A/N:All Author's Notes will be placed in my profile.
Prologue
It was a cold night at the Chateau Evrell, nestled deep in the countryside of modern France. The castle was old, exceedingly so, and the stones that made up its visage showed their wear and tear. The stones had been hauled from a quarry almost ten miles from the site of the castle, nearly five hundred years ago. It had taken ten years, but the Chateau Evrell had been constructed. It was put to good use, staving off several heavy assaults that would have made their way to Paris had they not been waylaid. Over the years the Chateau was constantly inhabited, and always by the noblest of the land.
However, time passed and soon the Chateau Evrell found itself without an owner. It stayed on Espère Hill, for nearly one hundred years before the people living in the surrounding villages paid it any mind. Finally, the townspeople of the village closest to the castle formed a committee whose job it was to decide what they should do with the castle. Some suggested that they open Chateau Evrell to the public, as a sort of museum. Others insisted that they let it lie where it was; it was rumored that one of the late lords of the castle had placed the fortress under a curse.
Finally, one men stepped out of the shadows and solved all the townspeople's problems; he bought Chateau Evrell for a hefty sum. The townspeople did not question the man, and he moved his belongings into the castle in short time. He stayed inside the castle, and began to do his job. It was small things at first, like hiring local thieves and pickpockets to steal things from the townspeople and bring them to him, in return for a small percent of the loot. The man's avarice seemed to know no bounds however, and his criminal influence soon reached farther and farther away from the Chateau Evrell.
The local authorities tried their best to put the man behind bars, but could do nothing. Whether the man pointed out a complex series of laws and ordinances, or just used plain old bribery, the man kept himself out of jail. He branched out from thievery, and soon became a veritable crime lord. Without warning one night, the man living in Chateau Evrell found himself the target of an asassination attempt. After that, the Chateau was under the strictest of guard; not since the days of knights and chivalry had there been this many people inside the castle walls.
Like giant, cold sentinels the walls stood and guarded those that moved around inside them. Those that moved inside the walls protected the giant stones that stood as a brace against the rest of the world. It was a sort of symbiotic relationship; the people protected the castle, while the castle protected the people.
Finally, the man's corrupted presence in the world was so large and great that it attracted one of the world's greatest thieves. The thief came in the dead of night, under cover beneath the ominous clouds, and scaled the chateau's walls, landing inside the courtyard. The thief continued inward and onward, heading towards the room that was rumored to contain all of the man's ill-begotten goods. No one knows how it was done, but the next morning the only thing found in the treasure room was a small boy, barely old enough to be employed, unconscious. The man who owned the chateau was disgusted, and decided that if someone could break into his castle that easily, then trying to get his money back would be a waste of time.
Several weeks after the thief struck during the night, the man mysteriously vanished from the Chateau Evrell. His employed thugs woke to find that the man had left, under the full moon never to be seen again. The guards, petty criminals, and regular business people the man employed within the bounds of the Chateau Evrell began to trickle out of the building, until the building of stone stood empty once more.
Chapter 1:Prelude to Silence
"Ugh... feel like I got hit by a train," muttered an inert Sly Cooper. He swung his legs out of his bed, and his blue shoes hit the ground. "Why do I feel that way though? I can't remember what happened last night," he said, scratching his head.
"You were drunk Sly," came a nasally, irritated voice.
"Oh yeah," replied Sly sheepishly. The raccoon looked everywhere in his room for his turtley friend, but he was nowhere to be seen. "Where are ya' Bent?" he called out, instantly regretting having done so; the loud noise hurt his senses.
"Upstairs! You know I can't go down there anymore," Bentley called down to Sly.
By looking out of his window, Sly saw that the sun was just rising; the perfect and the worst time to be awake. The perfect time to be awake because that's when most people considered it natural to be awake, and it was also the worst time to be awake because Sly's choice of career made it incredibly hard to pull off any jobs in the daylight. Sly decided that since he was up, he might as well see what Bentley and the Murray were up to.
He hurried over to the door that hid the wooden staircase, and opened it without a second thought. He quickly climbed up the normally creaky stairs, and entered the hide out's living room. Bentley was no where to be found, yet again. There was however, somebody else in the room. A small boy wearing a beret, with his back to Sly, facing out the open door into the city proper of Paris.
"Hey! You there!" Sly yelled, "Get out of here! This is my hide out!"
