• Mature • [Bolstrum] Prowler (Graded)

[Kasoria]

21st Trial, Vhalar, 718a
Bolstrum
1st Bell

Continued from here





He watched for breaks before he slid from the shadows. He watched the cacophony of noise and activity that was the warehouse, the feed silo, the stables, the front office, the living quarters. A whole compound of men all bent towards a single objective: receiving, recording, re-packaging, and shipping back out. Tons of goods arrived, and once their nature and destination was known, they were parceled up and set on new wagons, or mules, or carts. Then they left again, at a quicker pace of fresh legs, with new guards and drivers.

Tired snakes of commerce, limping their way into a nest of stone and wood. Shedding their skin and exhaustion within, then emerging reborn, refreshed, renewed, returned to the churned mud of the road, and vanishing back into the endless cycle of trade.

That's not bad. Little long at the end, though.

Such was how Kasoria amused himself as he maintained his vigil. He created names for the men he watched, like the pudgy gate guard and the driver with a beard down to his crotch. He studied the windows and doors and what glimpses within he could make out. The sounds of a whole battalion of animals being fed and watered and hustled and threatened into obedience. His eyes glimmered darkly as he looked up, where he assumed the counting and record offices would be.

Always high up. So you can see all unfolding under you.

They worked late into the night, too. Not just down below, but behind the smoked glass of the offices above. Candles and lamps burned there as the suns went down, swamped the whole complex in darkness. A complex owned and operated by the will and fortune of Bangun Vorund... but ran trial-to-trial by the man he saw leaving, among the last of them, at the end of the trial.

"Fates, man, not out here, will you?!"

Whatever Pelham wanted to talk about, Yancy clearly wasn't in the mood to hear it. That was the first thing Kasoria caught as the double doors creaked open and the two men walked out into the night. Pelham, with his short neck and stocky features, looked almost a separate species compared to his tall master, dressed impeccably if somberly in a black waistcoat. He carried a satchel and was still fishing around in it for... ah, of course.

Pelham shook his head as his master locked up. Something was bothering him. Making his feet twitch and body sway. When he heard the locks clang shut he turned about and Yancy already had a warning finger up-

"Enough. We'll talk tomorrow. See me home and then get there yourself."

"Yessir."

Not happy about that, are you, boy?

"And you men," Yancy said to the three men in matching uniforms, who swelled like soldiers on parade when he turned to them. With swords on their hips and leather helmets, they looked much the same... if you squinted just right. "Eyes peeled, ears open, you know the drill. Correct?"

"Yes, sir!"

They sounded enthusiastic, at least. Night watch was hardly thrilling work, even when you were guarding valuable goods for the trading routes. Most times, the sight of you was enough to dissuade a thief, and with three of you patrolling, even gangs were not likely to press their luck. Added to that, Vorund had left strict orders that all his managers were to pay their men well, train them upon hiring, and before the hiring, ensure they had some experience. Former soldiers were ideal, former gangers... well, just as good, if they were in the right (wrong?) neighborhood.

So these lads wouldn't be pushovers. Even if they were, it wouldn't matter to Kasoria's plans.

No bodies. No mess. No outcry. No scandal. His orders.

He watched The Lawyer and The Bodyguard walk away, and he did not move. He watched for another break. Silent and still in the alleyway between a boarding house and a half-built barn, on the edge of Bolstrum. Where the garbage piled up and water ran off from the street into the wilderness beyond the town. He squatted there with a wet arse for breaks and he didn't move, didn't speak up, just... stared.

He'd brought his Work Clothes with him. Filthy and smeared and ragged and torn and ill-fitting and perfect for his usual cover. He was just another hunk of human trash, the kind every settlement from township to metropolis contained in abundance. Now and then caravan drivers or guards would sneer and jeer as they trundled past him. One even spat; another threw food, as offering or insult, he did not know.

Kasoria knew no-one approached, or took notice. That helped. Especially since it allowed him to watch these men... and their patrols... and their patterns...

One by the front gate. Other two on patrol. Takes them a bit, maybe more, to go around the whole place. He's been sipping that wine, too. Watered down, most likely, but his bladder won't care.

The breaks went on. The skin got emptier. Kasoria squatted, and watched... and when the guard started to shuffle uncomfortably, he rose slowly and silently in the shadows. The two other guards passed their comrade and he didn't do the smart thing: ask them to watch his post while he went to piss. Instead he nodded and they continued... and before they'd even rounded the corner, he shook his head and turned on his heel, heading to some dark corner to relieve himself.

