Its all fun and games until... (Open)

[VietMyke]

((OOC: Actually... message me first before you start posting away, yes? haha thanks, I guess I am a misleader, Sorries!))


Scara Brae City, a bustling city filled with all sorts of commotion. The streets around one of the many plazas were packed with people, going to and through and about their every day lives. The warm sun beat down gently on the plaza, the water of the large round fountain in the center glistening in the sunlight.

Around the fountain were dozens of vendors and merchants, harking their wares. Some stood behind wooden stalls, other sat on mats with their wares spread all about them. One merchant sold spices from Corone, another Merchant sold intricate pieces of technology all the way from Alerar, one plain girl sold flowers by the fountain, and yet another merchant harked his various and somewhat useless trinkets.

On a small low rising rooftop overlooking the plaza, lounged a rather lethargic looking youth of a bit less than 2 decades. He lay on his stomach, his head hanging off the edge of the roof looking about, the brown mop of hair flowing this way and that as he turned. The rest of his body was concealed by a dark blue cloak, save the bottoms of the brown leather boots that adorned his feet.

"What to do, what to do.." the youth murmured to himself, as he drummed his fingers against the edge of the rooftop. His eyes wandered the crowd and merchants below, glancing at various objects that looked of some value. His gaze stopped as it brushed over the young girl selling flowers. He blinked, as a brief whisper of wind brushed some dust into his eyes. He shook his head and continued scanning the crowd. He glanced at the spice merchant. He glanced at the flower girl. He noticed a larger man drop his purse and spill coins on the ground, causing a mild ruckus. He also noticed the flower girl laughing slightly at the sight, a bright, white, toothy laugh. He reluctantly tore his eyes away and continued scanning the crowd.

Soon enough, his gaze had returned to the girl. She was by no means beautiful, but she had a simple, cherub charm to her. She wore a rather plain light red, almost pink, dress. Her hair was long and shiny and was tied in a side ponytail that flowed over her shoulder. Atelar sighed. Not a lovey dovey sigh, but a rather rueful sigh, as though he was feeling reluctant or upset with himself.

"Might as well I guess." He said to himself as a way of explanation.

He got up off his position on the rooftop of the building and stretched himself a bit. He slid off the rooftop and landed lightly on his feet. He cleared his throat and began to make his way to the fountain. On his way, he decided he couldn't go completely empty handed. He looked about until he found who he was looking for.

Atelar approached the trinket merchant, he quickly unsheathed the dagger from its sheath on his chest. The blade concealed under his cloak, he walked until he was a bit past the trinket merchant, to where the fat man who had dropped his money was standing, catching his breath from the excitement.

When the man wasn't paying attention, Atelar slipped his dagger out from under his cloak and slit a large gash in the man's very full coin purse. Again, coins spilled onto the ground, dozens of glittery, shiny gold coins. Once again a commotion was made as the man scrambled for his coins. Making his way back to the trinket merchant, Atelar laughed as he watched the trinket merchant greedily eyeing the man's dropped money. Reaching into the stall, Atelar snatched the first few pieces he could find; a silver necklace, a brooch, and a plain ring, and sprinted off.

Whether the robbery made a noise, or the merchant turned back in time, Atelar didn't know. But Atelar did hear the tell-tale call that every rogue soured at.

"What..? Hey! THIEF!"

[Duffy]

Duffy felt a little sting in his chest as his own words slapped him with irony and guilt. He had, after all, spent many a year running away from those exact same words, yet here he was shouting them out across the sea of perplexed faces like a good, upstanding citizen of Scara Brae. What Duffy didn’t shout, however, was the nature of the plan behind his outcry. To catch a thief, one master burglar had once told the plucky bard, one had to pretend to be unable to do so. A gunning young man with heavy pockets, demi-scarf and messy hair amidst a noble swollen mid-afternoon gaggle of people was no threat to a pick pocket or vagabond.

“Can’t somebody save that man’s poor possessions?” was his next declaration. It was a sullen, half teary question poised to no one in particular. Several heads shook, several chins wagged in agreement, and several woman, for some reason, chose to faint into their dashing afternoon date’s general vicinity.

The bard half wanted to scream loudly at just how cliché his home could be sometimes, but that would have spoiled the illusion.

In earnest, the bard had spent the afternoon browsing the stalls, shock horror, paying for the things on his list with hard earned money. It made a nice change to three summers ago, when he had been in the young man’s exact same position, an inch away from spending a long, long time in the palace keep’s dungeons, or a centimetre away from having his throat cut by someone who did not appreciate another man operating on his territory.

