JK_
New member
The blood ran thick, pooling, slowly seeping into the cracks of stone.
A deep dark colour of black rust. An artery..
But I feel disconnected from the pain. It belongs to someone else, not me. With eyes glazing over I stare at the shredded flesh and bone which was once my arm.
Somewhere in the reeling chaos my mind tries to piece it together, the chain of events which brought me standing in this cold eerie basement, as I watch life drain before me.
--
As with everything, greed drove me. A prize I thought was worth any price. The Collectors certainly thought so, their pockets always deep.
I am a particularly excellent thief. This is simply because where others have failed I always succeed. From humble pickpocket beginnings to that first Collectors contract to many years ago; waking up from slumber to find the note on my bed table with clear instructions. The fact the note was placed without waking me, and the large reward for obtaining the target was a clear sign I was being invited to join a whole different level of professional thievery.
I've never met a Collector, it's always a note slid under my door. Steal this from here, stash it there, and in one week find directions to your reward. This has been the deal for years, and it has made me very rich. I could have quit long ago, disappeared into the shadows I was born from. Purchase a grand villa in Vizima and drink my days in peace.
But I would sooner wither away. This is my life, sitting in my small room, staring at my door, yearning for the next note to slide seductively underneath.
The one I received last night at first appeared no different. Steal a particular box from a particular warehouse basement in the Old District. But something about the note cooled the room, I couldn't place it. The Collectors seemed very eager, the reward unusually high. Words like 'soonest imperative' and 'prioritise this contract' were not of their usual sly untouchable tone.
This should have been a warning, but it only fuelled my excitement. What was in the box? and why would it be in the Old District; a run-down ghetto of the forever poor and mistreated.
--
The night air was crisp, heightening my senses. Breathing in slowly and deeply I calmed my beating pulse; a practice always done before entering a targets building, preparation to moulding with shadows.
Crouched low, wrapped in a warm black trenchcoat, I peered down into the warehouse through its large rooftop windows - my silhouette born against a brick chimney. No movement, no light, no noise. I cast a look into the neighbouring buildings, all as still as death. My body goes ridged, my muscles tense, ready to move with an unseen speed to my target, now it starts.
I glide down ropes into safe shadows, move like soft wind through doors, arches, rooms, stairs, until suddenly I'm at the basement door, a giant brute of cast iron and stone. I should be feeling pleased, this was an easy target. Only one locked door with a mechanism almost insultingly easy to pass. And this iron barricade before me is built for strength, not finesse, and will pose no problem. I was itching for more of a challenge, a rare test for my skill, not tonight..
And now I'm inside. Inside this cold eerie basement. The giant doors own weight closing itself behind me. It's eerie because of two things, the only two things in the room.
The first is a stone podium bathed in soft flickered candle light, and on the podium is a small box, my target. It's dark, but the second looks like a suit of medieval armour set next to it, gleaming and polished, hollow dark eyes. It appears to be waiting expectantly.
I stifle a sudden laugh, come on old fellow, you've been listening to too many of barkeep Bod's Witcher stories, snap out of it and let's get this done. Still, I can't help but keep a wither eye on the armour as I stalk slowly to the podium, but soon enough it's before me, its jewel encrusted craftsmanship beckoning me.
I reach forward, job almost done. In an hour I'll be in noisy Bod's Tavern, lungs full of smoke, belly full of ale, rich on success.
There is sudden flash of gleaming metal, and something drops near my feet with a meaty thud.
--
I don't have much time left until I meet my eternal sleep. The room spins and veers around me, my body cold and drained. My mind is tired and I am tired. I just want to sleep; it'll be good to finally sleep. I look up unsteadily from my arm, and the armour stares back at me. So polished and smooth, is it even armour, did it just move? And then it opens its metal mouth, gears whining while metal teeth speak words, the last words I'll ever hear, I know this.
"This is not yours to take, this belongs to one worthy who speaks the right words to have the Collectors prize, and he needs no post count", said the Tinman.