Now.

Kasoria moved swiftly across the muddy road. His steps squelched but his knees powered up with each one, not letting him get stuck. He crossed it in a handful of trills, and he could just hear a soft, grateful stream of piss smacking into the moist ground as the guard sighed contentedly. Francis' key was in Kasoria's hand before he even got to the door, and he'd barely even stopped before he'd jammed it into the lock, unlocked it-

"Huh?"

Faster!

-opened the door just wide enough to slide in, then closed it again. Footsteps through the mud. In no hurry, but accompanied by the tinkling of a belt being re-fastened on the walk. Clearly the guard wasn't in the mood to wait. Kasoria groped in the darkness behind the gate and found the other side of the lock, putting the key back in place and-

Slower! Quieter!

As slow as he dared, with his hunter so close, he locked the door again, and ducked down out of sight.

A shadow was above him, looming huge and curious as it cast inside the packed warehouse. The guard shielded his eyes and squinted deeper... but didn't look straight down. He tried the door handle, but it was locked, and that realization likely killed any suspicion he still had. Eventually he snorted, probably thought himself mad, and turned away.

Kasoria permitted himself a long, relieved sigh that puffed out his cheeks like a monkey. Then he found a new slice of shadow, and vanished into it.

[Kasoria]

Fuck me, what we'd have given to be in somewhere like this back in the Old Days...

Kasoria was never particularly sentimental about his youth, having reached an age where he could look back clearly and rationally and admit that, yes, he'd been a gutter-running toerag thief and scrapper that threw away an education because of his ego. But if anything was likely to pull his mind back into the skin of that stupid kid from decades ago, it would be a good ol' spot of burglary.

The little man kept to the shadows, which wasn't hard, considering the towering piles of produce and crates and barrels and casks and chests stacked taller than an Ithecal in some places. He could hardly see the floor for the most part, shadows huge and deep upon it everywhere he went. But he still kept his steps slow and measured, careful to avoid creaking floorboards and keep his weight on the back foot. Easier to stall his step, that was, if it turned out he was going to make a noise.

You always know the sound of a foot on a loose board, he reminded himself, being on both sides of the Guard and Villain Game at various points. Too loud. To definite. Too... heavy.

So he kept it light, and he did an inventory, instead. He couldn't help it. Silks, furs, timber, foodstuffs to outfit a dozen restaurants, civilian weapons, clothes, cloth, tools, mountains of grain and triple-locked chests of antiques and finely-wrought valuables... he couldn't begin to estimate the value of it all. As he walked across the storage floor to the spiral staircase, he thought of the men he knew, Way Back When, who would take these items from his grubby little hands. How much they would pay. How would he split it, he wondered? Probably need three or four men for a good haul. Enough to be lookouts, load a wagon, drive it, and keep a safehouse ready for afterwards. But the rewards... he could be contented with an even split and still be sorted for an arc, maybe more.

Depends on the rate, he reminded himself sourly, stepping from the forest of darkened goods into the moonlight before the stairs. Ten, twenty percent for nicked goods, remember? Just because it's worth X on the Market, doesn't mean you'll get X from some bloody fence.

Then he was at the foot of the stairs, feet trading wood for metal, and his nostalgia vanished. He took the stairs carefully, quietly, one eye on the view out the windows the whole time. Faint, bobbing figures patrolled beyond them, but didn't peer inside. The doors were locked, after all. Who would be inside? Kasoria climbed the stairs until a new door confronted him. He knelt down and touched the lock, made smooth but ague in the silvery light.

Little more than the one for the door, he mused. Well... good thing I came prepared.

What he brought out of his pocket had not been cheap. Fifty nels, all of them gold, handed over to one of those stalls in the Citizen's Market that was... perpetually in the gray, shall we say? Most of its items were for ornamental or practice purposes, Constable, nothing that would really aid a criminal here! All for research and security purposes. Like, for example, a set of lock picks in a neat leather case, just in case you wanted to make sure the new locks for your house were as secure as possible.

Which was exactly what Rufus told Kasoria to say, should the Blackguard every question why he was carrying the kit around.

Oh, yes. All above board.