The boy turned around to look at Sly, and as he did so, grew at least three sizes larger. His face was a pure white color, with a thin black line running from each of his cheeks to over each of his eyebrows, which made it appear like he was always crying. His current facial expression however, showed an emotion completely different from sadness; it was anger. The boy raised one of his huge, muscled arms and used his index finger to point at Sly.
"Are you deaf boy? I said get out!" said Sly, starting to become creeped out by the now hulking child.
The boy brought his index finger back to one side of his neck, and slowly dragged it along his neck with a slicing motion.
"So, now your threatening me, huh?" Sly asked, twirling his cane. "In my own home, eh?" Sly queried rhetorically, twirling his cane just a bit faster. Without warning, Sly lashed out at the boy with his cane, but met only with air. The boy had vanished. Sly's cane dropped to the floor, as the raccoon felt something close in around his neck, squeezing the life from him. He groped at the invisible tendril around his neck, but to no avail. The world was becoming darker. Sly Cooper dropped to his knees, struggling to remove the choking attacker, and as he inhaled his last breath he heard an angry voice say, "Cooper..."
"WOAH!" Sly sat bolt-upright in bed, a cold sweat clinging to his brow. "That was some weird dream..." he mused. "I guess there's only one way I can make sure it was truly a dream though," he said, and he swung his feet out from under the covers. He let out a sigh of relief once he saw that he wasn't wearing his blue thief shoes. "I don't wear shoes to bed," he commented calmly.
The dream had felt pretty real, up to the point when he began to move up those stairs; they hadn't creaked like they always did. Just to be sure Sly crept out of bed, as Murray was still sleeping over in the corner, and tip-toed over to the stairs and tested the first few. The creaking noise hit his ears as he placed his right foot on the first step and Sly was finally able to say that what he had experienced was a dream.
"A creepy dream," he said to himself, a vivid image of the boy's face flashing before him. Sly had no idea where the boy had come from. He frowned as he hopped back into his bed; he usually had a good memory for faces but he seemed to be drawing a blank. No one I've ever met had a face like that, he mused, staring at the ceiling aimlessly. It was creepy.
Just then, a loud snore broke the silence in the room and interrupted Sly's train of thought. Good point, thought Sly, now really is a time for sleeping. I guess I'll just ask Bentley about it in the morning. With that Sly Cooper closed his eyes and slowly but surely fell asleep, none the wiser about his current situation.
Sewer Crocodile, Fact or Fantasy? read the headline of a newspaper that a busy café goer innocently dropped onto a local sewer grate. Everybody above the sewers were too busy to notice that the paper was pulled down into the depths of the dank tunnels of the sewer system. The crocodile who had snatched the paper sneered at the headline, while trying to keep the paper open with his only hand. He had been down here in these stinking pipes for who knows how long and those people up above still were poking their noses around where they weren't wanted.
When he was young he had gotten into an accident that had cost him his left arm. That's ok though, he had thought at the time, I'm a righty anyways. However, being a crocodile with one arm hurt his reputation as a fearsome predator, and no matter what he did he couldn't get the other children at school to leave him alone. Finally, the crocodile had snapped and left his home above ground for one more solitary and silent. He had gotten just what he wanted when he fell face first into the sewers one day, and had lived inside their labyrinthine like confines ever since.
The crocodile, named Roc Croc was a magician, or so he told the giant rats who lived in the sewers alongside him. He knew very little magic, and didn't use it to produce any earth shattering effects.
Now-a-days Roc spent almost all of his time in his 'apartment,' mixing strange concoctions from ingredients found just outside his door in the raw sewage. He loved nothing more than two drop two different ingredients into his iron mixing pot, and then testing the result on one of the rats that skittered about his floor. He had several favorite mixtures; one that turned the drinker's tongue a deep black color, one that caused a person's toe nails to grow to un-imaginable lengths, and even one that gave the drinker a sort of night vision. (That last one had some nasty after effects, and it had taken him the better part of five hours to clean up the rats whom he had tested the solution on.)
Roc was currently finishing his latest creation. He let go of his wooden mixing stick, and snatched an unlucky rat who had been sniffing at the base of his pot. Laughing just a bit crazily, Roc bit the head off the rat and tossed the rest of the body into the pot. The body of the rat began dissolving as it hit the surface of the caustic liquid. One last ingredient, he thought, turning around to take a look at his shelf, as he swallowed the rat's head in one swift go.
