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- The Thieves Guild |&| Babylonia
THWACK!! THWACK!! THWACK!!
The wooden cudgel thumped against the meaty palm of a tall Redguard man. His massive frame somehow managed to metaphysically dominate the entire breadth of the room, and leered over a comparatively smaller and meeker greying old man.
The older man choked down a gulp, the thick sunbaked wrinkles of his face creased in wide patches like old leather, and the white stubble that poked out from his chin was a patch of defiant silver cactus needles. He looked hard, and grizzled. Iller than a snake waking up from hibernation hungry. A bead of sweat rolled down his bare scalp and plopped on the sandstone floor beneath their feet.
A young khajiiti woman leaned on the desk between the three of them, her tawny tail swishing back and forth in her excitement. There was something special about watching just how worked up and terrified Abdul-Mujib could get people if her coy word games fell on deaf (or perhaps stubbornly unwilling) ears.
“ ‘I’m not scared of you ruffians!’ He tells us, ‘I will call the guards on you!’ he threatens!” The feline’s shrill laugh cut through the tension hovering in the hot afternoon air. She clutched at her stomach and tried her best to calm herself back down into seriousness.
The snarky rogue continued with a dramatic flick of her tail, “look here ‘farmer brown’, we’re not scared of any city guards outside of the walls, and we’re certainly not scared of what one lonely farmer can do. You do anything to me, and my big friend right there is going to cave your skull in- and the skulls of your little family living here as well. Do not try to find out with us, if you’re smart at all.”
“Quit dicking around Jasmira. We have more places to hit after this.” Abdul’s complaint came as grumbled thunder.
She leaned back off the desk and straightened out, “you can either pay us our weekly protection fees and we don’t smash up your shop and caravans, or take our deal and give us the deed.”
An expression of pure dread settled over the man’s face. The price was too high to afford and survive, but he couldn’t stand to lose his farm, his livelihood. Everything he had ever worked for and ever owned was here on his property. Giving up the deed was doing nothing but accepting a life of destitution at his age. His jaw clenched as he squinted his eyes shut, tears threatening to betray his composure if the balled up fists at his sides didn’t do him in first.
Jasmira huffed with growing impatience at the stupid, slow, old bag of a man, and with a sudden snap she plucked an ornamental lute from it’s perch on the wall. She ran her rough palm pad over the finely lacquered rosewood, admiring the silver glint on the polished strings before she spun it in air and caught it by the neck, as if it were a medieval baseball bat. The farmer’s eyes shot open and he opened his mouth in a vain attempt to protest. As quickly as she’d grabbed it, she brought it smashing down on the edge of a crate and splintering into dozens, if not a hundred little pieces.
--
Ra’tima stood atop a rooftop, staring out across the vast smattering of strange, alien stars. The cool desert winds ruffled her cheek fluff and beckoned at her spirit, tempting her out into the distant dunes of sand. Her breath quickened, her slit pupils dilating rapidly as a dark cloud covered the half moon. How long had it been, since she was running freely? Since she had felt the thrill of a chase or the fluttering tension of sneaking past countless guards?
Her tail twitched. She gripped the bag at her side tightly, mulling over her decision. Iris was back home, in the apartment above the shop. Masahir, her most beloved daughter, was on a date with that lycanthrope (Lucien Lockwood he called himself?) who’d brought a wolf pup into her store earlier- of course Morene Fellon was serving as her daughter’s more-than-intimidating bodyguard. The shop was locked up for the night. Things were in order, so why did she hesitate at the opportunity?
The visage of the slippery dull-claws, Demetri Malius, swirled in her head. Demetri Malius... Demetri... Demetri... She felt as though she’d heard his name a thousand times in countless past lives. His dark steely eyes haunted her memory. There was something about him, certainly something special about that coy charmer of a rogue. He moved in the shadows, slipped past the naked eye with a wit that threatened to parallel her own hard earned skill. He had irrevocably grabbed her attention, and now she had no other choice but to figure out his secrets. After all, how could she allow herself to go uninformed of such a potentially powerful rival thief? What if he thought himself brave and sleek enough to attempt robbing her, or swindling her daughter?