Kasoria wasn't about to argue. He didn't say anything, really, save for what he wanted and what the price was. He knew that Vorund wanted as little mess on this job as possible, but the job itself... that required more subtlety that he was used to, as well. He'd spent arcs as a brute force instrument, and even he knew that. He was a living weapon, a Man made into a Blade. Vorund pointed him at a target, and he was unleashed until that target was chunks of meat on the cobbles. But more and more, he'd found himself forced into situations where subtlety and circumspection and the silent, sensitive skills of the thief and spy were as necessary as the ripping, tearing ferocity of the fighter and brawler.

Forced, or molded? Would you put it past the Old Man?

That was a thought for another time. For the present, Kasoria wanted to focus on the job. He opened up the case and took a pick that looked about the right size for the lock. He thrust it inside, and slowly dragged the tip of it across the top of the lock... feeling little clicks and bumps through his hand as he did.

Three... maybe four pins? Not too hard, right?

Kasoria suppressed a sigh. Fates, it had been too fucking long. But he remembered the basics, and since he had pretty much all the time he'd require, he wasn't about to rush. Patience. That's what too many villains lacked, nowadays. Picking a lock wasn't a matter of trills or even bits, unless you were an old hand. It was failure and falsehood, over and over again, until finally all the pins lined up and the pressure was just right. So for now, Kasoria withdrew the Pick, and replaced it with the L-shaped Tension Wrench. He slid that inside, worked it around until he could feel the cylinder of the lock turn just a fraction. Okay, that should have been enough pressure.

Then came the pick again. All the way to the back, but this was no sprint: it was a marathon. Pin by pin, fraction by fraction of an inch. He scrubbed the back pin with the tip of the pick, directing the pressure upwards, and eventually... he felt it-

Click

The first pin fell into place. The merest click, but he just about heard it. He licked his lips and poked a little higher with the pick. So, that was one. But how many were there? If he had a key, he could know based on the divots and gaps, he guessed, but here... it was all done by touch and guesswork. He shrugged without shrugging: fuck knew what mess that would make with such delicate work.

Screw it. You've got time.

Keeping pressure on the L-bar, Kasoria started scrubbing again. Up and out, the same motion, and yet again-

Click

He heard it and-

CLACK

Too much pressure on the bar, he guessed. Two pins done but the bar moved a fraction too far under his strong hands and his work was all for nothing. The pins had reset, and he needed to start over. Kasoria sighed and outside the guards laughed at some hilarity between themselves. The little man wiped his brow, squared his shoulders, flexed his fingers, and began again.

Reciept

-30gn for a concealable lock-picking kit, complete with case (used the Kits in the Price List as a guideline)

[Kasoria]

Sometimes, the Fates just up and fucked you. He couldn't remember exactly who told him that, but it definitely sounded like a Vorundism.

You could strive and better yourself, learn skills you needed for the task, buy the equipment and information required. You could practice and run drills. You could even find comrades that you trusted and relied on. You could do all these things, and even toss up some pointless mumbles to gods who did not care one way or the other (at least by Etzori estimations), and then... it still didn't work. You were still not rewarded. Despite doing everything right, and being careful, and righteous, you could still be standing in the wreckage of your failure, all your efforts amounting to-

"Shite..."

He spat the words with his hands on his hips, looking around the plush office that now looked... considerably less neat. Every drawer had been opened. Every cupboard door. Every place where items could be stashed or slid. He'd checked under the desk, the cushions, the couch, the chairs, the tables, even gone across the floor and checked for loose boards with his fingertips. A few had come free but after pawing about under them, he'd found no treasure trove of accounting ledgers.

Just a deeply surprised and wriggling furry thing that ran away squeaking from him. Kasoria almost felt the urge to apologize.

Bet you weren't expecting that tonight, we're you, Ratty?

The bad joke did little to shake his mood, though. He thought that he might get lucky on this job.That Yancy might be confident or lazy enough to keep evidence of his crimes right here, where he worked. Trusting to the audacity of such a move to protect him. Some... secret compartment, perhaps. Opening from a hidden switch or tile, but much as Kasoria pawed and rapped at various surfaces, nothing came loose.

"Stupid," he mumbled to himself, starting to close everything again. "He knows who he's stealin' from. He knows what Vorund does to thieves. He'd never be stupid, or lazy. They're not fucking here."