His shelf was actually just a large recess in his stone wall that he had hewn out with his own hand, but he preferred to call it a shelf, thinking that it made his apartment feel more homey. There were all sorts of bottles located on his shelf, green ones, red ones, ones that had intricate designs painted onto them, some that were square, some that were round, some that looked like they'd be better suited for life in a museum than on some deranged madman's 'shelf,' and even ones that Roc held onto just because he liked them. Ah, here we go. Roc reached out and grasped a small light blue colored bottle, and emptied its contents into the pot. He stirred the concoction a few more times before he removed his wooden mixing stick, satisfied. He chanted a few words, some of the little magic he knew, and watched satisfied as the liquid in his mixing pot turned an opaque rose color.
Roc looked up from his work to be greeted with the visage of his customer, or at least the mask his current customer was wearing. It was one of those pure white theater masks that showed sadness. Roc had a feeling that this man had the other mask as well, the one that showed happiness, and wore whichever correctly depicted his current mood. The man stepped into the dim lighting of Roc's apartment, and the host bowed deeply.
"Did you bring the gold like I asked?" asked Roc in a deep, raspy voice, thick with a French accent. Gold was the only thing that Roc accepted as payment for his services. The crocodile rarely traveled above surface, and when he did he usually found that the current currency's value had fluctuated somewhat since his last walk above ground. Gold however, was an entirely different thing; no matter the circumstance Roc could always get good deals for his gold.
The stranger reached down to his belt and undid a knot or two, before successfully freeing the sack of gold from his side. Roc watched greedily as the stranger tossed the sack onto a rickety old table. Some of the golden coins spilled out from their container, making little chinking noises as they collided into each other. Roc smiled triumphantly as he eyed the little golden trinkets. "Ah good, I was hopin' you wouldn't forget." Roc's one large, scaly hand scooped the gold coins back into their purse. "Much obliged," said Roc, tipping his head down slightly, showing respect to the stranger.
"And now for my part of the deal, eh?" Roc laughed shakily as he returned to his shelf, seeking an empty bottle. This mask wearing stranger was giving Roc the creeps. He soon found one, a tiny green, see-through vial, and used an iron ladle to pour some of his newest mixture into the container. He jammed a cork into the vial and held it out to the stranger. The stranger took the bottle, and gazed at it intently for several seconds, as though wishing to divine the liquid's purpose just by staring at it.
Almost as if on queue, Roc began to explain how the solution worked. "Just make sure the recipient of the effects imbibes the drink, any amount will do." He paused for a moment, trying to remember the finer details of how this exact concoction functioned. "The effects should take hold about one hour after being in the subject's system." That didn't seem to be all the stranger wanted however, as he stood still blocking the only exit, fingering something that Roc couldn't see that was tucked away in his belt. Roc gulped slightly, he didn't like the vibe he was getting from this guy and that creepy mask certainly didn't improve matters anymore. Thinking of one last thing the stranger might want to know, Roc said, "The mixture's effects are indefinite. Only I have the antidote."
The stranger bowed his head in thanks, and stepped out of Roc's apartment. Roc watched the man go, with a slight look of contempt on his face. The crocodile had the feeling that he would've been killed right there on the spot had he not delivered that last piece of crucial information. "Weirdo," stated Roc, to no one in particular, as he turned to the task at hand, counting his gold.
"Alright guys, our current target is an old gangster by the name of Ludwig von Stoopehd," began Bentley, with Sly snickering in the background at their target's last name. Bentley took a moment to glare at Sly, a look that plainly told his taller more lithe friend to 'shut up' for the moment. Once Sly had quieted down, Bentley switched the slides on his old projector, as Murray looked on with a confused face; he hadn't understood what was funny about the gangster's name. The new slide showed the visage of an ugly manor. "He's an old, extremely paranoid guy, so naturally he has the biggest security system I've ever seen. Luckily," Bentley switched the photo on the projector once more. This time Ludwig was sitting at a bar. "We can circumvent most of the security if Sly steals a key from Ludwig himself."
"Most of the security?" questioned Sly. His ears had perked up after hearing that this might turn out to be one of the easiest heists he had ever pulled off, if all he had to do was pluck a key from the back trouser pocket of some old German guy. "What do you mean exactly, by most of the security?"
"Security lasers, buzz saw traps, security cameras," said Bentley, listing off all the security measures that could be turned off with just the simple turn of the aforementioned key. "Several large search lights, like the ones you find in most prisons, electronic locks on all the doors in the manor, and several of those nasty death pits he has scattered about the place."
Sly leaned forward slightly. "So you're saying the painting I'm going in to swipe is going to be defenseless if I can get that key?" he said, tentatively.