A sly smirk pulled at her black lips as the moon began to reemerge from behind the clouds, bringing with it a flood of silver moon light across the rooftops. In a flash of grey and black she was gone.
It didn’t take the feline very long to find the so-called Moonsugar Meadows Farm. While it was a small hike from the towering walls and bustling streets of Uruk, Ra could still see the outline of the desert metropolis she now felt comfortable calling home. Only once did she have to sneak off from the main road on the way to the estate, to avoid being spotted by a passing wagon. Cautiously she crested the hill the farm sat atop, only to find that the front gate was guarded only by a singular lit torch in a sconce.
She could hear the loud drunken voices caterwauling over the polished stone walls encircling the estate, singing, laughing and occasionally bitching about various grudges and wrongs they’d suffered. Ra couldn’t help but roll her eyes at their sob stories and unempathetic griping. The rogue took her chance to spy on these bandits through decorative air-flow holes punched in the wall.
One was a street-whore named Miniel who’d been pulled into the fold because she’d fallen in love with a thug in the gang who’d since been shivved in a drunken brawl and bled out. Oh, the woman certainly made an entire tale about her desire and quest for revenge, going so far as to kidnap and kill the wife and eldest daughter of the man responsible. She was still plotting on how to slip a poison into his drink and how to actually manage getting close to him. She pushed away all displays of care towards her, and tended to shut down any sort of affection with her bitter aura when she came around.
Azani and Shadr were a pair of lovers in crime, operating as a couple in any capacity possible. The two men sang little love sonnets to each other over the campfire, enjoying drink and each other’s company in equal measure as they gently butted foreheads in stubborn affection. They spoke softly and quickly about plans of a future in the countryside, away from the hustle of the gang. Often, they would remark about missing the thrill of a life so on-edge, but both agreed in the end that they wanted as many years with each other as possible. They couldn’t have that in the gang, they would have to escape.
Azani was of the profound type, the sort to gaze longingly into the campfire and think about the state of the world. His dark eyes were deep and thoughtful, with a wicked twinge of uncertainty and mistrust. He seemed a kind soul whose life had been shaped by cruelty and misfortune. There was a softness in the way he moved his hands, the way his voice softened at the end, how he paused for long periods to consider what his camp mates were saying around him.
Shadr on the other hand was soft in the same sense that a senche lion is soft. Yes, he could show tenderness, he did so in his poetry writing and his larger-than-life urge to protect Azani. Yes, he could be compassionate, if you could manage to get close enough to him to do it. He was a skeptic at every turn, demanding proof with confrontation if need be. He was a man of little patience for uncomfortable situations and he had little problem telling undesirable company to piss-off in no polite terms. Often he grumbled that he couldn’t wait to catch a big break and make his leave, though he was quick to swallow his words if someone came around.
Tonight they were all knee deep in their cups, celebrating the fact that they’d managed to lift this place from some wretched old geezer of sorts.
Shadr sat down on the bench next to Azani with a huff. “I just don’t understand why he won’t let us see that deed he kicked up such a fuss over. If it’s important then I wanna know about it. I didn’t start running with these twats so I could be a stepping stool for their covert operations.”
His partner nodded, “it is a nice piece of land,” the lion of the man next to him grunted skeptically, causing him to pause before adding, “but, I’m not sure how our particular little band of misfit thugs is going to pull off acting like farmers for long.”
“Yeah, I mean, who does he think he is dragging us all over the place like this. How is he even planning to make us money while we’re here? We’re too close to the city. Any prancin’ idiot could easily find us up here.”
“We’re not exactly hidden, no. You’re right Shadr. I’m not entirely sure why chief wanted this place so badly anyways. I mean, enough to kill a local farmer? Won’t people from the city notice the loss of this place?”
“It’s a ticking time-bomb, it is.”
“Aye.” Came Azani’s somber affirmative.
