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Thread: Infamous

  1. #1
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    Hox's Avatar

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    Christopher Hoxton
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    Infamous

    Ettermire was Alerar’s crown jewel.

    A sprawling metropolis stretched across the Glaith River, one that held title as the largest city in the known world. Its towering spires dominated the skyline. A veritable labyrinth of alleys and roads carved the dark-elven capital with beautiful precision. The famous factories and foundries permeated the landscape in a tangible show of industrial strength. Then, the great library Ankhas; a marvel in itself, one that contained more tomes and scrolls than any other single repository on Althanas, stood tall and proud over its inferior counterparts across the globe.

    There were a lot of reasons to be awestruck by Ettermire. For Christopher Hoxton, though, they were the wrong ones.

    Shaking a wet shoe out as he emerged from a puddle, the lithe man stopped under an awning of a shop and silently brought a cigarette up his lips, lighting the tobacco with a match. His eyes rose from the orange flame, through the bluish smoke, up to the black tower that dwarfed the cityscape. It was no secret that the spires that comprised the central district of Ettermire were rife with wealth, and he knew that the dwellings above him played host to the most centralized nobility in the known world. Dark Elf nobility, in particular. There, largely disconnected from the rest of the country, they politically plotted and schemed away safe from scrutiny.

    Amongst them, there were a select number of nobles that had made a choice to deal with the devil. Over time, this bloodthirsty sect had decided to line the pockets of Charles Hoxton and his company. Their partnership spanned all the way back to the time of the Alerar-Raiaera conflict, with drugs, arms and money swapping hands over two continents. Their wealth, and the wealth of the Hoxton Company, was stained with blood and locked away tight in their towers.

    But not for long.

    A second man paced around the puddle, his long black hair whipping back and forth as he strode. A dark suit flashed garishly under a coat as the person stood next to Hox, ensuring first he hadn’t been followed. He clutched a suitcase at his side whilst the wind slapped at his hood.

    “Okay, here’s the deal.” The gentleman said, turning to Hox directly. "Our guy on the inside has been keeping tabs, and he says you’re looking for four dark elves, blue and purple robes. They normally meet in a large room on the thirtieth floor. In there you’ll find blank bankers drafts which can be cashed in at the Ettermire Central Bank, although you’ll need a signature. Only problem is the security. Anything below the fifteenth floor is locked with a single master key at all times."

    Hox, peering up at his accomplice, frowned.

    “Who carries?”

    “We don’t know." the hooded man piped. “Security is tight, and it could be one of thirty men. Our best option is to wait for night, and climb.”

    "Climb fifteen floors on the outside of the tower? Well, shit, Zvet. This isn’t going to be easy." Hox cut in, leaning forward and raising his eyebrows. Zvet blinked several times and chuckled, patting Christopher on the shoulder.

    "Get your game face on." Zvet said, winking. "Oh, and one more thing. Don’t use your Nobouhanta until you need to get out, the light will give you away." Hox nodded slowly, squinting at his accomplice incredulously.

    "Got any gear for me, then?" he muttered.

    Zvet raised the briefcase in his arm, and placed it at Hox’s feet. “Steel climbing hooks. No harness though; you’re best going free-form. I’ll contact you telepathically when you reach the thirtieth."

    “Is that it?!” Christopher exclaimed.

    “We're in the middle of a city. Try to do this with stealth.“

    Zvet was already off before a retort could come, ghosting through the rain so that Hox couldn’t even hear the slap of water against his coat. Thankfully, he had done big heists before. Unfortunately, he had never had to scale a fucking tower to pull one off. It was a terrible location for a robbery of this magnitude, situated in a more populated and better policed section of town, but his experience and Zvet’s connections were leading them ever closer to getting out of Alerar.
    Push harder, strike better, get richer.

  2. #2
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    Hox's Avatar

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    Name
    Christopher Hoxton
    Age
    34
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    Human
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    Male
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    Corone

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    In the still darkness, Christopher clawed his way up the northernmost wall of his objective, a thin film of sweat collecting on his brow despite the night's chill. Each time he punched his metal hook into the masonry, the recoil sent pain shuddering down from his wrists to his shoulders. Although subtle and relatively small, using the small grips was harder than it seemed. It took a lot of force to ensure the tools maintained their grip, and the further he climbed, the harder it was getting.

