The shadows are my refuge
The sound of footfalls echoed in his ear as if they were right on top of him. He kept his back pressed tightly against the weathered stone, folded within the shadows. The source of the racket became quite obvious as the Imperial Watchmen rounded the corner humming quietly to himself, completely oblivious to the man sulking in the darkness. He was close enough to touch, but that wasn't a particularly smart thing to do, as he would raise an alarm and he'd be tossed in prison without a second thought.
This is how I make my living, prowling in the night, snatching up anything that isn't nailed down.
His name is Grayson, most others know him by his guild name, Shadowfoot. Grayson Shadowfoot, and of course, that wasn't his real last name. A little nickname he had picked up along the way. If you haven't figured it out already, he was a thief, and no, not one of those petty pickpockets that you see scurrying about the docks. The dirty faced children, looking for a purse strap to slit so they would be able to eat. He was far from that. No, he went for the big jobs, the most lucrative ones. Need some rare art to complete a collection, maybe an exceptional piece of jewelry? He was your man.
Grayson watched the guard disappear into the distance, and he used these precious moments to go over his tools of the trade. He was dressed in a muddled gray jerkin with a hood attached, gloves of the same color, black trousers, and a pair of soft soled boots that made his job a hell of a lot easier. As for actual equipment, a small dagger about eight and a half inches long, and a rather nondescript black wood handle. It was connected to his belt, at the small of back, to keep it out of the way when climbing. He never actually had to use it before, but it would be stupid to prowl about the night with no defense. Also attached to his belt, he had a grapnel. Three small prongs in all, with a thin rope about fifteen feet long that he kept coiled. Inside the jerkin's hidden pocket, he had a thieves best friend. A lock pick set, of his own design, wrapped in soft, dull brown leather. Grayson wouldn't be caught dead without them. Each year the safeguards become craftier, and this set of lock picks got the job done every time.
The moon's brilliance splashed down all around him as he concentrated his well tuned ears for any signs of life. Nothing. Now normally, he would be ecstatic with these conditions, but it's never this quiet. His gaze panned back and forth, surveying the deserted street, and there was literally not a soul stirring. At this time of night, more often than not, you have sloppy drunks spilling out of The Feed Bag, covered in mead and vomit. The whores following, giggling loudly, but with greed in their gaze. But no, the whores and drunks were nowhere to be found on this cold, autum night. Even the Watch was rather thin tonight. Complete and utter silence. Unusual, so he thought it'd be best to keep his wits about him. Keeping himself dressed in the inky blackness of the towering walls in the Market district, he would be able to make it to the end of the street virtually unseen. Grayson took notice of where he placed his foot with each step, making sure to use the technique he was taught some time ago. The key to moving silently was all in the transfer of weight between each step. Placing the outer edge of the foot, and rolling it slowly until the foot lay flat, thus transferring the weight slowly and reducing the sound. This technique works exceptionally well on wooden flooring, where any slight movement can cause the wood to sing.
Using this technique, he skirted to the right as to avoid the North Watchtower. The Red Diamond Jewelry storefront was in sight, but there was a lot of open space to cover, and he still had to find a way into the place. The Doyen, Armand Christophe, had contracted him out to find a rare jade necklace that was recently sold to the store's owner, Hamlof Red-Tooth. Bounding from shadow to shadow, Grayson moved with a cat-like grace across the open space between himself and his objective. He paused for a moment to try to regain his breath, the cool, crisp air caused a sharp twinge in his chest as he gulped in air. He kept his smoke-gray eyes trained on the door, watching and waiting. Ideally, he would have preferred to go in through a window, or another door that wasn't so exposed, but from what he could tell, there wasn't another way. He approached the solid wooden door and inspected the lock before he decided on which set of picks he should use. As he was about to slip the picks into the door, he noticed that the door was cracked.
Something isn't right, I should turn back now.
He smirked.
My curiosity always has gotten the best of me.
He pressed forward, gently nudging the door open and stepping into the soft glow of light that was emanating from the flickering flame dancing atop a lone candlestick. He slowly moved towards the light source causing his shadows to slither along the shop's walls. He licked his fingers and gently squeezed the life out of the flame, plunging the entire interior into a blue-black hue. He stood there for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness once again. A small creak in the wood from above, just barely audible, snapped him out of a temporary dream-like meditation. His pulse began to quicken as the adrenaline caused his heart to thud in his chest. He tuned everything else out, checking for the sound once more.
Nothing.
Deciding he should investigate the sound before he went about his business, he moved towards the stairs. Placing each step with utmost precision, he reached the top without as much as a squeak. As he reached the top, light spilled from the open door at the end of the hall, bathing the area ahead in an amber glow. As he was about to take a step, a vaguely metallic smell wafted forward, stopping him suddenly. He crept forward cautiously, pausing only briefly between steps. As he made it to the edge of the heavy oak door frame, he slowed his breathing considerably. The stench of death had grown stronger, and each breath caused his stomach to do flips. He stifled the contents rising from his stomach, and willed himself to peer into the bedroom. It took a few seconds for Grayson's mind to wrap around the horror that was laid out before him. Hamlof's half-naked body draped awkwardly over the side of his bed, his throat slashed so severely that it exposed his spinal cord. His empty, inert eyes staring off into a corner of the room, his last words hanging on his lifeless lips. A stream of crimson flowed away from the body, pooling in the various crevices of the floor. The dark, crusting spatter littered the room, nearly touching each of the walls. When the initial shock and disgust wore off, Grayson's focus returned. He pried his eyes away from the grisly scene just in time to see the outline of a figure materialize on the other side of Hamlof's bed.
The apparition stared, his ice blue eyes felt like knives digging into Grayson. Alabaster fingers moved deftly through the darkness, removing a dagger from it's sheath with a dull, scraping sound. Grayson gulped, his hairs rising on end, a chill raced up from the base of his spine.
Assassin!