No Honor Among Thieves

[Lightfoot]

(SOLO)

Scara Brae – 27 years ago

“No,” he said, “for the hundredth time, no!” The stout halfling was pacing the cramped room of their small apartment, clearly aggravated. He was small, but he bore the corded muscles of man that worked with his hands.

“Why not?!” Jasker questioned.

“It’s not safe,” his Father returned.

“I can’t stay here, Father,” Jasker said. “I need to start a life of my own.”

“You have a life!” his Father shouted. “Carpentry has been in our family since my father’s father’s father. It’s a noble trade, an honest trade. It’s in our blood.”

“It’s not in mine…” Jasker’s Father looked like he had been smacked. He walked towards his son, hurt in his eyes and stopped inches from his face.

“I will not keep having this discussion,” his Father sternly responded. He began to walk away.

“I’m not a child!” Jasker yelled. His Father spun on his heel.

“You’re my child!” he yelled back. “I will not allow my son to throw himself away in the gutters of that wretched city.” His face was flushed in anger. “You think you know of the world. You think you know how things work. But I will tell you now, Jasker Lightfoot, that you are not untouchable. There is a large world outside full of people waiting to take everything from you, and I will not let it swallow you whole!”

The faintest echo faded away to leave the room in silence. Jasker knew better than speak out after that. So he just stood there, jaw clenched and nostrils flared. He tried not to stare daggers at his Father, but surely failed. His Father turned to walk away, before a delicate hand reached out to gently grasp his arm.

“Bayren…” was all Jasker’s Mother said, all she needed to say. The tone itself spoke volumes.

“You have my answer.” Bayren stated, and walked out of the room.

Later that evening, when the moon was high in the night’s sky, Jasker gathered his things and left his childhood behind. He was going to start a new life, find a new home. He was going to prove his father wrong.

~`*`~`*`~`*`~`*`~`*`~

Radasanth, Corone – Present Day

Jasker woke to a bucket of water being emptied on his head. He jumped to a start, confused and trying to get a bearing on his surroundings. He was on the floor of a dark room, lit by candles and nothing else. His vision was blurry, his head cloudy. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t look around too quickly without getting dizzy. A dull throbbing emanated from the back of his skull.

“Wakey, wakey, you little shit,” said a rail thin man above him.

Jasker wore a simple shirt and pants. His wrists were bound. They had stripped him of his weapons, his tools, his armor. They even took his boots. It seemed they were afraid the cunning thief would have a way to escape; a fear that was justifiably founded. The halfling began to roll over.

Pain erupted in his side as the man’s boot connected with his ribs.

“That’s enough,” said a deep, commanding voice from behind the man. Through the pain, he heard the shuffling of feet as the thin man moved away, and the other man moved forward. The other man knelt down and took the halfling’s jaw in his large hand, and the thief was met with a face he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Jasker Lightfoot,” he said with a sneer that made his dark beard scowl. “Welcome home.”

[Lightfoot]

Barrel of Monkeys, Radasanth - 9 Hours Earlier

Even through civil war and occupation, it was good to see that some things didn't change. The Barrel of Monkeys, a thriving tavern in the middle of Radasanth's slums, bustled with the nightly affairs of mercenaries, whores, and drug peddlers alike. To the uninitiated, it was mistaken for some hole in a basement cellar, but the streetwise knew that it was much more than that, and as such it was treated with unspoken respect. Smoke of varying smells and colors suffused the air. Every breath became an interesting and complex experiment. A bard with one leg, eight fingers, and a receding hairline performed in the corner, his lute strings singing above the raucous crowd. The music itself was less than extraordinary, but in such a fine establishment, merely having fingers that play sufficed for entertainment. The ale was flowing and the women were... moderately average; many considered it a good night.

"And this job," the halfling asked the innkeeper, indicating the vellum with his pipe, "it's legitimate?"