This particular territory had once belonged to Duffy, and to the other eager young pick pockets of the theatre troupe. They had stolen to make a living, to feed hungry mouths and to make sure that the pathetic coppers that were thrown at their collection box at the end of a spectacle stretched just that little bit farther. In recent times, whilst the troupe had been battling dark gods and progenies all across Althanas, it had fallen into the hands of the Thieves’ Guild, and subsequently, after it’s implosion, into the hands of a group called The Stilettos.

Duffy had no desire to find out why a group of lace wearing harlots had taken to such a name, but he doubted it was because of their invigorating tap performance in cabaret clubs on the north docklands.

“Perfect,” he whispered, the very same second the crowd turned to watch the thief disappear through the crowd with masterful dexterity and guile. Duffy praised the boy under a breath, before he threw off his cloak, dropped the monocle over his right eye, adjusted it, and gave chase like a bolt of lightning suddenly realising it had to strike right there, and right then.

The masquerade paid off, as he slipped unnoticed into the swell of bodies, ducking, rolling, diving and weaving under sweaty armpit and around ample bosom to give chase to his prey. His prematurely spent grace made short work of the adventure playground, and his deft footwork and inhuman speed ensured no matter how hard the boy ran he kept a good clock on the scruff of his neck. It was a scruff Duffy very much intended to grab, very hard, and pull some sense out of the boy’s bowels for good measure.

As a protectorate of sorts, it was Duffy’s duty to make sure that up and coming stars on the stage of Scara Brae didn’t upset the delicate balance between the various power factions which were locked in an eternal struggle on the cobble and piss stained streets of his home. Whenever someone got noticed for thievery, he paid them a visit and made sure they had the low down on what the repercussions would be if they continued in such an amateur fashion. Whenever someone made a debut performance or acted out a scene on a street corner, he was there to offer acting advice and guidance on how to avoid expertly aimed rotten fruit – he, after all, believed strongly in a good, friendly competition between bards.

“Nobody’s as good as me anyway,” he chuckled, his memories keeping him on his toes and skitters leaping after the boy.

“One thing you should know before I catch you, young man. I am doing this for your own good!” The youth’s accent remained buoyant, but he made sure to annunciate his words clearly, so as to avoid drowning the man in a dialect he wouldn’t understand.

With the sun beating down on his skin, steaming away the damp in his bandages, tight fitting blue top and baggy, loose-fitting trousers, the bard of the Tantalum troupe flapped down an alleyway as the thief turned left in a bid to shake his pursuer loose. The sudden cold snap formed goose bumps on his skin, and the pit of his stomach exploded with excitement. Through a waft of manure, dead rats and stagnant water, the bard caught a sniff of the boy, and smiled.

“Far too clean to be a pro,” he chuckled.

He kicked his heels, and with one final burst, reached out in a bid to grab the aforementioned nape. He felt his arm stretch and over extend as he did so, and the fates aligned against him. “For your own damned good!” He roared as he exerted himself beyond his mid-afternoon, pre gin limits.

[VietMyke]

Atelar sneered and pushed through the crowd, not bothering to turn to face the voice that called him out. He made his way rather resolutely through crowd towards the girl selling the flowers. Something for some reason had urged him to move where he did, as opposed to run away as most thieves did when they were called out. He stumbled out of the crowd in front of her, a little off balance, and looked up to see a look on her face, a mix of surprise, shock, and curiosity. Atelar grinned, and opened his mouth to say something, but out of the corner of his eye noticed something weaving through the crowd, quite quickly, towards him.

Atelar cursed under his breath and bolted away, without the chance to utter a single word. He threw himself back into the crowd, deftly slipping in and around some people, and shoving through people he could not slip through. It was difficult to see, he had very little sense of direction as he pushed on randomly through the crowd, unseeing, but knowing whatever was following him, was still following him. He could hear the cry of a youthful voice, not as young as his, but still well in its prime.

“One thing you should know before I catch you, young man. I am doing this for your own good!”

"Back off!" Atelar retorted, yelling over his shoulder as he ran.

He pushed through the crowd and saw an opening to his left. Skidding slightly as he forced his body to turn on a dime, Atelar stumbled a bit, then pushed off into the alley aiming for the ledge of the small stone wall that divided the alley in half.

Atelar's boots slapped against the water in the alleyway, a similar slapping sound behind him indicating that he was still being pursued. Atelar kicked in the last bit of his energy as he rushed for the ledge. He just couldn't shake this guy. This guy was way faster than Atelar was, and if it weren't for the small lead he started out with, Atelar had no idea where he'd be at the moment. As Atelar neared the last few steps, he leaped for the ledge and threw his arm over it, right as he felt a hand brushing dangerously close to the back of his hood.

"For your own damned good!"

"Damn!" Atelar cursed as he threw himself over the wall. He looked back at the wall he just climbed over. He doubted the guy would give up that easily. Atelar made a light dash to the end of the alleyway and threw himself back into the crowd, looking back over his shoulder every so often to look for an enemy he had not gotten a glimpse at.

