A Gathering of Thieves

Shadows creep along the floor, dancing rhythmically to the slow, eerie tune of the instruments and bardsong emanating from the next room, slithering beneath the many plush armchairs and antique tables within. Candles and lanterns, far to few to light the spacious room adequately, cast the flickering phantoms across the many portraits and paintings that line the walls. The rich aroma of spices, burning pipe leaves, mahogany and walnut nearly hides the underlying scent of mildew and dilapidation. Dominating the center of the dark room is a table so long it could seat two dozen dinner guests comfortably, its chairs now empty, dust-layered surface bare. Forsaking it, a small gathering lounges at the far end of the dining hall, framed by tall, arching windows behind them, heavy drapes pulled shut to hide the moonlit allies beyond.

Legs crossed, Durgin takes a long pull from the slender stem of his pipe and leans back into his wingback chair, becoming swallowed in the shadows it holds. He lets the smoke seep out from his mouth only to inhale it into his nose in an endless cycle, like a dragon biting its tail. A glass, half full of red wine hangs lazily between his fingertips. Durgin's shoulder-length black hair curtains both sides of his pale white face. He was a handsome man in his own way, extruding viperous cunning and a dark, mysterious charisma. His voice, deep and rumbling yet scratchy and rasping from years of heavy smoking, is perhaps one of his most unique characteristics.

Before speaking, Durgin, never one to hurry, exhales deeply, blowing a plume of smoke that pools on the small, round table between the company of thieves. The veil lifts, revealing a large, white envelope stained with what can only be blood spatters.

"I've received discourse from one of our friends in the Fourth Quarter," Durgin begins in gravelly tenor, his eyes fixed on the envelope. "It follows an invitation I was delivered earlier by envoy of the Vidame Grey Devonshire. It seems the Lady Devonshire—and her lavish Upper Ward estate—will host an art auction a week from tonight."

Durgin lets his words settle on the minds of his audience as he takes a sip from his glass: one-eyed Martin Grey, a cutpurse, catburglar, and lockpick; Leon Kallis, a dashingly-handsome ladies man; and the grotesque Meeshak, a goblin mage.

"Regretfully, I will be unable to attend," Durgin continues with a hint of sarcasm. The three knew him well; though he had backstabed, bribed and blackmailed his way through the rind of high society's lowest crust, he wasn't one that enjoyed such company nor affairs. "However, that shouldn't spoil all the fun for you, my dear friends. I wouldn't want my absence to deprive you all of a cultural opportunity. Of the chance to rub elbows with some of Rimuldar's finest citizens. To broaden your social circles.

"No, I would like you three to go in my stead."

Again, Durgin pauses. A smirk curls one side of his lips as he takes another deep tug from his pipe, the cherry-red glow from its bowl casting his face in a demonic light. Though Kallis was a socialite with an impressive list of noble acquaintances, this was far out of his realm. The other two? Martin's home was in the filthiest slums and back allies of the Lower Ward—a high society party was no place for a notorious thief, let alone Meeshak who was regarded as little better than a child-eating monster at best. Worse, if his magical status is known.

As well as they know Durgin, Durgin knows his listeners. He knows their hearts and minds; this was a ludicrous proposal. He didn't seriously expect the trio to carouse amongst the empire's elite, and they knew it. So, to what end was he seeking?

"In that envelope is your invitation. Well, not your invitation, but I'm sure the three dead fellows who were on their way to the viscountess's manor won't mind if you borrow them; they don't need 'em anymore.

"It's a letter addressed to Lady Devonshire from Lord-Barrister Dreadstone, a gloriously-wealthy imperial magistrate from Temecula. It seems as though it's his custom to send handlers in advance to wherever he visits in order to make certain the accommodations—whatever they are—meet his approval."

Durgin stands and crosses the floor to another table upon which rests a crystal pitcher. Back turned to the group, he re-fills his glass and drinks deeply before repeating the act.

