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pixichi · 7 years

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Stealth and Witchcraft Cp.14

For the next few days, on into her second week in Garrett's custody, Gwenevere dedicated herself to the art of picking locks. She opened every door, chest, and cabinet she could find, until her fingers were raw and red from her efforts. Blisters and callouses began to develop upon her once flawless fingers, her nails chipped and worn down to the quick in some places. But if the young woman had learned anything over the course of her short, yet harrowing life, it was that physical pain, was often temporary. It was the emotional suffering, which one had to be cautious of.

Upon an otherwise uneventful afternoon, Garrett left to collect some information from Basso, leaving his boisterous ward in charge of the clocktower. Dedicated and eager, Gwenevere took the opportunity to explore, and hopefully, discover more locks to pick. The elevator jangled and protested as she rode it down into the forgotten bowels of that place. It made her heart race, and for a moment, she was certain the entire lift would plummet her into the abyss. But the Hammerites lived up to their ingenuity, and despite the metallic groans and worrying jerks which accompanied her decent, Gwenevere made it safely down into the depths of the clocktower.

The aspiring vigilante did indeed find much to do down there. Dust and cobwebs had overtaken much of the lower levels, and many of the once sophisticated mechanisms were water-logged and ruined. Because of the baron's decree, the means of repairing and restoring the clocktower were nonexistent. Thus, standing water from rainstorms long since passed had corroded much of the tower's impressive organs beyond repair.

She waved hello to a foraging rat, as the creature stopped to clean its whiskers atop a rather large machine. A faded metal plaque reading, COAL DISPENSER, hung precariously from loose, rusty screws. Another plaque, this one reading, FOREMAN'S OFFICE, hung to her left. Gwenevere ventured into the forgotten area, only to discover a series of moldy volumes littering the remains of a decaying wooden bookcase. Those she could still read were squishy in her hands, their pages turning to mush when she attempted to turn them. The entire area smelled of very old stone, and wet dog.

Using her trusty new lockpicks, Gwenevere sprung the door at the far end of the room. But unlike the others before it, this door bore extra locks and chains around its handle. A part of her began to wonder why Garrett kept these doors locked to begin with. Surely he'd been down here before? So what lurked beyond these sealed passages, and why did he want her to discover it? Was it some sort of test, or another mindless errand meant to keep her exuberant mind occupied? Gwenevere felt herself shrug as she started through the liberated doorway. There was only one way to find out.

"Oh wow..." she heard herself gasp, as she entered this new hallway.

Though it was impossible to tell how or when, it became instantly apparent that a great explosion had once taken place. Everyone, from the most influential noble, right down to the most ludicrous fool, had heard the stories. Of how the magnificent clocktower of Stonemart, had simply fallen over one night, fifteen years ago. Since then, the Hammerites had endeavored to both rebuild their cherished monument, and to bring the miscreant responsible to justice. After all, clocktowers don't just collapse on their own. Sabotage, although never proven, was the most widely-accepted theory regarding the tower's destruction.

Fortunately, very few onlookers were hurt by its collapse, and none had been killed. But the same could not be said for those unfortunate Hammerites who'd dedicated their very souls to maintaining the impressive structure. The worst carnage occurred in the control room, the deepest part of the tower. And Gwenevere, was now gazing at the remains of that tragedy.

The Hammers had done a fantastic job of restoring the obliterated core back to its former glory. Surveying the area beneath her, Gwenevere couldn't see any evidence of the past disaster. The entire area, had an air of stoic peace about it. But it was the tall, dignified pewter tombs that caught her eye, and a tear of bereaved lament soon followed. Before the baron's detested decree, before their banishment from this place, the Hammerites had constructed a memorial for their fallen brethren.

Now, as her verdant eyes took in the profoundness of it all, Gwenevere too found herself wondering just who could have been responsible for this terrible tragedy.

But something glinting within her peripheral vision distracted her mind from such morose speculations. Slowly, she turned her head and glanced down the opposite hallway. There, situated atop a moldy alter, sat a familiar sword.

Gwenevere's eyes narrowed at the sight, crestfallen woe warping into a chilling sensation of unease, as she made her way towards the weapon with reluctant, heavy steps. As she reached it, a most horrible sensation of dread swept over her. Gwenevere felt her heart leap into her throat, as her eyes confirmed that this was indeed, her father's stolen relic. It was ironic--blasphemous even--to see that odious blade atop a Hammerite alter.

She plucked up the sword, feeling as its weight pulled at every sinew and tendon in her arm. It was heavy, cold and cruel within her tiny hands. Gwenevere was no warrior. Truth be told, this was the first time she'd ever so much as held a weapon of any kind. But the sword, was a long-lost, and cherished family possession. Somehow, she had to return it to its rightful owners. The girl creature shuddered. Doing so, would indeed be dangerous.

She had no intention of going back to that mystical place so soon, even though it called out to her every day. Pleading for her to return. Her green eyes glistened in the musty darkness, as she eyed the sleek black sword. Now, at the very least, she had an excuse.

But something still troubled the girl, lingering at the back of her mind like a sinister pair of hungry eyes. Why was her father's sword here of all places? The Hammerites would have recognized it, surely. Cleansed away its perceived wickedness with holy water, before melting it into nothingness with fire and forge. There wasn't any conceivable excuse for the weapon's survival within this place. No divine templar of the red cloth would wittingly keep such a malevolent relic.

A chill, raced down Gwenevere's spine, before being burned away by feverous rage. That was, unless the person who found it was a heretic. A thief. The thief, who had been occupying this tower for years. The runaway ground her teeth, as the realization finally dawned on her.

"That night...it was you who took it..."

***

The warm tickles of enchanted sunbeams danced and played upon her cheeks, as Gwenevere looked up through the verdant green treetops, and smiled to herself. She had always adored the spring portion of the Maw, because it granted her a solace not found anywhere else. Though the frigid gales of impending winter howled, the world dismal and frostbitten, this place remained forever green. Forever warm, and joyful. It had been many years, since last she'd come to this place seeking refuge. Few cityheads dared travel this far into the woods, and even fewer survived the trek. But this place was no more dangerous to Gwenevere, than a placid meadow of poppies.

However, even the serenity of this magical woodland world could not keep the remorse and heartbreak from the child's mind. It had been fifteen years now, since she'd left this place. Not of her own volition, but rather the wicked promises of man's lying tongue, and the cruel iron chains that bound her still. Ever since then, there was no nature, no song. No warmth of bonfires, nor raucous and familiar bouts of song that always lasted long into the night. Even now, the forest was still, demure. The Pagans, were hiding. But to what end, the girl could not decipher.

Trembles found her hands, as Gwenevere gripped her father's blade tighter. How would they respond, when at last they saw her again? The girl creature had long ago come to the disquieting conclusion, that they must have proclaimed her dead. If not, then what had the woodsie folk made of her disappearance? After all, she was but a child when Lord Simmons had spirited her from this place.

Gwenevere ran her hand over the cool moss of a decomposing log. The forest had healed beautifully since that horrible night. An outsider would never have suspected the bloody terrors which had overwhelmed this place more than a decade before. Screams of both animal and man, rock and tree. Distorted mineral, shaped and corrupted to destroy the very earth which had first given it life.

The canopy above shifted, sending a flurry of petals down into Gwenevere's ruby tresses, as she continued her stroll. Birds and small rodents darted amidst the shadows of the brush, picking at berries and fretting over their colorful plumage and coats. Their chatters and chirps resounded throughout the lower half of the spring village, filling the ligneous greensie kingdom with song.

But all creatures fell silent, when they spotted the estranged girl making her way ever forward upon placid toes. When she at last reached the mouth of an ancient spring, Gwenevere too began to startle. Breath caught in her throat, while something akin to dread began to creep up her spine like nocturnal insects. Bracing herself for the unspeakable, the girl clutched her father's sword tighter against her chest, and turned around.

What stood hulking yet hunched before her, was neither man nor beast. But rather, ligneous in nature. Twisted roots, near black in coloration made up most of its frightening frame, thorns curling over ligaments and branches darting outward like sinister claws. It leaned towards her, its body creaking and groaning beneath the heavy bulk of boughs and roots. Beneath a tangled mass of rotted moss and cobwebs, Gwenevere could see two eyes gleaming a vibrant yellow in the shadow of the tall trees. Though logic demanded otherwise, recognition prevailed. For the young woman did not fear this creature. His kind were a warm and reassuring sight, like relatives from afar who were seldom seen, but always anticipated. Reaching forward without hesitation, Gwenevere touched one of the great wooden horns jutting skyward from the earthen nightmare's head. And slowly, its eyes began to close.

"Elder Treebeast...I have returned," she whispered, as the tears filled her eyes.