[Duffy]

By a hair’s breadth, the scamp got clean away. In the bedlam, Duffy didn’t allow himself the time to doubt his ability, choosing instead to clamber over the wall with little noise or exertion of strength. He landed with a flop on the far side, knee buckled, fingers splayed on the cobbles and back arced perfectly to absorb the shock. When he was younger, or at least, more active, the bard had no doubt the head start the thief had would have afforded him no more than a few seconds before the inevitable end to their pursuit.

“Maybe I underestimated you then,” he said non-chalant, eyes piercing the movement of the crowd to keep a track of the boy’s motions and course. He gritted his teeth to steel his concentration, before he broke into a run, arms flat like spear tips, legs slightly bent to force his lithe muscles into gear.

With a spiralling twist, Duffy dodged a man with a top hat so tall it might have been mistaken for a chimney, and ducked under two dungaree wearing vagabonds as they carried a sheet of glass down the street with nervous grins and awkward double checks over their shoulders for potential disasters.

“I wouldn’t return the favour,” he chuckled, perhaps a little too eager to belittle the boy. In truth, he just didn’t want to consider the fact that youth, for once, was trumping age and experience.

As the sun continued to beat down onto the streets, the smell didn’t get any better, and between footwork that barely made an impression on the skein of the world, Duffy tried very hard to ignore the stench of armpits and rotten apples which lined the grouting and gutters of the alleyways as he made his gambit for his potential new ally.

“I only want to help you boy, give you advice!” He flashed out of the crowd and down the alleyway opposite the wall they had both vaulted. The phrase, shouted loftily and buoyantly over the hubbub drew a little too much attention for Duffy’s liking, but he was gone into the twilight before anyone drew too many conclusions or realised who it was.

“I’m like you, only with better hair!” The mop in question flapped ironically and messily as his bandana had whipped away to trail behind him on its tether.

[VietMyke]

Atelar heard a cry of surprise, coming from a man wearing a rather large tophat. Atelar's eyes narrowed, he had a bead on the man who had been chasing him. The man wasn't old, older than him, but not old. The man wore a blue top with loose trousers, and wore a peculiar monocle over his eye. Atelar took a split second to deem the fact that he could give chase while keeping that thing on his face quite remarkable. As the split second ended, Atelar turned and started sprinting again.

Atelar shoved past a brightly dressed man of higher standing, who stuttered a yell of surprise, glaring after the young thief as he ran by, saying something along the lines of "I say" or "That little Devil!" Atelar slammed into a oncoming man bearing a large crate. Atelar stumbled on his feet a bit, accidentally knocked the man's crate over, and rolled on the ground before he recovered and continued weaving his way through traffic.

“I only want to help you boy, give you advice!”

Atelar scoffed, help him? He was obviously intent on catching him! Atelar could not have that. Damn, this guy was fast, he couldn't lose him in the crowds, he couldn't shake him after the alleyway, he oughta just start climbing and running rooftops to see if the guy could still chase him there. Atelar scanned around searching for something low to start climbing. There was nothing, nothing he could get to with enough momentum to keep him going up. Atelar's eyes caught another alleyway, this one had no walls separating the two halves. But this one had a sewer grate laying wide open, depending on how much water was in there, Atelar might be able to use it as an escape. This pursuer couldn't care about stolen goods that much, to jump into a sewer after him, could he?

Atelar burst out of the street, sprinting into the alleway, his pursuer gaining on him with each step he took. In the alleyway, outside the hubub of the crowd, Atelar could hear the dull roar of running water, signs that it was perfect for his escape.

“I’m like you, only with better hair!”

Atelar laughed out loud at this (lol..?). He turned to face his adversary before he sprung into the sewer. For the cocky young thief, that was a bad move. As fate would have it, Atelar did not notice until too late that one of the piles of rubbish had been overturned, its contents spilling into part of the alleway. Atelar turned back to look at the sewer grate, but did not notice his foot catching onto a piece of twine, until it had pulled his foot from under him.

Atelar's eyes widened, time seemed to slow for him as he spent an endless moment in midair. He threw his hand out in front of him and tumbled, and with little grace, swung around to face his pursuer.

Still crouched on the ground, Atelar threw the edges of his cloak behind him, and brought his left hand to the dagger sheathed on his chest. He didn't draw it, but his hand hovered over the sheath. Atelar winced, he hurt his right leg in the fall. It wasn't anything serious, and the pain would wear off within the minute, but being unable to run for a minute meant he could not attempt to again get away from this odd, monocle wearing pursuer.

"What do you want?" Atelar demanded, with more boldness than he felt, this man was not the merchant he had stolen from, why was he getting involved?