"Oh, and by the way, he sent six. The other three . . . Well, apparently, they got lost along the way, as did their entire escort and entourage," Durgin waves his free hand in a quick circular motion as if conjuring an anecdote from thin air. "It is a very long journey from Temecula to here, after all. I hope that small detail causes you no complications during your stay at the villa."
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:21, Tue 10 June 2014.

There was always an eerie presence in rooms such as this. It was like a trick he'd been shown as a boy where one could be shown things with apparency, guiding someone's attention, and through deception become vulnerable in ways that even the victims could not believe; amazing to see in action. Leon felt the deep stabbing of awe and anxiety as the hands of the organisation, environment and words prodded and pulled at his senses. It told him one thing and left him with the uncomfortable feeling of undertones that he could not quite fathom; it was very disconcerting.

Durgin's actions oozed stoicism and it naturally lent the feelings of suspicion to the younger member of the group. His extrovert personality often resulted in the question about peoples' motives. Each of Durgin's movements looked calculated and purposeful - he seemed to be a man that never acted without due consideration, exemplified by the delay before speaking.

Quiet now Leon, he thought, listen... he told himself.

The tones of Durgin almost lulled him into a somniferous state until the man rose to refill his cup. The pouring and drinking resulted in Leon developing an itching thirst that he sought to control by tonguing the roof of his mouth before opening up to speak.


" Durgin, if our goal is to... ensure the Lord's warm and fuzzy welcome," he said with a grin opening across his face, humoured at the thought of impersonation and deception, " then we can do this...

I speak only for myself, of course, and would never put words into my friends' mouth but I am sure they are, like me, wondering what purpose there is for us lowly folk to be in such a place, " the irony flowing freely in his tone ", I certainly consider our mandate to the Lord of utmost importance but would like your advice of the best way to pass the time once our duties are fulfilled. Are there fun things we can do in this city?" The tone was obvious, somewhat playful and lavished with tones suited to the facetious handling of conspiracy. His voice, while charming and enticing still carried the twang of a low-born accent even when he was mimicking the cadence of higher people when they spoke

Leon had learned, or decided, early to never speak explicitly of criminal activity or indeed actions and goals of their community. Instead, he often spoke in circular pressing innuendo and subtlety to its limit.




I hope this is okay for a first post...

I tried to capture a little bit of the character's personality; he is playful and perhaps a little wise to the 'requirements' of subtlety in their line of work.

The tone is implicitly mocking the 'victims' of their efforts but he is still curious about what the actual goal still is...


This message was last edited by the player at 20:46, Mon 02 June 2014.

Martin stood towards the back, his dark clothes making him blend into the darkness, only his face catching the light. One eye covered by an eyepatch, and the other roving around the room, often settling on Durgin as he spoke, but never staying there for long.

Despite his stoic expression, Martin really wasn't feeling very comfortable. He didn't really like, or trust, Durgin. And being in the belly of the beast was filling him with nervous energy, urging his fingers into motion, to tap on the table, to right the slightly crooked painting next to him, to engage in a bit of finger gymnastics, to do anything. But Martin suppressed the urge and clasped his hands on his back, fingers rhythmically squeezing and relaxing.

This was just a job. Durgin might have, almost certainly would have, additional motives beyond what he would tell. But it was unlikely anything bad would happen in this room. And the pay tended to be decent. And Martin could really use the money. It wasn't cheap feeding what amounted to a largish family, even if some of the members could provide for themselves.

So Martin waited and listened, fingers nervously squeezing and relaxing.

If his eye did narrow a bit when Durgin revealed that half a dozen people had been killed for the invitations, he also did quickly get his face back under control.


When the spiel came to a close, he did want more information about the job. But Durgin was being all theatrical and suave, and Martin didn't feel like playing that particular game, neither by participating in the inappropriate banter nor as a stooge asking the questions Durgin was obviously anticipating.

So he didn't mind at all when Leon stepped in. Though he could have done without the banter.