Time slowed to a stagnant crawl, as the sentient tree opened its menacing eyes and faced her. There was something horrific and ancient within that sickly saffron light. Gwenevere felt petrified, wooden herself in lieu of what she was witnessing. Before her, stood a creature older than the City itself, or any of the other great marvels the Hammerites held claim to. This was a creature who had seen much death, and even more destruction. He had been there during the first cataclysm, fought alongside her ancestors as they slaughtered their sanguine-clad enemies. And now, he stood before her, wrought with a sensation of utmost betrayal and heartache. Only four guttural words echoed beneath the gnarled mass of branches and vines, but they caused the girl before him much unrest.

"No. You have not."

Gwenevere recoiled from the treebeast, her father's blade beginning to rattle against her chest in response to her constant shaking. She knew what this ancient sentinel meant, and she regretted that he was correct. How long, must they have been waiting, only to watch as she chose manfools over the Vine?

"That is to say, I have come to return father's sword to the people," Gwenevere corrected her previous statement. The treebeast made a strange gurgle within his chest, the sound reminiscent of growing roots crumbling stone. Silence permeated the forest for a moment, as the creature pondered what should be done next.

In truth, he hadn't expected her to return at all, and certainly not like this. Fifteen years, she'd been missing from this paradise, and the consequences of living amongst the disbelievers, was staggering indeed. Already, she had learned to lie, and far better than any of her kind before. They were allowed to lie, even encouraged to do so. But always in service of the Vine, in service to him. Never, directly to the forest. What was worse, the child apparently had no plans of even returning to this place.

The treebeast groaned again--a loud, resounding outcry, before looking Gwenevere over. The luster of the Woodsie was still luminous within her eyes. Within her soul. In time, perhaps, he could convince the child to reevaluate her ambitions.

Feeling nervous by this tension, Gwenevere proceeded to offer the blade to the creature.

"H-here...go ahead and take it back to them. I know your kind guards them, and protects my mother's temple. M-maybe you could put it in there? I think she would want that..."

Again, a twinge of optimism prickled at the treebeast's timber heart. If she still aspired to fulfill her mother's wishes, if the legacy she held within her quaking arms still posed value to her, then perhaps...

Wood creaked, as the guardian of the forest lumbered towards her upon heavy, root-like limbs. His form was more menacing beneath the shadows of the ancient trees, many of them his distant ancestors. But unlike they, he had been given sentience through the Woodsie Lord, a purpose beyond that which his leafy brethren could ever understand in their mindset of perpetual silence.

Thin brown tendons extended from the treebeast's fearsome boughs, and took up the macabre ebony blade. Gwenevere's eyes widened in stunned surprise, as he pressed the hilt against her palm, before closing her fingers around the base with genuine candor. She stared upwards at him, true confusion evident within her frightful and innocent features. But the great beast, merely smiled.

"Keep it close, and learn to wield it," he ordered. "There is a great deal more power within that blade than you realize. In time, it may come to do more good outside the forest than within. And the same holds true for you, young seed."

"W-what?" Gwenevere shuddered.

The beast's great bulk heaved and creaked, as he contorted himself forward. Leaning his great head down, until it was level with her own. So large and formidable was he, that his mighty horns could have impaled her without a moment's difficulty. Thankfully, the treebeast's only intentions for this girl, were benevolent. For this was his instructed duty. The very reason for his creation.

"Though I do not yet understand why you choose to remain within that Hammerite graveyard, I can see that your intentions are pure. Your heart longs for retribution, though not through blood or murder. There is something clever about you, child."

Gwenevere blushed.

"Gee, thanks," she shrugged her shoulder, brushing a strand of ruby hair from her eyes. "Nobody's ever called me that before. Most people think I'm stupid--or worse."

"Manfools often mistake that which they cannot understand as dangerous, or foolish. This has been so, since the dawn of time," the treebeast clarified. "But we, are not so easily tricked by outward appearances or pretty words, child. I see what you really are. Who, you really are."

The soft pink blush which had danced so gaily across Gwenevere's cheeks, dissipated into pallid terror as the rumbling sentinel conveyed these sinister truths to her. With a gulp, she took a deep breath, and started to back away from him.

"You...know?" she gasped, feeling as her backside met with the base of a large tree. She watched as its sentient counterpart continued to grin. The expression seemed more unsettling than reassuring, when placed within the uneven, thorny maw of such a terrifying woodland nightmare.

"There is no reason to flee, nor to fear," he reassured her. "Creature born of chaos and tree, you alone choose what to be."

"W-whatever do you mean?" Gwenevere crooked her head. "Why are you rhyming?"

"There are a myriad of crossroads and paths in this lifetime, and answers are such precarious things. Rarely easy, and often difficult to discover. But I encourage you to hunt for them, young seed. Take the lonesome path into the abyss, child. For it is only through our determination, or desperation, that we discover life's most well-guarded answers. And when at last you have reached your decision, I will honor it."

In all honesty, Gwenevere was awestruck. It hadn't been the treebeast's imposing size, or formidable appearance which unnerved her, but rather, his chilling composure. The elder beast knew well what she was, yet he courted her interest in returning to the city with optimum decorum. The green-eyed maiden was not so oblivious, however. Even as she stood there beneath that lush canopy, Gwenevere could sense that the forest was suffering. She could smell the stench of terror and rot all around her, like a noxious vapor, rising from a foundry smokestack. The Pagans, needed her. The Woodsie itself, cried out in muffled whimpers for her return. Yet the stoic ancient before her, gave the girl creature's own desires precedence. But whether this was out of respect or obligation, she could not say.

"I have not forgotten what I am, or where I come from. And I promise you, I never will," Gwenevere clarified, her tone meek yet somehow adamant. "I may yet return to this place one day. But right now, there are still things in the city that I need to do."

Her fair response, seemed to placate the creature.

"Then I shall pray for a satisfactory conclusion. One, that shall benefit both our causes," he affirmed. "Now come. You should see your mother's magnum opus while you're here."

***

Shimmering like a beacon through the silver leaves, stood the decaying remains of an old Pagan temple. Gwenevere stared up at the enormous moss-covered ruin, completely breathless. She remembered the structure as being quite large, but that had been so many years ago. Standing now beneath the majestic dwelling, the young woman could now see that it was monolithic. Its coal-black sandstone design was illuminated by the gentle sunlight, while thick beds of moss and ivy tactfully went about preserving the sacred monument. Gwenevere pressed her hands against the large stone doors, smiling at how cool and comforting they felt. Behind her, sauntered up the elder treebeast.

"Forgive me, greensie seed," he apologized, his ligneous body moaning under pressures both physical and metaphorical, "this place will be in a state of chaos upon your entry. None has come here, since the night your mother died."

Gwenevere offered nothing in response, save for a shrill and hitched little sob which she suspected only she could hear. Pain and lament flooded his sappy innards, as the creature watched her frail hand falter, sliding down the door like that of a lifeless cadaver. Even if this estranged daughter of the Green no longer called this magnificent world her home, she apparently still held precious memories of this place. Perhaps, there was indeed still a chance to call her home. With another loud creak, the treebeast proceeded to press upon the weathered doorframe, and ushered her inside.

"Please, young seed. Pray follow."

The inside of the temple was a remarkable sight for either man or beast. Not an ounce of magic had been spared in the creation of this marvel. Thick, green vines arched and coiled around the ceiling like living art, while rare carnivorous flowers of diverse colors accentuated the outlines of these thick, creeping greens. A dim, natural light flooded down through a carved eye in the ceiling, casting a rather haunting design onto the great stone altar below. Similar patterns dappled the walls around her, giving Gwenevere the alarming sensation of being forever watched.

Built as a conduit for earthen magic, and secrets of the Vine, Gwenevere's mother had constructed this place after the death of her cherished friend and teacher. A place, where she could always come in her darkest hour, and pay homage to all he had done for her. All he had taught her. From the ashes of tragedy and heartache, grand things can arise. This was the lesson passed down from mother, to child. Gwenevere wondered, if her devotions to Garrett would result in a similar demonstration of fealty and gratitude in due time. Though she doubted herself capable of ever constructing him any sort of temple.

But after learning that Garrett had indeed been the one to pilfer her father's sword, she wasn't exactly ecstatic over the possibility. Gwenevere knew her mother had endured terrible disagreements with her own mentor, though the details remained unknown. Furious and hurt though she was, neither the young woman's respect nor appreciation for the thief or his teachings had been tarnished. Perhaps it was her abundant naivety, but Gwenevere still held to the belief that she and Garrett would eventually overcome this. Then, perhaps one day, he too would become a cherished friend. Bestow upon Gwenevere great wisdom and confidence, as her mother's teacher had once done for her. That, was the hope which kept the girl going, moving ever deeper into darkness.