He'd spent the better part of a break, squatting outside the door, feeling his legs cramp up and fingers stiffen, working on that damned lock. He'd lost count of how often he'd fucked up somewhere, pressing too hard or too light, scrubbing the wrong pin in the wrong order, having to start over and over. Like being trapped in some awful loop of time he couldn't escape from. But he'd persevered. He'd done this before, long, long ago. He could do it again.

Fates above and below, that rattling cli-cli-click! of the cylinder turning all the way, all the pins aligned... it was a sweet sound. Fine reward for him. All his efforts, and then he opened the office door and found so many nooks and crannies, and in one he just knew what he sought was there. He searched by moonlight, squinting hard in the darkness, hunting by touch as much as by sight.

And bit by bit, his optimism died. He searched everywhere, and everywhere was bare. Leaving him tidying up behind himself, not wanting Yancy to come to work to the sight of burglary. Once everything was as it had been, from the drawers to the floorboards, Kasoria stepped back outside and closed the door. It would have to be at either his house, or with the mistress. If he was a gambling man? He'd bet on the mistress.

At least you know what you're doing tomorrow.

He moved swiftly down the stairs, after forcing the Pick and L into the lock one more time, and twisting both around until he felt the pins reluctantly, haphazardly fall out of order. Nothing left behind. No trace. Nothing to make anyone suspicious. As far as he knew, Yancy and his monkey didn't even know an agent of Vorund was even in the town. He didn't want any unexpected breaches or curious mistakes ramping their paranoia to levels where they'd come looking for him... or, even worse, bolt from the city.

Kasoria stowed away those catastrophic possibilities, and concentrated on leaving the building. This would be easier, of course. He could go out the back, for one thing. The windows opened from the inside, too. He scuttled to the mess hall and unlatched one... but waited until those two Night Guards trundled past until he opened it.

"... an' youse can blow it out yer arse wiv' the rest a' the smoke!"

"Fuuuuuuckin' 'ells, youse said that?"

"Straight as a Die an' true as Fates, I fuckin' did."

Whatever joke or tale of personal fortitude, it had clearly been one for the ages. Laughter rolled and rattled off the glass and over Kasoria, as he crouched below sight of the window. He listened to their feet squelch and crunch... listened as they grew fainter... then peeked over the edge of the window sill... and saw them disappear around the corner.

A bit. Maybe more. Move.

He lifted himself up and out and closed the window behind him, soon as his feet were back on mud instead of cheap floorboards. Mayhap the next trial, some cleaning lady or cook might frown at the window being pushed closed rather than locked, but he doubted they would raise hell and a general alarm. By that time, the trial would be long underway, and any an overly-warm employee could have opened it up for some fresh air.

The prowler kept moving from Vorund Trading and Transport, leaving it behind, vanishing into the nearest alley between buildings before the two joking guardians came around the opposite corner again. They didn't see his footprints in the mud. They simply weren't expecting it. Not him, not them, not any intrusion. He watched them from the dark, a predator gazing at sweetmeats he might one day enjoy... and nodded in satisfaction when they passed the window without a hint of notice.

Soon he was gone, and the shadows were silent again. It was late, he was tired, and he had far more work left to do.

Continued here

[Mads]

Kasoria of Etzos

Knowledge.........

Detection: Guessing the Pins in a Lock from the Ridges on a Key
Lock Picking: A Discipline of Finesse and Patience
Lock Picking: Basic Tools (Pick and Tension Wedge)
Lock Picking: Needs JUST the Right Amount of Pressure
Stealth: Taking Advantage of Gaps in Patrol Patterns
Stealth: Leaving Everything As You Found It

Etzos Underworld: Fences Usually Offer 10-20% For Stolen Goods
NPC Rufus: Seller of Semi-Legal Wares in the Citizen's Market

Loot....................

-30 GN for the lockpicking kit

Consequence......

None

Renown..............

None

Experience...........

10

To be perfectly honest, you could probably write about dirt being dirt and it would still be enjoyable to read. Your writing has such amazing flow and tension - by far the best use of novice lock picking I've read here or anywhere. The failure too, is excellent, and Kas' methodical checking and hour-long struggle with the lock was super, super relatable. Like I've said before, he's a very real person; reading your threads is like living vicariously through him, which is probably why I liked this so much! The last time I tried to pick a lock, I ended up screaming on the floor hahah. Anyway, nice work, and I look forward to meeting the wife!

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