“What are we gonna do if guards from that city come looking for that missing farmer?”
It seemed that none of the three patrolling the outer grounds this night trusted their bandit chief of a leader. Ra’tima-dro had heard whispers of him before, during her many nights spent listening in on conversations in the taverns of Uruk, he went by the name of Kematu the Cruel. He’d earned the title in a rather grand and grim display of smashing all of his rivals’ bones before killing them off when he bested them in traditional combat. Folks whispered that he was a monster, the bastard son of a giant and some poor redguardian woman; a man whose veins flowed with Giant’s blood and lent him great strength and fury in combat.
He was a man that enjoyed maximizing someone’s suffering, a fact that twisted a knot of disgust in Ra’s stomach. It was one thing to punish crime or insubordination, but the act of revelling in shattering a person unjustly was particularly cruel and evil to the Khajiiti woman. She only sought to break people when they had gravely wronged her or harmed someone that she was protective over.
Ra’tima took refuge in a dark alcove in the outer wall and knelt to pray to her gods. To Noctra, the Shadow Thief and Daughter of Twilight, she prayed that her luck be blessed tonight. She prayed that she may move in silence, under the shadows of the night without detection.
To Rajhin, the Trickster God, she prayed for her hands to be as swift and skilled as his, for her claws to be just as sharp as his. She prayed that his clever spirit be the one to guide her through any unexpected obstacles.
To Baan-Dar, the Pariah spirit of the Khajiiti people, she prayed to him that her wits and genius be instinctual and right on this night. She prayed that she might have the resolve to seize her moment and take any good chance that she comes across, and the strength to do what must be done if events went poorly, though she hoped that Noctra or Rajhin’s blessing would help work to prevent such a misstep.
She shook her head as she slunk out from the alcove, tsking silently as she put out the torch lighting the front gate. With unparalleled quickness, she slid a pick into the lock and popped it open. She cupped the disabled lock with the muffling linen cloth of her cloak before gingerly disposing of it in some of the neighboring shrubbery. She was careful to pull the gate shut behind her. They were too comfortable here. Slacking. Not one single soul was standing guard, instead they’d all wandered off further into the compound and towards the back. At least, that was the direction she’d heard all that juicy gossip happening in. How tragic for Kematu on this night, certainly.
It was beyond easy for Ra’tima-dro to slip unnoticed up to the house, stopping to survey any possible guard movement, though at this point she sincerely doubted it. Regardless of her skepticism, her caution had paid off soon enough.
The front door swung open to reveal a very tipsy tawny khajiit woman with a very pissed expression covering her face. She wobbled back, bending as if to suck in a great deal of air before she howled an order.
“MINIEL!”
Deathly silence fell across the camp, as if even the chirping midnight cicadas and crickets dared not to speak up.
The tawny furred one was not dissuaded, instead the silence only seemed to spurn her further in spite.
“MINIEL!! I know your furless hide hasn’t left this camp yet! Jasmira knows that you would not go back to working the street corners like a common whore!” She was practically spitting each word like a well aimed poison dart.
“Will you just fuck off, Jasmira?!” Miniel exploded back from across the camp, emerging from her tent with a portrait expression of fury. She clutched at a dagger on her side.
The drunk khajiit laughed coyly, “Jasmira is not sure who Miniel thinks she is talking to like that if she is expecting to keep her tongue.” She clucked her tongue before continuing, “now that I’ve gotten your attention harlot, the chief wants to speak with you.”
The dark haired woman stomped up to the house, shoving past tawny Jasmira who smirked and rolled her eyes. It was fun to fuck around with that uptight looney, and no one would convince her otherwise. “You are funny, Miniel. This one thinks you should have a good time conversing with the chief~” She spun on her heel and set through the camp searching for her own tent.
Refusing to waste a single second the seasoned thief once again got to work disarming the lock on the door. This one was only slightly more tedious to pick than the one prior that had secured the gate. Just a few seconds of depression the tumblers to the correct positions and the door clicked open.