Meeshak paced the room, trying not to make eye contact with anyone in the room. His mumbling and constant finger flinches only stopped when he was near a door or window. At those moments he would stop and either listen intently at the door or peer around the drapes covering the windows. Obviously satisfied that they were not under observation, the goblin continued his pacing.

As Durgin lifts the veil, the goblin stops and cocks his head to the side in an effort to somehow get a better look at the envelope without approaching closer. His eyes dart from envelope to Durgin and back to the envelope without moving his head as the man speaks. At the mention of the prior owners now being dead, Meeshak's eyes roll and he lets out an audible sigh. Once more he continues his fidgeting as Leon began asking questions.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:33, Mon 09 June 2014.

Durgin lifts a leaf of white paper off the table, then crosses the floor, returning to his chair. "Oh, there will be plenty of fun to be had at the Devonshire estate, Leon. If you're not thrilled to attend the art and antique auction, perhaps you'd like to stay a little longer. The next day, they're having a masquerade ball.

"I know what you're thinking: 'What ever shall I wear?'"

Durgin takes his seat and crosses his legs. He lays the paper on his lap and takes a drink from his glass. "I have here a copy of your invitations. It seems Lord-Barrister Dreadstone saw fit to describe each of his six attendants in detail. Well, will you look at that. One of them seems to be missing an eye."

Durgin looks up and meets Martin's gaze, then returns to the copy of the invitation and clears his throat. "Durgin Khatzbaran, of one eye, green in color. He stands just short of six feet; dark hair," Durgin reads. "'Durgin.' That's too good of a name to waste on a Khatzbaran," Durgin scoffs. "Just what color is your eye anyways, Martin? Bah, never mind. No one will notice. Hell, I've known you for more than twenty years and I've got no clue. You'll probably want to slouch a bit, though."

In scratchy tenor, Durgin continues reading, expecting no reply from Martin. The invitation describes another of passing similarity to Leon. "'Waderan Mottle.' Hello, 'Warden,'" During says, looking up at Leon. "Not the most attractive name.

"Well, how about that. There's a goblin on the list as well," Durgin says feigning surprise. "No. No there isn't. But there is a mage. '. . . a gifted fellow, blessed with the Talent. He attended the grand academy, graduating with highest esteem. Vanderan Shulz.'

"So, Vanderan," Durgin says, glancing toward Meeshack. "You should be happy to know you'll be attending as a human, a better species all around.

"Now that we've all been introduced, let's talk about what I would like in return for so generously sending you all on this luxurious vacation. A small price to pay for a few night's room and board in one of Rimuldar's finest estates, really. Quite small." Durgin holds up his hand, thumb and first finger making a pinching gesture as if he held something between them. "It's about an inch long and much less in girth—Leon, you should be familiar with that size.

"It's shaped like a canine's tooth. Or a dragon's. 'Suppose that's where it gets its name: The Dragon's Tooth. But it's neither. It's a diamond, a big fat sparkling rock. You see, it was in my possession once not long ago, and I want it back.

"Its current owner, who just so happens to be the Lady of the house, intends to sell it at the auction. Perhaps you can acquire it for me before the bidding begins."

Durgin uncrosses his legs and sets the glass on a lampstand near his armchair. He then stands, signalling this conversation was coming to a close.

"Now, you all can't go to a party looking like that, so I'll provide each of you with a new wardrobe. Don't worry, I had the blood washed out and all the holes stitched good as new.

"See our dear old friend Zuul about getting your new clothes tailored. He has everything you need. Martin—I mean, Durgin—see to it the invitation and its copy finds its way straight into Zuul's grimy talons and no other's," Durgin says with a wave to the piece of paper and the envelope on the table. "He's waiting on you, all three."

Martin takes in the rest of Durgin's performance with indifference.

Once the last order is passed, Martin simply nods and walks up to the table, where he palms the paper and letter which quickly disappears under his shirt. He nods to Durgin again, and says, no particular inflection in his voice, "We'll get it for you."