Gwenevere continued to keep pace with the hardwood behemoth, her shoes sinking into the supple carpet of moss with each step. The treebeast swayed on ahead, dead leaves crunching beneath his tangled wooden toes. When he reached the leaden stone alter, he paused, and waited for the girl.

"The cityfools treat these structures far differently than we, do they not?" the treebeast asked over his shoulder, his tone nonchalant. "Always filled to capacity and sound, rather than a place for diminutive gatherings, and silent memory."

"Well, you know what they say," Gwenevere grinned. "Humans are pack animals."

"Indeed..." the treebeast sighed.

Leaves rustled in the wind outside, as a warm breeze wafted its way through the spring village. Gwenevere stared down at her feet, then directed her eyes upward to admire the patchwork of vines and flowers covering the temple ceiling. A squirming from deep within her stomach, prompted the redhead to eye the ligneous beast once more.

"Why did you bring me back to this place, if you don't want the sword back?" she inquired. "I mean, don't get me wrong--it's wonderful to see mother's memorial again. But...why share such a beautiful memory with me, when you know I'm not staying to do as you wish?"

The treebeast remained hunched over the alter, his back facing her. It was coated in a thick layer of hairy brown moss, and strange white mushrooms. Deep growls began to rumble from somewhere deep within his throat, as the ancient one ran his talons over the base of the stone. A horrible screech resounded throughout the temple, and Gwenevere cringed, nearly dropping her father's blade.

"Forgive me," the creature apologized for his outburst. "I know what was said. I admitted to making my peace with your decision, even encouraged it. But in truth, I am still very troubled by all of this."

"All of what?" Gwenevere asked.

"When first I spied you galivanting through this place, your father's forsaken weapon in tow, I believed you here to liberate us from the scum Hammerites."

"I'm sorry, but I am nothing like my father," Gwenevere admitted in a disquieting tone, "and I could never lead anyone to freedom. I wasn't even able to procure my own freedom without help. Even now, I am being hunted."

"By he who first stole you from this place?"

"Yes. He holds power over me still. A relic, which prevents me from taking form and slaughtering him where he stands," Gwenevere explained, an obvious dread coating her words. "He wants my blood--my very life--for...something. I can't quite wrap my head around what his end goal is. But rest assured, it's really, really bad."

"Then why, child? Why remain within that stony world at all? Come home to us!"

"If I came home, Simmons would bring his wrath and violence in here after me."

"Let him come. We, are ready this time."

"Then why do you need me to liberate you?" Gwenevere retorted, a glint within her eyes. "No. I said I have work to do in the City, and I meant it. You said you respected my choice, yet all you have done since bringing me here, is try and dissuade me!"

"For that, I am grievously sorry. But perhaps if you understood your role in all of this, then--"

"--I never asked for this!" she screamed, tears streaming from her eyes like blood. "I never asked to be born as this...this thing!"

"Woodsie one? Whatever do you mean?"

"What do you think it means?! Why do you think I hide so, behind this human skin? It's because I want to be one of them! I want to help them," Gwenevere sobbed. "I hate what I am inside!"

"But the Pagans--"

"--The Pagans have you. They have apebeasts, craybeasts, and many more powerful creatures to safeguard them from future harm," she countered. "The city goers have a corrupted government, and unfair living conditions. Many don't even get enough to eat! Tell me, creature: When was the last time you've ever seen a Pagan go hungry?"

Her words rendered the proud beast just as mute as his oak and sycamore brethren. Gwenevere continued to preach, though in a much calmer voice.

"The forest and its people are strong, diligent. They can survive without my help, at least for a while. But the poor who remain trapped within the darkest places of that city...they won't."

"Forgive me, Woodsie One. Far be it from I, to attempt to shift your decisions," the wooded sentinel croaked.

"Thank you, for understanding," Gwenevere nodded, gratitude lustrous within her deep green eyes.

"Make no mistake, child. I do not understand," the treebeast corrected. "But I accept your decree, all the same."

Gwenevere remained silent, feeling as the ground began to shift with life beneath her feet. This encounter had become uncomfortable, and the girl creature wanted to flee. But something held her there, rooting her down and preventing her mouth from screaming. At last, the branches of the elder tree came down, prying her fingers open. Then, the ligneous beast deposited something spherical and cold within her palm. As his great boughs pulled away, Gwenevere's pupils contracted in wonder as they acknowledged the forgotten object within.

The grand creature of wood and magic leaned forward, until the jutting edges of his deadly maw brushed against Gwenevere's brow, ruffling her messy red bangs.

"Do you remember?" his voice rumbled, vibrating against the girl's forehead, tickling her repressed memories.

"Yes...of course I do. I could never forget..." her voice was muted, sorrowful. As if the very sight of this luminous round gemstone had awakened a world of lament within her very soul. And, in many respects, it very well had.

Flashes of green light, augmented by the flutter of dark leaves and twining branches. Laughter, as she bobbed and chattered upon the burly shoulders of a painted huntsman. Watching as her tears collected upon lotus petals, when word had reached her ears of that trusted friend's demise. Vines softening from deadly, blood-stained branches to hold her close to a wild, yet nurturing mother. A cacophony of shrieking apebeasts and feral roars, as that mother lead her strongest warriors against metallic demons.

Tears streamed from Gwenevere's eyes like sappy blood, as these faded recollections were loosened from the darkest recesses of her mind. She hadn't forgotten, like some hapless maiden in denial. She had locked them away, purposeful in her intent to never again return to that horrible time. But after finding her father's blade, fate had demanded her return to this place. The treebeast gurgled, caressing her cheek with one of his mossy tendrils.

"I did not mean to upset you this grievously, dear seed," he apologized. "But you must know why my need for your return is so great. The Mechanists are still about, as are the Hammerites. The baron himself now wishes to exterminate the forest, razing both its people and this land to the ground if necessary."

Gwenevere wiped her eyes, and clutched the stone tighter within her hand.

"I will help you. I promise," she whispered. "Mother would want that, too."

"Indeed she would, child," the twisted creature confirmed with a deep moan.

"After I help the humans back in the City, I shall return to this place and help you," Gwenevere promised, tucking the devious blade away within her belt.

***

Gwenevere emerged into daylight, clutching the glimmering orb within her trembling hand. In a past long since forsaken, she had known this object as the Woodsie Emerald, although its attributes were more of glass than gemstone. There had been several others, used as protective conduits by the Pagan folk. Glowing green spheres brimming with an enigmatic, calming green light. This, was perhaps one of the largest surviving.

Before the Mechanists had come, spreading death and destruction throughout the forest, these artifacts had been numerous. However, most were smashed on that awful night, or otherwise lost in the heat of the chaos. Those which managed to survive, had been carefully locked away within the temple depths, only to be retrieved for certain spells or ceremonies. The tree beast's gift, had been an attempt to safeguard Gwenevere from that treacherous realm she longed to return to. But whether the orb's ancient magic was enough to do so, only time would tell.

The vivacious green nature magic within the, 'emerald' bloomed and danced at her touch, as Gwenevere continued to stare at the object with discerning, wondering eyes. The sword loosely tucked between her belt and dress jangled as she walked, the wicked curves of its stark silver hilt the only thing keeping it from slipping free. The elder treebeast, believed she was stronger than this. He must have, to allow her to not only keep the blade, but to also offer this rarified stone for her protection. One as wise and primal as he, did not invest in a weak soul. Such as the way of most Pagan creatures and humans. Nature herself dictated this attitude of dooming the weak or foolish to death, in favor of more aspiring life. But Gwenevere, did not view herself as worthy. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps once Garrett had trained her, perhaps once she had saved the City--

"--What am I going to do with you?" a miffed voice called from above, causing Gwenevere to stumble. She felt a rush of warm air sweep past her face, and felt as the Woodsie Emerald was ripped from her hand.

"H-hey!" she exclaimed, grinding her teeth as she surveyed the forest for her treasure.

She spun around, and nearly collided with Garrett. The thief stood before her, his face empty and dark. The verdant orb was clutched within his gloved hand, and a firm look of unpleasantness was spread wide across his face. Gwenevere covered her mouth to stifle a shriek, only to fall backwards into a berry patch.

"G-Garrett?! What are you doing out here?" she stammered, berry juice coating her hands and legs from the fall.

Garrett smirked at the absurd scene, as he bounced the green orb within his hand.

"I'd like to ask you the same question," he muttered, his smug expression crumbling into a scornful sneer.