"Oh, aye," he responded, scratching at the edge of his eye patch with a yellow nail. "Came straight from the top some weeks back." The innkeeper, a gaunt man by the name of Farris, was Jasker's old contact within the Syndicate, Corone's foremost leader in everything criminal. They had taken a bit of a hit during the city's imperial occupation, but it looked like they were surviving.

"Well, now...," the thief mused with a grin, "Ferret is getting his orders from the top? This is a new city, after all."

"More than ye know," he said with a chuckle. “Anyways, the Empire’s grip on th’ city has been loosening ever since the Knights came to call. So, we want to help pry their cancerous hand from it.” He pointed to the vellum describing the job, “And that’s how.” Jasker was amused by Farris’s description of the Empire as a “cancerous hand.” Many would call the Syndicate the same, including the Ixian Knights.

“Why are you letting me handle this?” the thief asked. “Wouldn’t this be too sensitive to bring someone in?” The innkeeper gave a smile that showed his broken teeth and cracked lips. The entire image was unsettling.

“Syndicate’s been shorthanded of late,” he said. “Besides, I know ye’ll give something a little extra to keep the Jacks out of yer hair.” The Jacks, also known as the Jacks of all Trades, or the Shadow Jacks, was Jasker’s old thieves’ guild. When he had first turned up in Radasanth, the Jacks brought him in and taught him the thieves’ trade. He had stayed with them, rising the ranks, for many years after. There was a falling out between him and the guild, after a job gone wrong, and he was forced to flee the city.

Now he was back, after ten long years…

“Right,” he said with a smirk, digging through his gold purse, “the more things change…” He placed ten gold pieces on the bar, and the one-eyed innkeeper scooped them up with another unsettling smile.

“Pleasure,” he said simply. “By the way,” he added as Jasker was moving to leave, “that halfling that was in the anniversary tournament, the bald one with one ear… That’s you, ain’t it?” Jasker was surprised, but didn’t show it. Farris proved to be more perceptive than the thief gave him credit for. Still, it was always unwise to divulge your secrets.

“Come now, Ferret,” the halfling said jokingly, “do you honestly think I would place myself in harm’s way and not even use my real face? I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

“There was a lot o’ gold on the line,” the innkeeper said knowingly.

“To each his own,” the thief replied with a shrug. He slid off the stool and made his way out of the rowdy tavern.

Jasker took a deep breath of the humid air and smiled, before melting into shadows he knew only too well.

[Lightfoot]

Market District, Radasanth – 3 Hours Earlier

It was a common misconception among young thieves picking up the trade, that the best times to strike were the hours after dusk, and this was where many of them made mistakes. From Jasker’s experience, the best times were the small hours before dawn. Guards expected criminals to make their move so early after the sun had set and that’s when they truly kept their vigil. But if you had the patience to wait until the long hours stretched their vigil thin, and had wearied their focus, you could pass for another shadow in the dark night, unseen.

Such was the case this night. The halfling relaxed in a small nook on the roof of a baker’s shop, enjoying the strong aroma of freshly baked bread. The dwarf had arrived earlier to start preparing for the day, and the thief was glad that he had. It made waiting a much more pleasant experience. In the distance, bells began to ring out clearly throughout the city: once, twice, thrice. Jasker hadn’t realized how much he had missed those bells. It took him nearly a month to find a full night’s sleep without their beautiful call to lull him to sleep. Jasker smiled when he thought about all of the memories the city held for him; the beautiful women, the daring escapes, the gold. The thief stood and stretched to wake his limbs. He took a few moments to check his gear, tighten and secure where needed, then looked to his objective.

“Time to go to work.”

Jasker's footsteps were whispers in the wind. The objective was a two-story building. The first floor was a watchmaker’s shop, the second floor was the watchmaker’s apartment. According to the information provided to him by Ferret, the watchmaker had somehow obtained the most recent routes and hideouts the Syndicate used to spirit away their dirty little secrets. All he had to do was sneak in, steal the documents back, and get them to Ferret in the Barrel of Monkeys, where a large sack of gold was waiting.

