In the Arms of a Thief, Chapter One Options

[SilenceFalls]

In the Arms of a Thief.

Chapter One

It couldn't get much worse, could it?

Prologue

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The raindrops fell into the barrel just outside the tavern room. The surly Breton rose up slowly, his temples throbbing in rhythm to the sound. He had celebrated his latest success last night in the same manner he always did, with much drink and sin.

His escort that he hired from the night before was nowhere to be seen, which he preferred. After all, it was professional courtesy not too stick around after their particular brand of deed had been done. Same went for him in his line of work.

Also, immensely stupid for him to do so. They all paid their dues; be they escort, skooma dealer, specialized acquirer, et cetera, to the same boss: the Grey Fox, and that man ran a tight ship.

Theirs may be the only Guild in the whole of the Empire that actually had their very existence questioned. Operating in the shadows wasn't just a good idea, it was their law. While infractions were not lethal, they could become immensely expensive. All debts were paid to the Guild in one fashion or another, and they made certain you lived to regret it.

He looked around the mess of the room, gathering his clothing from the weathered wood floor. He walked across it without creaking a single board, and more impressively without wounding his bare feet with a loose splinter. He approached the basin, and dunked his face into the cool water. It smelled off, but he didn't care. All he needed was some quiet and maybe a bit more drink before the sun became too unbearable.

His hopes for that were dashed when the door started reverberating from the pounding on the other end, startling him from his position.

"City Watch! Open up!!" an authoritative cry came from the other end.

He looked around and began hatching his escape. The guard weren't too smart after all. Likely just rounding up the usual suspects. Or so he hoped.

"Eh...just a minute! I'm doing my business!" he called back, tussling around in his tunic and grabbing his belts.

"What business?" the voice called back.

"Do you want me to paint ye a bloody picture? The kind you sit down for!" he cried back. "And yer knockin, ain't helpin' matters! But come in if ye want the smell, and want to see my bait and tackle!"

"Oh." The guard replied.

"I'll give you five minutes." he replied after a bit of a pause, and his footsteps sounded off to the next room.

He smiled at the thought that the guard were so easily manipulated at times, and prepared to exit through the window.

"Hello, Silas." An Imperial man with silver hair and similarly colored suit of armor stood just outside, waiting for the Breton.

"Ooooh! Adamus! It's been a while! How's the wife? And I see ye got stuck with the new recruits this time." the now-named Breton responded warmly.

"Yes, here I thought you were staying out of trouble. She's good, pregnant again, and yes, I'll be training these ones this year." He replied with a slight smile.

"Trouble? How's that? And, congratulations!" he said with a queer-eyed look.

"The usual. And thank you." he said pulling out a pair of manacles.

"Adamus! Really? The Mage-Manacles?" Silas said impudently.

"Sorry, I know you and your tricks by now." Adamus Philida replied, going through well-rehearsed motions of putting Silas in the manacles that stunted magicka, and Silas knowing this routine.

"Like coming to this same filthy place after every big haul. Really, I expect better of you by now." Adamus replied with a disappointed tone.

"But, I come here every Fredas! No crime in that." Silas replied almost mockingly.

"It's Morndas." Adamus replied, as he punched Silas in the gut, causing him to double over, and then proceed to release the remnants of last night onto the street.

"Good...one.." Silas replied, and felt himself being pushed forward.

[SilenceFalls]

"The Daughter of a Soldier, told the fallen Priest, it's a cold, cold place in the arms of a Thief." - Iron and Wine.



Three years later...

Silas looked at the marks on the wall of his prison cell. Nearly one thousand now.

None of the usual channels had seemed to receive the messages he sent out, nor had he heard anything. It was as though the Guild had forsaken him, and two years ago Adamus Phillida had been surprised to see him behind bars. He was even more surprised that he'd been there ever since he brought him there, nor had a trial or tribunal. Not that Adamus Phillida was fond of thieves, he had just been the one to keep Silas in check ever since he was a street urchin, and Adamus was just a low ranking watchman. Phillida promised that he would find out what was going on, and he had the rank to pull that kind of inquiry.

Weeks had gone by, and Silas was certain that, he too, had forgotten him. Depression and despair became his only companions, and he took too what little moon sugar passed through the place, or the 'bucket wine' he had learned to distill himself years ago.

Until one day...

It was the middle of the night, and Phillida's familiar voice came through the still evening air.

"Keep quiet. Listen to me, I was never here. Do you understand? Good."

Phillida went on to explain that the day he was rounded up and brought in, there were several other thieves, rogues and lowlives gathered up as well. Those others were still being held without trial as well, all over the counties in separate cells. Three others were being held in the Imperial Cities Prison as well.The strange thing was, all of these people only had one thing in common.

They all shared the same birthsign.

"It's a crime to be born under the 'Thief'?!" Silas whispered angrily.

Phillida's shadowy visage only shook its head.

"I don't know. But they're keeping track of more than just these prisoners as well. Citizens too. And this is where it gets slippery. It seems to be an order from the Emperor." he continued.

Silas was stunned, and the silence seemed to ring with it.

"What?!" was all he could muster.

"Maybe not directly from him, maybe from the Elder Council, maybe the Blades, I don't know. There's no more I can do to help you without bringing unwanted eyes down on me. Be careful, Silas." Phillida imparted the final words he would ever speak to him, and disappeared back into the darkness he came from.

He had no more of an idea what was going on today, then when Phillida had told him that. He only knew that he had to bide his time, and he wanted to find out what was keeping him here. It was a burning desire, like something between curiosity and revenge.

He kept himself in shape as much as he could between drills of excercise in his cell, and picking fights in the courtyard. As long as you didn't make a body the guards had to deal with, they mostly left you alone.

Until you became the top fighter that was, that was when you disappeared to solitary for a month and came back with scars and deformities that were really poorly healed bone breaks. The guards had their own way of letting the inmates know who was top dog.

As a result, he and an Orc from West Tower; or just West if you had the misfortune of living here, developed a routine that they got into it every once in awhile and one of them would lose to the other on purpose, just to stay off that top contender list. It was also fantastic exercise, Orc's and their hardy constitution were hard to keep up with, and that was something else he could focus on so he didn't lose his mind.

What little magic he knew was pointless in here, as the magicka-waning bracers; or the mage-manacles as they were more commonly called, became a permanent fixture of his wardrobe. It was enchanted to drain all the magicka one would normally produce naturally. Being of Breton descent, the fields of aetherius that all mortals could tap into was locked off from him. Indeed, to his chagrin, he was never able to pick these locks either. More mage-work to work against fellow mages. Someone or some group that was powerful enough to keep him here, and to do so quietly even to the point of infiltrating the Guild. Which was rare, as the Grey Fox was big on 'Honor among thieves', and his enforcers made certain of it.

The symptoms of something bigger than anything he was used to dealing with were there. It made him determined to be small enough to escape it's notice. His mouth, that he used to be famous for, ready for a quick lie or a dirty joke at a moment's notice stopped opening. Instead he started listening. Anything that would prove useful, a rumor, a loose tongue from a guard at the right moment. The only thing he ever came up with was the guards wondering the same thing he was: Why is he here?

This evening however, he would finally come one step closer to finding an answer. As he opened his eyes, he saw men in black cloaks and splendid armor lit from torchlight standing over his once slumbering form.

"Silas Le Muir. You've been pardoned. Come with us, please." said one.