#fantasy_forest #thief_fanfiction #drama_fantasy_story #fantasy_story #Thief_Garrett

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pixichi · 7 years

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Stealth and Witchcraft Cp.13

The full moon was pale ivory that night, shimmering like a crystalized beacon against the frozen sea of stars. Garrett sat in focused silence, staring pensively at the map in front of him. Looking Glass Jewelers. It had been years since he had broken into that place, thus the newly updated map he had procured. The shop had since installed a series of air shafts, and the thief was intending to use them to his full advantage. Quill in hand, he began to mark his intended route through that maze of iron shafts and updated security systems. Two more days remained until he would pilfer every round and lovely bauble from within that place. Garrett wasn't the least bit concerned over this upcoming heist. What did trouble him, however, was the job to follow. From across the room, he could hear Gwenevere. In just a few short days, the real work would begin. Garrett had always enjoyed a good challenge, but molding that graceless tart into anything remotely comparable to a real thief? Now that, was going to be tricky. He glanced over at the girl, annoyed by all the ruckus she was making. How she managed to make so much noise with so little around her had always been an absolute mystery. The thief turned to look at her as her struggles and grunts of frustration grew more obnoxious. "Stop it," he demanded, in a level, uninterested voice. Gwenevere spun around, causing her short skirt to momentarily ride up her thighs, revealing more of them than she had ever intended. Seeing this, Garrett abruptly turned away, shielding his eyes with his hand. Or rather, concealing the slight blush that the sight of her forbidden flesh had caused to dart across his unsuspecting face. "Garrett? Am I bothering you?" she asked in that whiny, yet inexplicably enduring tone. "Yes, you're bothering me!" he snapped. "What have I told you about that outfit? Just because you're not on a job, doesn't mean you should be wearing that." "My outfit?" Gwenevere's eyes grew wide. "But the new one got all dirty! It's being washed right now. And besides, I like this outfit! It's pretty." Garrett looked down at his map again and scowled. She could say that again. "Isn't it just a little uncomfortable?" he asked, projecting more than a few of those strange, nagging emotions he had been feeling towards the young Simmons runaway. Gwenevere giggled. "Of course not, silly! It's silk!" she stepped away from whatever she had been doing, and marched right up to the situated thief. "See? Feel how soft it is," she offered, holding out the rim of her skirt for Garrett. He retained his discomfort. "I'd rather not. There'd be no point to it." "But why does everything need to have a point?" Gwenevere cocked her head. "I just want you to touch it. Why can't you at least humor me a little?" "Because," Garrett finally looked up at her, "that's not the sort of thing a thief should be wearing." The young woman pondered this for a moment, looking up at the ceiling of the clocktower. Her index finger was planted against her bottom lip. "Well, what should I be wearing then?" she asked. Garrett glowered up at her. Now, she was just seeking attention, and it was painfully obvious. "You already know the answer to that, Gwenevere. Something dark. Something comfortable and easy to move in. Being a thief is about not getting caught. That harlot outfit, is for the exact opposite purpose." He could feel himself growing leery of her effect on him once more. "So, I should dress like you!" the young woman chirruped. "In a matter of speaking..." Garrett grumbled. Gwenevere went quiet, the first inklings of a new idea beginning to take form within her playful mind. Then, she asked the fateful question. "Can I try your cloak on again?" The thief gaped up at her in unwavering disbelief, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. "What?! No, of course not!" he snapped. "Why would you even consider asking me that?" Gwenevere appeared hurt for a moment, but she quickly grew jovial again as her new idea began to flourish and grow. Branching paths, and new and exciting outcomes were beginning to take root. "Garrett, how come you never take it off of your own volition?" "I do. When I'm asleep," he responded gruffly. "But, we're inside now. There's no rain, or guards, or anything. C'mon! Just take it off!" she urged, taking a step closer. There was now a lustful twinkle in her eyes, and it disturbed the thief greatly. "No," Garrett refused, the word icy and blunt as it left his mouth. But Gwenevere's playful side was extra powerful that night, and she wasn't about to take no for an answer. "Lemme see that sticky-outie hair of yours again!" she demanded with a giggle. Garrett was flabbergasted. He struggled to get out of his chair, but the young woman side-stepped him and reached for the dark hood. He sharply pushed her hand away. "Back off, brat!" The candlelight danced and flickered across Gwenevere's fiery locks as she reached out, and tugged at the hood with her other hand. Once again, Garrett fought to deflect her. "Come on! It looks so soft and warm. Just let me wear it for one night!" "No!" he shouted, slapping her hands away. Gwenevere recoiled, her eyes glassy and wide as she proceeded to rub her hands together. "B-but...i-it's so cold Garrett..." she whimpered, her teeth beginning to chatter a bit. The thief's harsh gaze locked up at her pitiful words, leaving him temporarily blindsided. His hardened features thawed into an expression of great surprise. And perhaps, even a dash of pity. "Gwenevere, why didn't you tell me you were cold?" he asked, concern seasoning his every syllable. "If I'd known, then maybe I--" "--Gotcha!" she cheered, dropping her ruse and lurching forward to tug at the hood again. Unfortunately, it was still attached to a long billowing cloak--and Garrett was sitting on that at the moment. The weight difference between Garrett and Gwenevere caused her actions to drag her down as the hood refused to come free. Garrett tensed, as the young woman did a rather clumsy faceplant into his chest. That was when the chair topped over, sending them both to the floor. Instantly, the harsh landing was disrupted by something far more shocking. Thief and noble lay there, staring at each other in blatant shock. Gwenevere's lips parted, her face almost glowing from her bright red blush. Garrett stared up at her with a similar expression. His hood was off, leaving his messy dark brown hair visible. "I'm..." Gwenevere started, trying to apologize. But she was breathing far too heavily for any words to come eking out. She felt Garrett twitch beneath her. She couldn't tell if he was trying to dislodge her, or something else. Regardless, he still refused to speak. Her eyes were large, glassy green saucers against a backdrop of low candlelight. They bore into the thief, completely captivated. Smitten beyond any reprieve. As much as she didn't want to, Gwenevere hesitantly slid her body off of his, and stood. She offered a hand to Garrett, along with an apologetic little smile. "You okay?" she grinned. Garrett sat up, and hastened to tug the hood back over his hair. "I'm fine!" he barked, standing on his own. "No thanks to you!" Gwenevere's smile crumbled into a disappointed frown. "I'm sorry," she pleaded. "I didn't mean to make you fall, or...or to upset you. I just wanted to play!" "You're too old for that nonsense! How the hell do you expect to become a disciplined vigilante, if you can't even repress such childish urges?" the thief chastised her. He turned the chair back upright, and took a seat. His bi-colored eyes scanned over his new maps, whilst his sharp features remained flustered and aggressive. Gwenevere cleared her throat. "I mean it! I'm really, really sorry, Garrett!" she whined. Garrett rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger, quill still in hand. "I couldn't care less, Gwenevere," he sighed. "So why don't you go be sorry somewhere else? As always, you're bothering me." So, upon receipt of that heart shattering cruelty, Gwenevere lowered her head and retired to the Hammerite dormitories. Once she was gone, Garrett finally looked up from his work. He rubbed the small bump on his head that he had sustained from the fall, and groaned. Looking back down at the map, the thief sighed hard. Though he would never convey it directly, the expression on his face spoke volumes. He was sorry, too. *** On the day her training was to begin, Gwenevere was up long before the sun. She sat huddled in the darkness of that chilly abyss, contemplating the morning ahead from her favorite bend in the stairway. In her lap, sat a loosely-arranged sack of goods. Six apples, a pound of flour, and two containers of shoe polish. It was all she'd managed to swipe while Garrett yet slept. The streets were devoid of any vendors at that ungodly hour, and Gwenevere was still far too clueless to use a set of lockpicks this early in her training. Thus, it was the objects forgotten on porches or in crates, which were taken in the night by this dedicated little girl creature. Hours passed, and the girl's head bobbed and ducked as she struggled to stay awake. At some point, her heavy eyelids became too much to bear, and sleep finally succeeded in overtaking her. Through dreams of clambering up twisted black iron gates, and slinking down corridors lined with bright and gaudy wallpaper, something harsh and corporeal managed to shake Gwenevere from the depths of her slumber. "Gwenevere. Get up," Garrett's impatient voice hung like a dense mist over her, as Gwenevere's mind struggled against surreality. The world around her appeared to be smudged. She looked up at her mentor, and gave him a dopey smile. "Oh. Good morning, Garrett." "Morning? It's three in the afternoon, Gwenevere," the criminal frowned. "Oh, that's nice," she whispered, her eyelids beginning to droop again. Garrett jostled her shoulder, with more force than before. Gwenevere's eyes flew open, and something between a gurgle and a groan exited her mouth. "Are you up for this, or not?" he demanded. Gwenevere blinked. "Hmm? Up for what?" "Your training," the thief stretched the word, trying to sound as patronizing as possible. "I told you we'd start today, did I not?" At the very mention of her training, Gwenevere snapped to attentiveness. "Oh yeah! How could I have forgotten that?!" she shook her head with a smirk. Reaching into the bag between her legs, the young woman produced one of her stolen apples, and handed it to Garrett. The thief stared at the ripe red fruit as though it had grown lips and begun speaking to him. "Why are you giving me this?" he asked, perplexed. Gwenevere appeared confused. "I thought students were supposed to give apples to their teachers?" she replied. Garrett snatched the apple away from her hand, and gave the girl a stern look. "Once again, and say it with me: You are not my student," he groused. "Well I brought you an apple all the same!" she trilled. Garrett said nothing, as he began polishing the sweet red fruit upon his cloak. Although he'd never outright admit it, he did love apples. "You wanna get started now?" Gwenevere began to bounce up and down with glee. She stood from the staircase, saluting the thief with a big smile upon her face. "Yes sir, mister Garrett sir!" Garrett crooked an eyebrow at her. "Sir?" he scoffed. "Garrett is just fine. Formalities are for YOUR kind. Now come on." He motioned for the girl to follow him deeper into the tower. Gwenevere skipped merrily behind