He adjusts the papers through his shirt, making sure that they make no bulge.

"How much do we get? Beyond the.. vacation."

Durgin's face goes blank as stormclouds gather in his eyes. "'Get?' Like, as in you want paid?" he asks, incredulously. "What do you think this is, Martin, some kind of job? I just handed you the keys to one of the wealthiest mansions in Rimuldar and all I ask in return is one tiny diamond. That's like telling a child he can have anything he wants from a candy store for the price of a single gumdrop—but the kid wants paid to go in."

Durgin scoffs, then turns and walks to the door. He takes the knob and opens it, revealing the smokey second-story gallery overlooking the main floor of the Quiet Lady brothel and tavern. The rowdy din of a hundred drunken revelers below pours through the threshold. Leaning on the handrail is a man called Blade, but he's known as Durgin's hitman—a ruthless, mass-murderer, a cold-hearted killer. Blade slowly turns his attention from the floor below and looks back over his shoulder, his face a perpetual scowl.



"Martin," Durgin says, gesturing toward the door. "Won't you join me?"

Martin walks out of the room and onto the gallery, taking his place beside Durgin who is looking down over the rail.

"If you're looking for employment, I'm sure I can arrange something, my friend," Durgin says in low voice. "I know it must be tough for you looking after all those orphans. That's a lot of mouths to feed. Why, just the other day, one came here looking for a job. I set her up; what with us being old friends and all, I figured I owed it to you to take at least one of those scrawny brats off your hands."

Durgin nods toward one corner of the bar, and Martin's lone eye—still ajusting to the brighter light—catches sight of one of his own. She's a petite young girl with pale reddish-blonde hair talking to a greasy man three times her age.



"We call her Rose around here. Oh, she's a bit too young for the work, but some of the men sure do love having her around. Oh, don't worry; she's not for sale. Well, not yet anyways."

---

OOC: Martin, this might be a passive-aggressive threat. "Rose" is probably 13 or so, and this is the last place a girl her age should be. Just being "not for sale" is far cry from being safe—this is a tavern and brothel, after all. Durgin's killer probably isn't standing there by accident either . . .

With the pseudo-identities received and talk of a masquerade ball Leon was both thrilled and still clinging to caution. There was a lot about this whole lot in life that didn't sit well with him. The group of thieves were generally considered to admonish those that committed violence, with few kind words being spoken to those that killed people - especially in cold blood.

Leon decided quickly that there was something more to the Dragon's Tooth than met the eye. Diamonds, while valuable could likely be found in any wealthy estate in the city and with likely more 'arousing' dimensions.

"Well, if they're anything like the masked parties that are normally held I think the dress code will be easy enough..." he said with a slightly lyrical tone. The comment was very offhanded though as his brain zoomed through the possibilities and reasons and actions to date - his paranoid side was coming through strong and loud, even if he wasn't letting on.

As he re-phased into the conversation Leon chuckled at the theatrics by their boss and couldn't hold back a comment "Less surprising when you think we were probably selected for our similarity to our unfortunate friends..." a grin wide on his face as he suppressed a jolting feeling of smugness. It fell away quickly though as his head returned to the deconstruction of current events. There was something odd about this whole situation, or so he thought.

The feeling was soured further when Durgin opened the door into the brothel. A man, a violent and sadistic bastard was standing there. "Fuck him..." Leon said under his breath, before sucking the bitter taste from his tongue.

15:49, Today: Leon Kallis rolled 13 using 3d6. hearing the conversation.


Again, hope this is okay. I've not gone too far with my post to give everything a chance to unravel.

:D

When Durgin announces that the pay will be whatever they manage to steal while inside, Martin considers saying no to the mission. It might not make him any friends with Durgin, but this smelled too much like doing a job for the crime boss, and then paying him for the privilege. Besides, Martin was a smuggler and a burglar, not a con-man. Making himself known to the target before robbing her wasn't something he was comfortable with. Too many chances for something going wrong.