    Eventually, after half an hour, Hox reached a zenith. This section of the tower that seemed more lively than the previous floors he had passed on the way up. He had become accustomed to dark silence for the first twenty five minutes, but light now flickered through the tower's window slits. Silhouettes of figures occasionally passed by the stained glass, barely perceptible but there nonetheless.

    These were more likely the night watch than residents, judging from the fact that the shadows were in pairs and walking rather deliberately in time. Tucking his head back in as another troupe of patrolman passed the stairwell, Hox leaned drunkenly to the other side and nipped his head around to the right. This was more like it. Here, he found a clear glass pane, which was a telltale sign of a dwelling rather than a staircase corridor or a guard's break room. From the dim glow of the corridor's light inside, he saw a basin, a table and on it a small metal plate with what looked like the remains of some bread and cheese. There were no other windows, and if there was a ceiling, it seemed to be lost somewhere far above.

    Checking in, Hox. Have you reached the fifteenth yet? Zvet's psychic transmission rang around Christopher's brain. It always came through like a grainy, tinny echo. It was a useful tool, but it only worked one way, only when Zvet wanted it to and never when Hox needed it to.

    I'm here. Looking for a landing spot on the north side. Doesn't look like anyone's home, so i'm going for the cut. Contact me in thirty seconds.

    Hox flashed his hand out, pressing the button on his wrist mounted Prog-Knife. The razor sharp blade snapped out instantly from beneath his shirt cuffs, catching the raw moonlight and glimmering momentarily before being carefully slotted into the white sealant that bound the pane to the masonry. With one arm suspended from a hook, and the other cutting a precise line through the rubbery film, Hox prayed his joints held up.

    It was then, as Christopher's eyes adjusted to the new light, that he noticed the bed in the corner of the room through the window. A man lay on it, alone. From the remnant of torchlight that made its way around the door, it was the only thing that could be discerned about him. His arms and legs were tangled up in the sheets. He seemed asleep.

    Hox continued to carefully and quietly cut away at the window's base, dragging the blade's tip through the feeble glue.

    Suddenly, the man leapt to his feet, scrambling to the basin in a hurry. With the reflexes of a panther, Hox pulled his Prog-Knife back into his sleeve and swung like a chimp out of line of sight, clinging now to two hooks in a starfish just left of the half dissected pane.

    How is that window coming along? Zvet asked, calmly.

    The handle of the door rattled to life, and out of the corner of his eye Hox could see light slowly enter the room, casting a crepuscular glimmer over the windowsill's concrete lip.

    Hox? Zvet enquired again.

    Shut the fuck up for a second! Hox retorted mentally, pressing his body up against the wall as much as possible.

    A few moments later, a deep shadow smothered the far corners of the window. A hunched figure stood right there in the frame, looking out over Ettermire. Exposing his bald head and red cheeks, he seemed to be human rather than dark elf.

    After a few moments, everything went silent and the light from the room was extinguished completely. As Hox cautiously leaned his head around the window, he was just in time to see the man remove a grey coat from a wooden stand and push down the door handle, disppearing from the room in a flash.

    He was alone again.

    Are we good? Asked Zvet again, more worry in his tone than before.

    Yeah, we're good. Just an unplanned interruption.

    Christopher once again reached into his cuff and flicked open the Prog-Knife again from its metal frame. Another three precise cuts ensured that the pane was loose of its bonds, but crucially still attached to the frame itself at the corners. If Hox had cut and inch too far, there would have been a danger the whole window would have fallen out and smashed, alerting every man and his dog within a mile to his presence. With great care, the thief gently pushed the loose portion of the window inwards, like opening a door, and slipped through whilst pocketing the grappling hooks.

    Terra firma now under his feet, Christopher Hoxton wiped the beads of sweat from his face, tucked his Prog-Knife back into his jacket cuff, and surveyed the room around him.
    Last edited by Hox; 06-05-2020 at 10:45 AM.
    Push harder, strike better, get richer.

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