him, looking around at the still gears and rotting planks. Garrett pushed aside a tattered Hammerite banner, to reveal a small study just beyond. Atop a rather rickety wooden table, sat a pair of stone cups and platters. Each were filled with an assortment of cheap food, ranging from dried meat, to small slices of carrot and potato. "Sit down and eat," Garrett ordered. "You'll need your energy for training. Especially since it looks like you didn't get too much sleep last night." Gwenevere cringed at little at the meager portions in front of her. She took a cautious sip from her cup before answering him. "I did sleep, at least," she murmured. Garrett stared at her as he sat. "Maybe it's for the best," he confirmed. "You'll be needing to abandon that diurnal lifestyle of yours if you're gonna be out all night." Gwenevere began picking at the morsels on her plate, toying with the hard strip of meat before gulping it up. The gamey, salty flavor almost caused her to gag outright. Garrett fought to conceal a sparse smirk as he chewed his own fare without incident. "Like it?" he asked. "Not particularly," Gwenevere moaned. "What IS this?!" "Dried meat," the thief responded in a snarky tone. "I gathered that, but what sort of animal is it from?" the doe-eyed maiden clarified. Garrett shrugged. "Damned if I know. It was free, and easy to carry," the hooded rogue cut into one of his potatoes, "here's a quick lesson for you: Take what you can, and don't be stingy. Thieves can't afford to be picky eaters, Gwenevere." "Well, could you at least steal something palatable?" the disgusted girl smacked her lips, trying desperately to get the dreadful taste out of her mouth. "Now that's gratitude for ya," her mentor groused. "I go and even the score, and this is how you respond?" "What score?" Gwenevere's expression was one of abject confusion. "You stole breakfast for me that one time," Garrett replied, shoving a bite of potato into his mouth. For a moment, the girl just stared at him. She'd been living with this man for almost two weeks, and yet she still had yet to understand how he functioned. Garrett's world seemed to be a constant jumble of debts and favors, a loveless and harsh existence wherein nothing was ever endearing or free. And while Gwenevere could at least understand such an outlook, she was still having much difficulty wrapping her mind around one thing: Even if kindness was a nonexistent luxury for the thief, surely, he at least knew what it was? Garrett was, after all, one of the most intelligent and methodical creatures Gwenevere had ever chanced upon. "I didn't do that so you would owe me a meal," she spoke in a concerned, worried voice. "I did it out of kindness." "I don't need your charity," Garrett grunted through a mouthful of food. Gwenevere pouted, pushing the veggies around her plate with her fork. Some of them were discolored, others had lost their form completely, resembling sludgy, multi-colored vomit. "Well, if you won't accept my gift, can we at least take turns stealing meals for one another?" she offered. "I'd rather not," Garrett remarked, wiping his mouth with the edge of his cloak. "It's too risky sending you out with all those bounty hunters sniffing for you. Besides..." He shot her an unnerved, yet knowing look. Gwenevere didn't get it. "Besides what?" she cocked her head. Garrett groaned. "Besides, you'd probably just steal cakes and pies and call it a meal." "Well, what's a matter with that?" she asked. "You're gonna get fat if you keep eating those things," the criminal stated callously. To his surprise, the girl merely shrugged. "Eh, small price to pay." "Thieves shouldn't be fat, Gwenevere." "Basso's a fat thief, and no one gives him grief for it," Gwenevere countered. Garrett glared at her, knife in hand. "Basso, is not a real thief. He's a fence. The lazy taffer hasn't done any successful fieldwork on his own since before you were born. Now shut up and eat." Gwenevere started to protest, but the fierce glimmer within Garrett's metallic eye silenced her. She begrudgingly began picking and nibbling at her lunch, smacking her lips and gagging every so often on the limp greenery, and poor cuts of mystery meat. "Close your mouth when you chew, Gwenevere," she heard the thief reprimand her. He then went on to outwardly wonder how a noble's girl could possibly possess such atrocious mannerisms. Gwenevere, took offense to that little jab. "Well, maybe I don't wanna be a noble's girl," she retorted. "Maybe, just maybe, I'm my own girl, and thus not defined by my environment or bloodline." "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that..." Garrett grumbled, taking a bite of the apple Gwenevere had given him. Immediately, her expression lit up. "Hey! My apple! You do like it!" she cheered. Garrett hastened to conceal the fruit back within the folds of his cloak. He glowered at Gwenevere, teeth clenched beneath taut and pallid lips. "I never said that!" he hissed. And Gwenevere, giggled even more. *** After lunch, Garrett began his first lesson. Taking her deeper than ever before into the very foundations of the clocktower, the thief ushered his charge to a locked doorway. There, he handed her a small leather-bound case. Gwenevere took the object, her hands trembling with anticipation. "What's this?" she questioned. "Open it and see," Garrett replied. And Gwenevere, did just that. Inside, were a pair of lockpicks. They winked and twinkled up at her in the low light. Gwenevere's eyes sparkled with joy, the eagerness and delight she felt within that moment incomparable to anything else she'd experienced within this murky city. Finally, she was moving towards her goal of becoming a vigilante. These unassuming metal tools, were her first step down what was destined to be a long and arduous road. But the young woman relished the journey ahead. She would do whatever was necessary, in order to liberate the downtrodden and destitute. To liberate herself. "Wow...G-Garrett..." she stammered, brushing a strand of red hair from her eyes. She then closed the case, and clutched it close to her heart. Beaming up at her teacher through overcome, gregarious emerald eyes. "Th-thank you so much!" "There's no need for such pleasantries," the thief groused. "These are necessary for the job, and that's it. So don't you go reading too much into it, okay?" "I won't," she smiled. Garrett turned his attention back to the locked doorway. "Now listen very carefully, Gwenevere. Like many things, lockpicking is a process. Each successful heist is just the completion of several, easier jobs. To become a successful thief--or in your case, vigilante, one must learn how to successfully perform a variety of different tasks." Gwenevere nodded, hanging onto his every word. Then, a sensation reminiscent of guilt threatened to engulf her, as she held those lovely lockpicks between her thin fingers. "Garrett?" she peeped. "Does this pertain to the lesson at hand?" he answered gruffly. Gwenevere shook her head, prompting the master thief to roll his eyes. "Then don't bother. This is neither the time nor place for idle chatter." "B-but I just wanted to apologize for my behavior as of late!" Gwenevere pressed. Garrett sneered down at her. "What?" The girl shuffled her feet, her disposition meek and hesitant to continue. When she finally summoned enough courage to meet his domineering gaze, Gwenevere's face was reminiscent of a guilty child's. "I-I'm sorry. About trying to take your hood off the other night, and causing you to fall," she bit her bottom lip, as cold dread began seeping into her veins. It warned her not to continue, telling her that some things could never be forgiven. But the vivacious creature chose to ignore the warning. "And...and I'm also sorry for when I asked about your eye. I know that really upset you, and not a day goes by that I don't feel guilty about hurting you. I wish I could take it back, but...but I can't..." His reaction, was far less intense than she'd feared. Garrett stared down at her through empty, unfeeling eyes, his face momentarily betraying the mixture of complicated emotions and scars that he always tried desperately to hide from others. Then, just when she was certain he wasn't going to continue, three simple words exited his thin, chapped lips. "Forget about it." "Garrett?" the girl's face twisted into a visage of concern. "Aren't you...angry about all that stuff?" "Do you want me to be?" he countered, paying more attention to the sealed metal door than her emotional turmoil. "No, I suppose not," Gwenevere bleated. "Well, then let's concentrate on today's lesson," he snapped. *** Gwenevere held the rough edges of the silver lockpicks between her fingers, gulping down a wad of bitter nerves. She could feel Garrett behind her, his smoky musk permeating her sensitive nostrils. His presence was making it difficult for her to concentrate; especially on a new and unknown task. Finally, with a disappointed groan, her mentor intercepted. "Do you need me to go over it again?" he patronized. "N-no Garrett! That's ok. I'm just..." she pondered over her situation again. The darkened keyhole before her seemed to be watching her through an invisible eye, taunting her almost as much as the cynical thief. "Then get started raking those pins!" he demanded with a snort. "What are pins?" Gwenevere asked. Garrett released an exasperated moan. "Pins are short pieces of metal of varying lengths which prevent a lock from opening without the correct key," he clarified. "Oh. So why don't we just steal the correct key instead?" she argued. Garrett just gaped at her cheery little expression. "How dumb are you?" he inquired bluntly. The girl batted her eyelids in puzzlement. "How exactly is asking a question considered dumb?" Gwenevere asked. "I mean, this isn't really common knowledge, ya know? It's like they say: There are no dumb questions, just dumb answers," she concluded that statement with a satisfied dip of her head. The thief rubbed his temples. Garrett had dealt with his fair share of difficult characters, but sometimes, Gwenevere was more than even he could take. That irritating cleverness of hers had caught him off-guard yet again. Unable or unwilling to admit that anything pertaining to lockpicking indeed wasn't common knowledge, Garrett deflected her words with another of his petty jabs. "No, Gwenevere. There are in fact, dumb questions. Usually, they're asked by dumb people. Or naÃ¯ve little princesses who've strayed too far from their respective castles." "Are you being mean because of what I did before? 