Still, he followed Durgin out onto the balcony. He frowns a bit when he finally spots Lisha. Or Rose as she is called here. Not because of what she is doing. There was nothing wrong with being a prostitute. In Martin's opinion they had the moral high ground compared to thieves like himself, and there was less chance of losing a hand or getting the rope.

But he had a problem with Durgin. The Quiet Lady might be theoretically be safer than working the street, but Martin really didn't want any of his flock under Durgin's thumb. Durgin didn't employ people. He used them. Like he was using Lisha now, in order to ensure he would get use of Martin.

Though theoretically, now that she had left Martin's wings, she was no longer his responsibility. That was his code. Even more so when she would hire on with a man like Durgin. Theoretically she was no longer his responsibility. But however much he wanted to leave her to her own chosen fate, he couldn't. Not really.

Both his hands are on the railing, the fingers of his left hand reflexively dancing in a quick rhythm, as the thoughts pass through his brain. Maybe two seconds pass, and the frown hasn't left his face entirely when he turns to Durgin.

"I get your point." he replies. "I'll get the stone for you."

Another man might have couched the reply in pleasant words. Might have lied about how he appreciated the chance Durgin was giving him, or how nice it was of him to keep an eye on Rose. Martin didn't do banter.

"If you're there after Dreadstone arrives, you'd better be wearing a mask."


Durgin nods knowingly and returns Leon's short-lived smile.

In truth, both Leon and Meeshak, despite being a goblin, were well suited for the job. Leon was a charismatic ladies man, and Durgin suspected he dreamed of the of the spender and majesty of high society, of lords and ladies, of mansions with gated fences and rolling green lawns. His ambitions would be well served by carrying out this task. In fact, Durgin wouldn't be too surprised if he never saw the young man ever again. That was fine, just so long as he got the Tooth.

Meeshak had a gift unrivaled by any other in Durgin's employ. If only he were human—but then, he wouldn't be under Durgin's influence; he'd be high in a tower somewhere, buried in arcane tomes and working magic and wizardry, or whatever it was that mages do.

However, Leon's hunch rang especially true in martin's case. He was there because of his missing eye and other passing physical similarities. Durgin had considered having an unfortunate accident befall some other henchman in a back alley, but there was no time. The auction was rapidly approaching.

No, Durgin used one-eyed Martin out of necessity. Though Martin was an excellent smuggler and lockpick, this wasn't a job for him. Usin him was like pounding a square peg into a round hole. Durgin didn't like it, but it wasn't the first time he had employed a hammer to make-fit.

---

"And, you'll make yourself a rich man, while you're at it," Durgin replies to Martin jovially with a pat on the shoulder. "Like three foxes in a hen house!"

Still laughing, Durgin turns to Blade. "Make sure my friends arrive safely at the Raven's Claw. Wouldn't want anything happening to them along the way." Wordlessly, Blade turns and starts for the stairs down. His scowl becomes a toothy sneer as he passes a tall, well built, gray-haired man going the opposite direction. The man returns the look with an ice-cold, steely glare. Both keep walking.

The gray-haired man approaches Durgin, still frowning.

"Sergeant Murdoch, thank you for stopping by on such short notice. Walk with me."

---

Through the twisting back-allies and winding streets of Rimuldar's outer slums the three walk, eyes on the lookout more for rival gang members than for soldiers. Rain turned dirt to mud hours ago and the heavy smell of sewage and garbage hangs in the air.

It's warm for an autumn night, but there is still a chill in the air. Mist gathers low to the ground, shrouding everything in its tendrils. It's a couple hours past midnight, yet a few windows have the flickering glow of a lit candle within them.

One of those windows is the back room of the Raven's Claw Pawn and Consignment, a run-down shack where members of the streetgang hang out. Zuul, the old gargoyle who runs the shop, is a spindly, gaunt buzzard except for his big, round paunch. The gargoyle acts as a fence to gang members, paying them bottom dollar prices for their ill-gotten loot and selling it on his shelves for a profit.