”Easy,” he thought with a grin. He had scouted the building out hours before, after taking the job, and found the building severely lacking in any countermeasures that Jasker would find difficult.

It was the perfect grab to get him back into the rhythm of Radasanth’s big city.

[Lightfoot]

He approached the building’s first floor indirectly, through the safety of shadows provided by the dying light of oil street lamps. He slipped into the nearby alley, skulking past sleeping cats and bypassing trash littered on the ground. His nose wrinkled when hit by the familiar smell of the city’s refuse, one thing he wished he had forgotten. The building itself was old and in disrepair, a relic of Radasanth’s bygone eras, and as such, the stonework provided plenty of handholds for the dexterous thief to utilize.

In short order, the halfling had scurried up the wall and held himself parallel to a window. He retrieved his carving knife from his boot, slid the blade in between the window’s panes of glass and slowly turned the latch. With a steady hand he raised the pane, the old wood squeaking softly. He took a moment and listened for movement. When he heard none, he nimbly pulled himself inside and took note of his surroundings.

He was in a small study, with shelves of books lining the opposite walls. To his left there was a cluttered desk with various papers and open books lying about and a small candle; to his right was a hearth. It was moderately sized and Jasker could see the last lights of dying embers glowing in the dark. Next to the hearth was a door on the far side that no doubt lead to the rest of the apartment.

Without a second thought, the halfling began his work. He took a quick peek into the hearth, checking for remnants of burnt parchment and the like. When he found none, he carefully pried out some charred wood with a glowing ember with his carving knife and nursed it back to health before using it to light the candle.

He sat down in the rather comfy leather chair behind the desk and started rummaging through papers in the dim light, and searching through two drawers, but after reading request order after request order he took a moment to think. He was tempted to pull out his pipe, but quickly tossed the idea aside.

”If I was a watchmaker,” he thought to himself, ”how would I hide dangerous documents that could get me killed?” It takes a special kind of person to make watches. They need to be steady, patient, calm. They have an understanding and respect for a watch’s inner workings. Every piece has its place. Remove the tiniest cog and it will cease to function. There’s a pattern, an order you need to follow to build a watch.

A small glint caught the halfling’s eye from a moment’s reflection of the candle light. He walked over to the hearth and noticed a rather detailed blueprint for a watch hanging above the mantle. The thief grinned and grabbed a nearby footstool to stand. He pulled the framed blueprint from its nail and turned it over. Wedged into a secret pocket of the frame was a small silver key.

”A thousand gold says I can guess where this goes.” Jasker went back to the desk and started feeling the inside and undersides of the wood. He was about to lose hope when he found it: a small hole in the side of a drawer, probably disguised as a notch. Jasker pushed the key in, turned, and heard a familiar unlocking noise from the front of the desk. He went over and pulled at the secret compartment that now protruded from the leg. Inside was a small case large enough to hold folded documents.

”And a thousand gold to me,” the halfling thought with a smirk. He retrieved the case and opened it, and his smile melted away in confusion. The contents of the case were not the documents that he was expecting, but a single feather, thin and grey. It took a moment for his mind to register, but once it did his heart dropped and filled with dread. It was the feather of a sparrow.

“Oh, no…”

[Lightfoot]

The door behind him burst open, and without hesitation Jasker sprinted for the open window. Just before he reached it, the window slammed shut. Jasker turned and was faced with a bald, dark-skinned man, his arm falling back to his side. He was wearing tight leathers and his face was covered in tattoos. His eyes were like black holes transfixed on the halfling. A pair of longdaggers hung at his sides.

Jasker didn’t know the man, but he knew the man that he worked for, and that made him all the more dangerous, and the dark-skinned man didn’t shut that window with his charming personality, which only meant one thing.