"Almost defenseless Sly. You'll still have to deal with..." Bentley gulped. "the Tail Eater."
"The what?" interjected a confused Murray.
"The Tail Eater Murray, he's just... too evil to describe," said Bentley pressing the button to change the picture in his slideshow. "Here, I mean just take a look at the guy's picture." The Tail Eater, or Francois Bellevue, was a white furred husky. He chose a minimalistic view when it came to clothing, and in the photo was wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, both colored to blend in with his fur; having his clothes the way they were made him stand out in stark contrast to his surroundings, like how a snow flake is very visible against a dark stormy backdrop. He was not wearing any footwear. His left eye had glazed over in blindness a long time ago, and held an eerie quality about it. Even by looking at the photo, that eye weirded Sly and the gang out.
"That guy looks like he could use a few of the Murray's patented face, fixing punches," commented Murray when he saw the deep scowl on the Tail Eater's face. It was a face that he had worn for as long as anyone who had known him could remember.
Finally, something clicked within Murray's comparatively smaller brain. "You said this guy was called the Tail Eater, right Bentley? Does that mean he actually eats tails?"
The turtle was caught off-guard by the question, as he had still been entranced by that one eye. "Uh, I guess it's good you bring that up Murray. No, this guy does not actually eat tails," said Bentley, calmly. He knew that was not the whole truth, but he didn't feel particularly like divulging the whole story unless one of the guys asked him.
"So why name himself something incredibly stupid, then?" asked Sly, his curiosity piqued. If this guy didn't do as his name said, there must be some other reason behind calling yourself something as silly sounding as the Tail Eater.
"Funny you should mention that Sly," stated Bentley, a bit drier than usual. The photo in the slideshow changed again, and Sly, Murray, and even Bentley (who had seen the photo a few times before) recoiled back in disgust. There was a rat face down on the floor, and everything looked normal until you started to look down at the seat of the rat's pats where his tail had once been. Instead, there was a gaping whole in the rat's pants and a huge open wound that had bled and bled until the rat breathed his last. Besides the pool of blood coming from the rat's backside, there was a small trail of blood leading off to one side and away from the corpse. "The Tail Eater, angry at the loss of his own tail, goes around hunting down notable individuals and takes their tails, forcibly. In effect, he 'eats' the tails, as any one who has had their tail stolen by him have either ended up dead, or never had the nerve to go after their assailant."
As Bentley finished his description of the Tail Eater, Sly subconsciously wrapped his fluffy, ringed tail around his body. "I'd rather keep my tail, thank you," said Sly, his eyes fixated on the photo of the dead rat. He really wanted to pull his eyes away, but this was like looking at a really train wreck because no matter how hard you tried to pry your eyes from the scene it is just impossible to do. Feeling that a change of subject was necessary, Sly said, "Anyways, it seems kind of strange that this guy could be as paranoid as you claim Bentley, and still feel comfortable in that bar we saw him at in the last photo."
"Ah," said Bentley, removing his spectacles to clean them with a cloth, "You see, when perfectly normal, von Stoopehd twitches at the slightest creak in the floorboard, the quietest rustle of branches outside, I could go on with examples, but I feel you guys get the picture."
"So, when's the time when he isn't normal?" questioned Murray.
"After he's become inebriated," stated Bentley. "That means once he's become drunk," said Bentley, when he saw the blank expression on Murrays face at the word 'inebriated.' "One drink is enough to plaster this guy, and getting him drunk will be integral to getting the key from him. You won't have a chance otherwise Sly."
"Who's there?" whispered a terribly frightened Ludwig von Stoopehd. He brandished a candlestick in his left hand menacingly as his manic eyes darted about the semi-dark room he was supping in. "I'm warning you! I'm armed!" he shakily yelled at the darkness. When he had finally convinced himself that it hadn't been a team of highly trained ninja assassins that had been hired to take him out, he sat back down in his high-backed velvet chair. He wrapped his rat-tail around his waist and began to lift a spoonful of cold soup to his lips when his perked at a sound.
The silver spoon clattered noisily onto the table, spilling the soup in all directions. This was the real deal, thought von Stoopehd. His long, gangly fingers easily found their way back to the candlestick and Ludwig grasped the blunt instrument harder than he had before. He whipped out of his seat, and almost plowed right through the stranger who had come to pay a visit. The stranger was wearing a solid black cloak, and one of those theater masks that showed emotion, this one showing happiness.