In the night, the gargoyle works on clocks and tinkers with jewelry in his tiny, cramped back-office shop. Burglars looking to fence their loot usually slip in through the window, but tonight, the door was cracked open and a lantern lit inside.

Blade, who had shadowed the three at a distance, disappears into the the night.


"Fools. That's what you are," the gargoyle hisses in his gravelly, raspy voice. A single candle casts dancing shadows across the deep furrows of his haggard, inhuman face, a face which could perhaps best be described as a cross between a bulldog and a tortoise. "You think you can just walk right in there waving a little piece of paper dressed up like a bunch of buffoons? They'll smell a rat before you even get to the gates.

"Then you'll be dead rats. All three of ya."

None of the three had spoken hardly a word to the gargoyle. He had just started right off on a tirade as soon as they walked through the door of his shop.

Leon generally had a low regard for the gargoyle, he was a bastard too. He would sit in his shop, testy and prickly and mock everybody that dared to step inside. Being an associated of Durgin meant that his situation was relatively protected. That, coupled with the monopoly he had on fencing items meant that all power was with him.

Though Leon would never show his disdain.

"Hey it's the Gargoyle... " he said with a grin and a touch of nonchalance. "You should keep your door locked, I hear there are bad men walking the street. Murderers and brigands..." he said while taking a backward glance at the street, curious whether the murderer was still outside and why there was a need for him to 'escort' the group.

The man gave a grin, looked at the other guys in the group and gave the goblin a pat on the shoulder before moving deeper into the shop and browsing around anything that was on offer.

"Well, if we're just rats that canna' speak good. What do you suggest for getting a warm welcome? I should point out that me and my friends here will be better dressed..." he continued without moving his gaze from the latest item he was inspecting. The touch of sardonny to his voice was quite apparent but still light hearted.


22:53, Today: Leon Kallis rolled 6 using 3d6. Some influence roll (Diplomacy) (15).
// aiming to increase the Gargoyle's disposition towards him and the group through humour and the dry-wit that parallel's the gargoyle.

// Find any advice about the job.

"You'll be wearing the grave clothes of six men who fell prey to highwaymen on an imperial roadway. You'll be wearing the livery of Lord-Barrister Dreadstone, the imperial magistrate who won't be too happy when he learns his men have killed.

"I wonder just what he'll do to you three," the gargoyle says folding his arms over his chest and letting them rest on his plump stomach. "Worse than that poor young fellow Frank the Fiddler, I'll lay heavy wager."

Frank was a Raven's Claw initiate who had been executed for evoking the dark arts not long past. There were other charges as well, charges such as robbery, arson and burglary, but they tacked black magic on there so they could torture, interrogate, and then hang him dead. Though none of the three ever met him, they had all heard, everyone had. The black cloaks flooded the quarter for days. Dozens were arrested in raids all over the Lower Ward. Those who didn't follow Frank to the gallows still rot in dank prison cells. If they ever see the light again, it will be as old men of crippled bodies and broken souls.

Perhaps worse, during that time, the Reaper hacked up a pile of bodies taller than a horse's bridle prompting some to believe he is an agent of the empire. All the mutilated victims were vermin and street urchins, some of whom were Raven's Claw.

Zuul had stopped accepting late night visitors and claimed to have went clean, as clean as his grimy, gnarled talons could get. "Officially," the gang had disbanded, but nothing much had changed, really. Cutpurses will still cutting purse strings. Pickpockets were still picking pockets. Thieves were still being thieves.

"You want my advice? Walk away from this one, young Kallis."

That's when it strikes the three like a blacksmith's hammer: Zuul, the callous, stone-hearted old buzzard, is afraid. None of them had ever talked to him for so long about anything, other than perhaps while haggling over prices. He had never given out advice or suggested caution. Yet here he was telling them not to take a job.