“We can talk this out,” Jasker said, his hands raised in a placating gesture. The man merely growled, flicked his wrist, and sent the thief flying into the window. The window cracked, but held, and Jasker landed with a thud and a groan.

“Godsdamned magic,” he grunted, and pulled himself to his feet. The man was already making towards him, the floorboards creaking with the exertion, deadly intent etched in his face. Jasker reached into his tool pouch and threw a powder bomb. The room erupted into white. The halfling pulled his longdagger, Bloodletter, from his belt and charged the man.

Jasker couldn’t see, but luckily, he was aiming at a big target. He thrust forward with his longdagger, but the blade was turned away by what felt like a sheer stone wall. He heard the man grunt in pain nevertheless, before being kicked aside into the desk with such force that the thing tipped over. The thief rose to all fours, coughing through the pain and powder.

”He kicks like a mule…”

Through the haze, Jasker saw a fierce orange light begin to glow, and his mind remembered the lit candle he had left on the desk… and all of the books and parchment with it. The halfling found the strength to move, the fire began to spread quickly. The dark man muttered under his breath, and the powder swirled, flew into the hearth and emptied out of the room, leaving only himself, Jasker, and the growing fire.

Surprise was evident in the man’s eyes. He quickly wove a spell. Jasker noticed the open door, snatched up Bloodletter and ran. Though he didn’t make it far before a giant arm rammed into his face and the thief was slammed into the floor, the back of his skull taking the brunt.

The glow from the study was dissipating, Jasker’s head was swimming, and all went black.

[Lightfoot]

Radasanth, Corone – Present Day

It was like looking into the past. Ten years and nothing had changed. There was no grey speckled in his hair, no wrinkles or any noticeable signs of aging. If Jasker were the superstitious sort, he would have guessed the man had stumbled upon immortality.

“Someone still knows how to make an entrance,” the halfling grunted. He sat himself up the best he could while being tied. “Tell me, Talbot, do you practice that sneer in front of the mirror?” The bearded man stood, nodding with remembrance.

“As witty as ever,” the man admitted, “but your jests won’t save you this time.” The man turned to face the other men in the room. One was thin, the one who had woken him. He wore twin rapiers and his mouth seemed to be stuck in a permanent smirk. The other was bald, dark-skinned, and covered in tattoos.

“I believe you’ve met my right hand, Malik,” Talbot stated, gesturing to the dark man. “His magic has been invaluable to me in several sensitive matters.” Jasker chuckled. Sensitive wasn’t exactly the word the thief would use to describe the dark-skinned mage.

“But,” Talbot continued, “we are not here for introductions.” He turned back towards the halfling. “We are here for you.” Methodically, the man circled around the thief. “A rising star among the Jacks, quickly shooting through the ranks, surpassing every member… save one. You easily became the Master’s favorite. You had it all. In time, you would have become the new Master, had you only been patient.”

Talbot stopped.

“Though, Jasker Lightfoot has never made a friend of patience, has he? He prefers to fly by the seat of his pants. He thinks his natural talent and luck will win the day for him. He thinks himself above the laws of lesser men.” Talbot’s sneer deepened, his tone spiteful. “But look at him now.”

The man bent down once again, his dark beard and cold eyes belying murderous intent.

“So small, so sad. He could barely be considered a man at all. More like a beaten dog.”

“Strange,” Jasker replied with a smirk, “your wife said something similar about you.” A sudden chuckle was caught and killed by the rail thin man.

Talbot stood, staring daggers into the hafling. He took a deep breath, and a strained smile replaced the sneer on his lips.

“As witty as ever,” he repeated. “It is my turn to jest, now. Tell me what you think.” The man’s leg shot out, and the hard leather of his boot connected with the thief’s face, sending him back to the floor. Blood sprayed across the wet stone. Jasker grunted, forced himself to stop groaning from the pain. The kick had caused him to bite his tongue.

The halfling spit out a mouth full of blood.

“The delivery needs work,” he said.