'Cus I said I was sorry," the bubbly redhead frowned. Garrett scowled down at her. "I'm not being 'mean', Gwenevere. I am trying to teach you how to pick a lock. So, let's just get back to the lesson at hand, alright?" "Fine. Be like that," Gwenevere pouted. Garrett scratched the back of his cowl, wondering how in the world he was going to teach such a dense and sheltered kid like her anything. Never before had the prospect of returning a sackful of gold sounded so rewarding. Unfortunately, the master thief had long since spent every cent of Basso's bribe money. Hindsight, truly was a curse to live with. But as he continued to watch Gwenevere struggle and mull over the impossible task before her; as he witnessed her clueless and lost expression twist and intensify across her heart-shaped face, something inexplicable came over him. Perhaps it was mere stress, or even impatience which prompted Garrett's next actions. Or perhaps, it was something else entirely. "You know, this early in your training it's common for an apprentice to require assistance," he intervened. Gwenevere slowly turned her eyes upward to meet his. She gawked up at him from over her shoulder, her mouth hanging limply from her face. The moonlighter's unlikely empathy had rendered her speechless. "R-really? That would be great!" she stuttered. Garrett offered no further words, as he proceeded to lean forward against her back. His chin now rested just above Gwenevere's right ear. She gasped as his calloused hands took up her silky digits. The thief traced her tiny hands, sliding his fingers into place until they covered each of her own. Then, he began to press. "What are you doing?" she asked, both flustered and intrigued. "Just let them go limp..." Garrett murmured. His hot breath caught the edge of the girl creature's earlobe, causing her to shudder. Gwenevere felt as her entire face grew a wild shade of scarlet, and against her own desires and understanding, her body began to soften. Her fingers now dangled like limp vines against his own hands. Feeling this change, Garrett's eyes flashed, and he began his instruction. "You need to insert the straight tool here, and apply some pressure," he demonstrated, using the tension wrench in her left hand. Gwenevere's green eyes watched his demonstration, absorbing every visual into memory. "You do this in order to hold the pins in place." Gwenevere felt captivated, watching through astonished eyes. She felt such excitement, feeling as he worked fluidly through her. Garrett had to press firmly against her fingers and the handle of the picks in order to successfully demonstrate each technique, and at times it did get a tad uncomfortable. But Gwenevere didn't mind. The entire experience was far too enrapturing for her to mind. "Next, you need to determine which way the cylinder must be turned to unlock the lock," the thief continued. "I've commonly used this particular lock, so I already know which way you turn the key to open it. But I'm not going to tell you Gwenevere; that would ruin your training," he explained in a stoic, almost deadpan sort of way. "No fair!" she protested, shooting her mentor a flustered expression. Garrett glowered scornfully at her. "If you're going to be childish, we can stop right now," he growled. "Now listen: In the event that you don't know which way the cylinder turns, you can always use the tension wrench to apply pressure to it in either direction." "Oh?" Gwenevere appeared hopeful again. "Yeah. See, the cylinder will only turn a fraction of an inch or so before it stops. Try to feel the firmness of that stop. If you turn the cylinder the wrong way, the stop should feel very firm and stiff. If you turn it the right way, there should be a bit more give. The amount of pressure required will vary from lock to lock, and from pin to pin. So, this may require some trial and error," Garrett elaborated. "Start gently, though." "I see," Gwenevere nodded, chewing on her hair again. "Also, some locks, such as padlocks, will open regardless of which way the cylinder is turned." "Good to know." "Alright. I'm giving you your hands back, Gwenevere. Try to do it as I told you." Garrett released his hold on her, and took a step back. He crossed his arms and gazed upon his apprentice with pensive eyes, as she attempted to unlock the door. Gwenevere scrunched up her face in concentration, her little pink tongue poking past her lips as she began to work. Placing her right hand against the doorframe for support, she inserted and positioned the tension wrench. Next, she turned it to the left slightly, feeling as the pressure intensified. Obviously, that was the wrong way. This time, she turned the wrench right, feeling as the cylinder gyrated a bit before the tension increased. "I think I found the right direction, Garrett!" she cheered. Garrett's solemn eyes danced. Indeed, she had. Gwenevere continued to look up at him, awaiting further instruction. "Do I take it out now?" "No. Once all the pins inside the lock have been picked, the tension wrench will then be used to turn the cylinder and open the lock," he explained. Gwenevere nodded, watching as Garrett took control of her hands a second time. "I'm assuming you're right handed, given the way you position yourself and such?" "Um, yes..." the girl muttered, feeling a tad overwhelmed at having him so close to her. Although she didn't quite understand why. "As I thought," Garrett muttered, sticking the half-diamond pick into the keyhole. "You'll use the betty here, to do most of the work. Once the pick is inside the keyhole, you should be able to press up and feel the individual pins with the tip. You should be able to push them up and feel them spring back down when you release the pressure. Identify which one is the hardest to push up on. If they're all very easy to push up, then turn the tension wrench more to increase the pressure. If one won't go up at all, ease the tension until you can push it up. Later in your training, I'll show you how to rake the pins instead. There are certain situations in which this may work better." When Garrett had concluded his wordy instruction, he once again encouraged Gwenevere's hands forward. Pressing upward on each pin, Gwenevere was able to feel little differences with each one. The pins towards the back were much tighter, she found. So, as per Garrett's advice, she worked these last, easing and increasing the tension as needed. A time or two, her hand slipped, causing all of her tedious work to come undone. From behind her, the thief would release subtle groans and frustrated mutters, but his disappointment only fueled the girl onward. Aside from the kindly maid, Olaura, not one person had believed Gwenevere capable of anything noteworthy. And Gwenevere, was determined to prove them all wrong. She would save this city, she would liberate herself from Simmons forever, and find her people at long last. Then, maybe then, she could finally discover why the lord of chaos had orchestrated her birth. Why Simmons wanted her blood so badly. Sweat was now trickling down Gwenevere's brow, as she struggled to unlock the door. And when it inevitably came, the sound of that beautiful click brought forth a sensation of unspeakable triumph. Her eyes luminous and proud, Gwenevere reached for the handle, and opened the large metal door with a loud, resounding screech. She looked back over her shoulder at Garrett, who was watching her through a pair of unimpressed, menacing eyes. "Garrett! Garrett, did'ja see?" she hopped up and down. "Garrett, I did it!" "Yeah, I noticed," he commented. "Not bad, for your first attempt." "Thank you..." Gwenevere blushed again. "But next time, try to get it open faster." His criticism caused the girl's cheeks to inflate with hot air, as she leered up at him. Garrett nearly chuckled at how ridiculous she appeared. "I'm going to start giving you a list of exercises to practice each day," he continued. This week, you are to practice picking locks, obviously." "So that's it then? That's all you're gonna teach me?" "For today, yes. Since someone slept in until three, our lesson had to be cut short. It's nearly nightfall, and us real thieves have places to be," Garrett retorted. Gwenevere made a face. "So, what am I supposed to do with the rest of the evening? I'm not exactly sleepy yet." "Why don't you start practicing with those picks I gave you then?" her mentor snapped. "After all, the clocktower's a big place. I'm sure you can find something to unlock around here." "You're tellin' me!" Gwenevere beamed, his dry wit restoring her positive attitude. "Did you know that there's a rickety old elevator down there?" "Yes, I'm well aware," Garrett's lips tightened in annoyance. "Anyway, to return to my original point, you should be able to find several training opportunities, even when I'm not around to instruct you." "For example?" Gwenevere craned her head to the side in bewilderment. The wily rogue thought for a moment before answering her, then began to grin. "Take the elevator and see if you can find something to open with those picks. There might even be some interesting stuff down there that I've forgotten about." "Yes," the girl bowed her head, feeling for her new pair of glinting metal picks. Opening another door without help would certainly prove challenging, but Gwenevere promised herself that she'd give it her very best shot. "I'll make getting those doors unlocked my number one priority, master." The thief stared at her as though Gwenevere had just sprouted wings and a tail when that simple word exited her lips. "What did you just call me?" he questioned, his eyes wide and baffled. "I called you my master," Gwenevere repeated herself. "Why?" "Well, it's just a matter of respect is all," she shuffled her feet, looking down at the floor in embarrassment. Respect. Now there was something Garrett wasn't in the least bit used to. Master thief though he was, the misanthropic rogue was far from admired. His heists and deeds were more infamous than revered, even among his fellow thieves. There was always someone attempting to outdo him, kill him, or pose as him in order to get hold of a score. Aside from the few passionate fans of his work, such as Basso or Jack Danger, Garrett was a mostly hated, envied man by his fellow lowlifes. Some considered him pretentious and arrogant, a rumor spanning back to his youth, when he'd refused to join the organized crime racket. Others, were merely jealous of his renowned successes. But then, there was everyone else. Those who either feared him as a wanted outlaw, or those who loved him simply because they did not know him. And there were a surprising number in the latter category. Whispers from Dayport all the way down to the East River, spoke of a hero, draped in robes black as night. Ballads composed by bards with far too much time and far too little talent, told tale of the enigmatic moonlight man, who had saved their poor city from ruin time and time again. Garrett had to wonder, if they would still sing his praises, if they indeed knew that their beloved savior, was one of the most wanted men in the entire city. He looked down at that whimsy-eyed maiden, adoration and candor thick within her cherubic features. As cynical as he was, it was beyond evident in that moment. Gwenevere, thought the world of him. Her gushing awe rendered him speechless, and silence passed like an unseen gale between their forms. When at last her bell-like voice permeated the surrounding haze, it nearly caused Garrett to jump. "You don't...have a problem with that, do you Garrett?" she whimpered, her eyes as round as saucers. Gleaming, like two fireflies in the darkness. Garrett hesitated before answering. "Actually, I do," he breathed heavily. "As I've told you before, calling me by name works just fine. There's no need to complicate things." "I see..." the young woman hung her head in crestfallen defeat. "Well, thanks for today. I'd better get to my room and stuff..." Gwenevere turned on her heel and started to head back towards the dormitories, when the thief called after her one last time. "Gwenevere?" She turned, looking up at him through dazzling green expectant eyes. "Yesh?" The moment her sparkling irises found his, Garrett felt his entire mouth go dry. Whatever meaningful sentiment he'd thought to covey, seeped between the folds of his mind like sand drawn back by an angry sea. Lost forever to the depths of his lament and ceaseless torment. As the initial words faded from his conscious memory, the thief defaulted to his usual greedy and callous nature. "If you do find anything of note down there, it's still mine. So don't go keeping your findings from me, got it?" "Yes master," the girl grumbled. When Garrett scowled down at her, Gwenevere quickly corrected herself, "I-I mean, yes Garrett..."

