into the night, leaving his body broken under hoof. A woman screams for him, but the light drains from his eyes. He wakes in a cold sweat, after what seemed to be only a few hours rest.
A bag lying nearby the bed is rummaged through, and a small ornate instrument is pulled meticulously from it. It is colored a hue of blue that could be described as deeper than the sky, but brighter than the ocean, its design resembling that of a cross between a flute and a sweet potato, with a mouth piece coming off one end and holes dotted along the surface of its front. He brings it to his lips and plays a soothing melody. It's a sound far too precise and calculated to be composed on the spot, but rattled off in a jazzy improvisation. A rag that is not too upbeat as to excite one's nerves, but not sorrowful in its tune. After a while of play, the warrior feels much more at ease, and the hardships of his day sink in once again. His half lidded eyes come to a close as his head hits his pillow, and peaceful sleep finally comes.
The next few weeks follow a similar pattern. The roguish young man makes his way to a village within the kingdom, be it parked on an active volcano, or deep beneath the lakes and rivers, and finds a way to impoverish some of the residents for his own gain. His mind coldly calculating the best way to exploit every person he meets within, and taking notes on the more official and important people running these places in order to profit from them later. Every night the pile grows, and every night he grows more restless, until finally the fateful day comes.
He rides to the castle town, the capital of the land, at a breakneck pace one evening. Flashes of his visions of this destined night blend and smash into his reality, to the point that he more than once wonders if he is merely dreaming again. These thoughts don't last long; however, as a commotion near the castle gates he's speeding towards catch his attention. An evil energy flashes through the sky, leaving the air nearby buzzing like a lightning storm.
The rider whose fueled his nightmares appears before him, on a steed of the pure night sky, with a beautiful maiden in tow. She's tied up and held under his arm, and he cackles out into the cold, unforgiving night and begins to gallop directly at the frightened young man before him. Using his forward momentum he throws a wallop of a punch right into the green clad man's chest. He feels his victim's bones crunch satisfyingly on their impact with his solid fist, and revels in knowing he's definitely crippled a man tonight. With a sinister smirk the fiend rides onwards, laughing as the woman riding with him shrieks in terror.
The young man just lies there in the mud, unable to move, unable to breathe, and unable to process how exact everything had been to his visions. He's picked up by guards who had chased his assailant from the castle, and escorted to a medical wing.
Doctors treat him with various potions and salves all night, worried that only a miracle would let him live to see the morning, but he seems relatively unphased by it all. Aside from the burning pain in his chest when he breathes, he shows no sign of fear for his life tonight. He knows no regret at his sins and has no anxieties about the negative effects the various potions he's been swallowing since arrival could bring. After a dreamless sleep began by falling unconscious is brought to an end, it is morning time and the man is informed he is to see the king immediately. Bowing before his majesty, the pained man is informed that he is easily recognized as a wanted man in this kingdom, and must answer for crimes he has committed against its great people. He tells a madman's tale of heroism and visions, and is deemed a liar and insane in his trial. The knowing smile never leaves his face within the next few days he spends imprisoned.
He readily gives away the directions to his hoard of treasure to agents of the crown. The funds are, upon retrieval, put towards recovering the captured maiden, the princess of Hyrule, having been more than even a steep tax could have reasonably produced. The king's head is saved by not being in need of taxing his citizens into abject poverty to find their beloved princess, but the same cannot be said for the rogue who's saved it. He's hung publicly for the entire kingdom to see, with a knowing smile still on his face.