"Oh, it's just you," commented Ludwig, as he slowly relinquished some of his grasp on the candlestick. "Can't ever be too careful you know," he said. The stranger merely stood there, gazing at von Stoopehd. After a moment of uneasy silence, the stranger began fishing around in one of his pockets, and produced a small green vial along with a plain envelope, both of which he handed to Ludwig who accepted them with his shaking hands. "Now get lost," said a rather confident Ludwig. The stranger bowed, and left immediately.
Ludwig took a look at the cover of the envelope which read, Follow the instructions inside.
"Alright Bentley, Ludwig is on his way." Sly had taken up post on top of a nearby telephone pole, and was watching the German rat through his binoc-u-com, which meant that Bentley had already known that Ludwig was moving. Bentley just chuckled at his friend's tendency to restate the obvious.
"Now all you need to do is follow him to the bar and take the key once he's had a drink or two," came Bentley's nasally voice over the communication channel. Sly couldn't actualy see his small green friend, but he could tell that by the sound of his voice that Bentley was currently working on back-up plans should any of his original ideas (numbered 1 through 25, and each with at least five subsections) fail. "Just make sure you don't let him see you Sly. If he does, he's likely to head right back to his manor, bar the doors, and turn on the security which is the last thing we want to happen."
"Understood," said the master thief as he stuffed the binoc-u-com back into his backpack he kept slung over his shoulders. Quickly jettisoning himself off the telephone pole, Sly landed gracefully on the paved street below and began his task of stalking the target. This mission reminded him a lot of the time when he had stalked Dimitri, but this time the person he was tailing stopped nearly every ten seconds just in case he was going to be bludgeoned from behind.
When von Stoopehd had finally crossed the threshold of the pub, named The Drunken Idiot, Sly found himself a way onto the roof of the building and from there a place to spy on Ludwig from. Why didn't I just stay on the rooftops to get to the attic? wondered Sly as he positioned himself in the attic over a crack in the floorboards that gave him a full view of what was happening below. Ludwig was still as nervous as ever, but he still kept moving towards the bar and ordered himself a pint. Sly watched as the bar-tender, a rather plump boar, brought the old man his drink, and something dawned on Sly. Maybe he drinks because its the only time he isn't afraid of his own breath? he thought. It must be pretty depressing to be scared all the time.
Sly finally saw what he was waiting for, a fully inebriated Ludwig von Stoopehd, and the master thief vacated his station in the attic and hopped outside before entering the pub from the front door. He had disguised himself earlier, and did not have to fear recognition unless Inspector Fox showed up, which he sincerely doubted would happen. Sly walked right up to the bar and ordered himself something, although he didn't plan to really drink anything, it was more for the overall affect.
Von Stoopehd turned to face Sly with a jovial smile on his face. "Why hellosh there!" he managed to say, slurring his words only a minimal amount. Getting drunk as many times as he had in his life meant that he was able to shrug off some of the effects of alcohol, but being of such a weak constitution of his own meant that there was nearly no net benefit from all those nights spent at the pub.
"Hello there my good man," replied Sly in his rather fake sounding British accent. He removed the monocle from in front of his right eye and cleaned it with a small bit of his shirt, before replacing it back into place thinking, Why do all my accents suck? I mean , I know the Italian accent was bad, but I just can't seem to master any particular way of speaking differently... oh well. While Sly had been having this mini internal monologue Ludwig had asked the disguised master thief a question. When Sly couldn't exactly remember what it was, he tentatively asked, "Eh, excuse me?"
"I shaish," began Ludwig, "That it why shood nosh be goosh for yoush to drink sum of your drinksh?" When he had finished asking his question, Ludwig just stared at Sly, as though expecting some kind of reply in language much like his own. When Sly didn't respond Ludwig's armed rushed forth and grabbed Sly, putting him in a head lock. Sly struggled against the drunkard's grip, but couldn't shake the rat off of his back. "Drinksh up!" Ludwig cried out aloud as he grabbed Sly's tankard and poured some of the liquid down the raccoon's throat.
When he had done this Ludwig's headlock lessened in intensity, Sly pulled away with the key which he quickly hid. Being unaccustomed to liquor, the beer had burnt all the way down and the master thief coughed heavily for a few moments. "I winsh! I winsh!" yelled Ludwig ecstatically.
What the hell was that? was all that crossed Sly's mind as he ran from the pub. He must've been plastered... still, I got what I came for. Sly twirled the key around his finger, while gazing off into the distance towards Von Stoopehd's manor.