A deep dark colour of black rust. An artery..
But I feel disconnected from the pain. It belongs to someone else, not me. With eyes glazing over I stare at the shredded flesh and bone which was once my arm.
Somewhere in the reeling chaos my mind tries to piece it together, the chain of events which brought me standing in this cold eerie basement, as I watch life drain before me.
--
As with everything, greed drove me. A prize I thought was worth any price. The Collectors certainly thought so, their pockets always deep.
I am a particularly excellent thief. This is simply because where others have failed I always succeed. From humble pickpocket beginnings to that first Collectors contract to many years ago; waking up from slumber to find the note on my bed table with clear instructions. The fact the note was placed without waking me, and the large reward for obtaining the target was a clear sign I was being invited to join a whole different level of professional thievery.
I've never met a Collector, it's always a note slid under my door. Steal this from here, stash it there, and in one week find directions to your reward. This has been the deal for years, and it has made me very rich. I could have quit long ago, disappeared into the shadows I was born from. Purchase a grand villa in Vizima and drink my days in peace.
But I would sooner wither away. This is my life, sitting in my small room, staring at my door, yearning for the next note to slide seductively underneath.
The one I received last night at first appeared no different. Steal a particular box from a particular warehouse basement in the Old District. But something about the note cooled the room, I couldn't place it. The Collectors seemed very eager, the reward unusually high. Words like 'soonest imperative' and 'prioritise this contract' were not of their usual sly untouchable tone.
This should have been a warning, but it only fuelled my excitement. What was in the box? and why would it be in the Old District; a run-down ghetto of the forever poor and mistreated.
--
The night air was crisp, heightening my senses. Breathing in slowly and deeply I calmed my beating pulse; a practice always done before entering a targets building, preparation to moulding with shadows.
Crouched low, wrapped in a warm black trenchcoat, I peered down into the warehouse through its large rooftop windows - my silhouette born against a brick chimney. No movement, no light, no noise. I cast a look into the neighbouring buildings, all as still as death. My body goes ridged, my muscles tense, ready to move with an unseen speed to my target, now it starts.
I glide down ropes into safe shadows, move like soft wind through doors, arches, rooms, stairs, until suddenly I'm at the basement door, a giant brute of cast iron and stone. I should be feeling pleased, this was an easy target. Only one locked door with a mechanism almost insultingly easy to pass. And this iron barricade before me is built for strength, not finesse, and will pose no problem. I was itching for more of a challenge, a rare test for my skill, not tonight..
And now I'm inside. Inside this cold eerie basement. The giant doors own weight closing itself behind me. It's eerie because of two things, the only two things in the room.
The first is a stone podium bathed in soft flickered candle light, and on the podium is a small box, my target. It's dark, but the second looks like a suit of medieval armour set next to it, gleaming and polished, hollow dark eyes. It appears to be waiting expectantly.
I stifle a sudden laugh, come on old fellow, you've been listening to too many of barkeep Bod's Witcher stories, snap out of it and let's get this done. Still, I can't help but keep a wither eye on the armour as I stalk slowly to the podium, but soon enough it's before me, its jewel encrusted craftsmanship beckoning me.
I reach forward, job almost done. In an hour I'll be in noisy Bod's Tavern, lungs full of smoke, belly full of ale, rich on success.
There is sudden flash of gleaming metal, and something drops near my feet with a meaty thud.
--
I don't have much time left until I meet my eternal sleep. The room spins and veers around me, my body cold and drained. My mind is tired and I am tired. I just want to sleep; it'll be good to finally sleep. I look up unsteadily from my arm, and the armour stares back at me. So polished and smooth, is it even armour, did it just move? And then it opens its metal mouth, gears whining while metal teeth speak words, the last words I'll ever hear, I know this.
"This is not yours to take, this belongs to one worthy who speaks the right words to have the Collectors prize, and he needs no post count", said the Tinman.
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