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pixichi · 7 years

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I will be the tree this year!!!

#thief_Garrett #Christmas_tree #Christmas #cute_Christmas_girl #lights

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pixichi · 7 years

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Stealth and Witchcraft Cp.12

SIMMONS FAMILY MANOR ONE WEEK AGO: The enraged footfalls of metal-clad guards overwhelmed Gwenevere, sending her quaking body into a frozen state of panic. The resounding echo within that claustrophobic hallway boomed within her skull, as gooseflesh began to erupt across her chilled flesh. The girl released a small whimper, at the very notion of these men finding her. A wrinkled, yet warm hand graced her cheek, coaxing the fretful girl back to the peril at hand. Gwenevere's eyes eased open, the visage of her most cherished handmaiden settling her chaotic nerves. "Child. I understand how very frightened you must be," the old woman crooned. Then, her weathered features grew firm. "But you must control yourself far better than this. Once you're out there, no one will be able to safeguard you as I have. You, will be responsible for your own survival." Gwenevere's eyes widened, before flooding with cold, bitter tears. She reached out for, and clutched Olaura's hands tightly. "Oh Nana," the girl creature whispered, "Are you sure I'm ready?" The kindly beldam smiled, sympathy lacing her lips and soft periwinkle eyes. Gwenevere's tears continued to flow, trickling down her cheeks and dripping onto both their hands. Olaura frowned, surprised by just how reluctant this child was to obtain true freedom. "Darling girl, I have taught you what little magic I know. How you choose to use these powers, will inevitably decide your fate." Gwenevere shook her head, causing the deep blue curtains shrouding them to flutter. "B-but Nan, I don't even know where to go once I'm out there!" she protested. Olaura clasped one of her young mistresses' frail shoulders, and squeezed. The adamant gesture prompted Gwenevere to settle again, and with all the hesitation of a timid child, she faced her guardian. There was now a faint hint of reluctance and trepidation within the old woman's expression, though it was apparent that Olaura was struggling to conceal it. As much as she did indeed desire to keep Gwenevere with her, realistically, the maid knew this was impossible. Simmons would eventually kill the girl if she stayed, and whatever weak spells the old crone still possessed would only delay this wicked desire for so long. No, the fact of the matter was clear: Gwenevere, did not belong in captivity. She needed, to be free. Her bloodline demanded it. Wild beasts, did not make good pets. But, they could be invaluable friends. "Listen to me, my dear," the elder began, her voice cracking as she handed Gwenevere a small indigo knapsack. "You may not understand right now, but you will. Goodbye, is just another hello, my dear. We will meet again one day, and on that glorious day, you will demonstrate all the strength and heart which I have always known you to possess." The withered maid pulled the trembling young girl into a warm, gentle embrace. A single greasy tear slid down her bedraggled, sagging cheek. Gwenevere hugged her tighter, her eyes squeezed shut as though to hide her innermost personal doubt. "But what if I can't do it, Nan?" she squeaked, "What if all I am--all I've ever been--is some tool to be used by one who possesses far greater power?" Olaura's fading eyes shimmered, stricken with pain by the innocent girl creature's wonderings. Simmons, had been far from the first wicked soul to believe such filth. To try and mold this wondrous being of infinite potential and spirit, into little more than a puppet with a singular purpose. Prying the girl tenderly away from her chest, the tired old woman stared Gwenevere dead in the eyes. "You, are nobody's tool, child," Olaura declared solemnly. "Only you, can decide your place in this world. There exists a myriad of possibilities for you beyond these manor gates, but if you choose to remain here with me--with Lord Simmons--then the only fate awaiting you, is death." Gwenevere's eyes grew wide, and she sniffled a bit. Her guardian was right, and she knew it. Even though the very notion of fleeing terrified her, deep down, staying here with Simmons terrified her even more. She knew the time was drawing near. She could not risk another sacrifice attempt. This time, there would be no interruption from a pair of misfortunate thieves. This time, the horrible ritual would be successful. Simmons and the Baron would get what they so coveted, and Gwenevere's short, miserable life would be snuffed out. Giving her handmaiden an accepting--albeit hesitant--dip of her head, Gwenevere wiped away her tears. "I...understand..." she whispered, her voice scratchy and timid, like the soft warble of a fretful dove. Olaura nodded, a look of pride replacing the fretful tears upon her weathered face. "I am pleased to hear that, my dear," she complimented, leaning forward. "Now, listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you: Go down into the lowest reaches of the City, where only those who have truly lost all hope reside. There, you must seek out a man named Basso. He'll be able to help you obtain the vengeance that you seek..." The old woman reached into the knapsack she'd handed to Gwenevere, and opened it. Inside, were packs of kept leaves and herbs, a pouch of unknown contents, and a rolled up parchment. Olaura grabbed the last item, and unfurled it for Gwenevere. "This map, should help you get there. But you will need to do some legwork in order to find Basso himself. He is a fence you see. A criminal. Ergo, he will not have his whereabouts posted somewhere for all the City to see," she explained. "Then how will I find him?" Gwenevere cocked her head, taking the map from Olaura's extended hand. "Ask around when you get there. I'm sure someone down in the slums knows exactly where you can find the man." Gwenevere listened intently, absorbing each word into her memory like a thirsty plant. Then, she began to frown. "How do you know all of this, Nan? How do you know that this Basso will help me?" she inquired. Olaura's eyes gleamed with a mysterious hint of power. "Because, you have something he desperately wants. Something men have been both curious and cautious about since the dawn of time." "And that is?" "Magic," Olaura winked. Without hesitation, the elderly servant pulled Gwenevere back into a long hug. She squeezed tighter than before, restoring the seepage from the emotional child's brilliant green eyes. Pulling back, Olaura's smile began to falter ever so slightly. "Now go," she ushered, her voice cracking as she reached the last word. The last syllables she would be speaking to the young maiden for a very long while. Wordlessly, Gwenevere did as she was bade. Opening the large window behind them, she looked downward into the dark foyer Â below. Long, thick vines shot forth from all corners of her body, temporarily giving the demure girl the appearance of something frightful. Using these newly-sprouted appendages, Gwenevere exited through the open window, and proceeded to shimmy down the side of the manor. Once on the ground, she rushed over to the towering sandstone walls surrounding Simmons' stately home. She repeated the process, climbing up rather than down this time. Once she reached the top, Gwenevere hesitated before descending back down the other side. She looked up at Olaura, tears still twinkling in her celadon eyes like starlight. She watched as her trusted guardian gave her a slow, reassuring nod, before disappearing down the opposite side. The City, and all the freedom and possibilities within, were waiting for her. *** THE CLOCKTOWER PRESENT DAY: Gwenevere was jostled from deep slumber by a pair of nimble hands giving her shoulders a rough shake. Still locked within a dreary stupor, the girl's eyes eased open to identify the source of the commotion. Immediately, she wished she hadn't. Her entire world appeared hazy, and even though Gwenevere knew she'd gotten a full night of rest, she still felt incredibly tired. Her body hurt, her head was throbbing, and there was a constant, vile churning of fluids within her gut. "Good. You're awake," a familiar voice grumbled, "took ya long enough..." Gwenevere rubbed her sore eye sockets, and squinted up at Garrett. The thief had his back to her, still draped in that long ebony cloak of his. Looking around her, the young woman realized that they weren't upstairs in the clock room, but rather further below in the old Hammerite dormitories. She recognized the piercing red tapestries forthwith. For some bizarre reason, they always filled the girl creature with unspeakable tenacity, and animosity. This sudden surge of emotions and recollection, brought forth an overpowering need to vomit. Scrambling for the chamber pot concealed beneath the bed, she held the rancid thing just below her chin, and emptied the fermenting contents of her stomach. Wiping her mouth upon her sleeve, she heard Garrett muttering to himself. Although she couldn't quite be certain, it almost sounded like, 'yep. Such a lady indeed...' When the thief did eventually turn around, he was holding something in each of his hands. Steaming mugs of what Gwenevere could only presume to be either coffee or tea. "Here. Drink this. There's a reason why the bluecoats are always so damn jumpy on night patrol..." Garrett smirked, handing her one of the beverage containers. Gwenevere took it graciously, her icy fingers soothed by the new source of warmth. As she began to sip, Garrett sat down on the cot across from hers. He began to drink his own brew, surveying the strange, hungover lass with pondering eyes. Basso was quite possibly one of the dumbest taffers Garrett had ever had the misfortune of knowing. But by some ludicrous jest--likely conjured up by a god or goddess with far too much time on their hands--the old boxman always grew incredibly cognizant--even downright insightful--when he was pickled. For as long as he'd known the man, Basso had always been an intellectual drunk. And for once, Garrett was adamant to make that work for him. If Gwenevere was going to be staying with him long term, the reluctant thief decided that he should at the very least figure out why she'd come into his world in the first place. In that respect--and that respect alone--Basso did in fact have a good point. "Uhhh...why do I smell like pee?" Gwenevere mumbled in a soft, tired voice. The girl sounded as though she hadn't slept in several days. "I'm sure Basso's hovel smells a lot worse..." Garrett answered. Gwenevere faced him with a worried expression. "W-what do you mean?" "Forget about it," the thief groused. It didn't concern him, and truth be told, Basso's home had never exactly smelled like a basket of roses. Garrett doubted his fence would even notice. Gwenevere paused for a bit, looking around the room they were in with dazed confusion in her eyes. "Garrett? Why are we in the Hammerite sleeping place again?" she at last inquired. "The dormitories?" he corrected, his cynicism at its pique after a sleepless night. "Look. I know you said that you like sleeping on the stairs for whatever reason, but I need my space. And so do you." Gwenevere's face contorted in disapproval. "But Garrett!" the girl started to protest, before her own outcry prompted the pounding in her skull to intensify. She flopped backwards onto the bed with a low moan of great discomfort. The sides of Garrett's mouth twitched upwards a little, as he watched his young apprentice clutch at her forehead and eyes. "Don't try to fight me on this, Gwenevere," the thief spoke, before taking another drink of his coffee. Then, with a reluctant smile, he added, "after all, you're pretty hungover." "No, I'm not," Gwenevere grumbled. "I'm laying on my back over here, not upside down!" "Uh-huh," Garrett mused, shaking his head at her ridiculous response. Sometimes, the thief genuinely couldn't tell if the girl was just that naÃ¯ve, or if she really was making some terrible attempt at a joke. This, was one such time. He looked around him, the scent of dry rot and wood oil permeating his nostrils within the forgotten bowels of that place. Old and forgotten though it was, the clocktower was nevertheless looking much nicer. Gwenevere's cleaning had returned the upper levels of the clock room to at least some semblance of tidiness. Something the creaky old husk hadn't been privy to ever since the Hammerite's forced departure. But even still, certain factors caused the thief to wonder. Queries and thoughts kept secret behind his stalwart glare. His hideaway seemed...somehow brighter in the recent weeks. Warmer even. The two figures sat in silence for a time, as a grand stare-down commenced between the jaded cynic, and the passionate idealist. But surprisingly, it was the former who would inevitably break this stalemate. "You uh...were mumbling something in your sleep last night, Gwenevere," Garrett cleared his throat. The girl sat back upright and blinked. She reached for her coffee cup again, and wisps of steam began tickling her sensitive nose. She sneezed, sending her messy bangs tumbling forward into her face. Garrett compressed his lips together, concealing a nearly inaudible scoff. Flushed, Gwenevere looked back up at him, brushing the strands of unkempt crimson from one of her wide, green eyes. "Sorry...it's so musty down here," she smirked. The thief, was unamused. When she realized that he wasn't about to participate in her attempted conversation, Gwenevere's face reddened even more. "Ummm...so, what exactly was I saying?" "Something about doing your best, or making someone proud. I don't know, something like that," the thief answered her, taking another sip from his cup. "Oh..." Gwenevere looked down at her teacup in deep shame, watching as the dark liquid reflected the tragedy and deep unrest looming within her eyes. "What's your deal anyway?" Garrett inquired, in a crude, almost mocking tone. "Why are you so obsessed with what other's think of you? Is it a superficial noble's thing, or?" "No," Gwenevere released an annoyed sigh, leering up at him. "I'm not some attention-seeking brat, Garrett. I just want to help people. That's all." "That's all, huh?" the thief chuckled, before abruptly rolling his eyes. "Riiight...So tell me, what sort of game are you playing here, Gwenevere? What makes you want to devote your life to crime anyway? You looking to get revenge on your old man?" Gwenevere hastened to finish the last of her coffee. It tasted horribly bitter, given that her host hadn't added any cream or sugar. But it was doing an excellent job or banishing her first hangover. "Not entirely, no," she replied. "And if I am in any case, it's not because of what he's done to me..." "It's a yes or a no question. Do you want revenge on Simmons or not?" Garrett demanded, growing irritated with her cryptic nonsense. He'd gotten enough of that from the Keepers to last him a lifetime. Hence, it never ceased to personally irk him whenever anyone spoke in riddles, or offered vague responses. Gwenevere set her cup back down upon the large wooden chest beside her new bed, and stood. She began to pace around the dormitory, running her thin fingers through the dust and cobwebs. "Simmons has very little to do with any of this. I had to get away from him to live my life. That's all. I want to become a thief in order to help the poor. If I steal money or food, or anything of substance really, I can make their lives just a little bit better," the young woman faced him, passion and virtue glistening within her unassuming little face. "That, is my goal. I want to be the vigilante and protector of this city!" Garrett nearly dropped his coffee cup when she relinquished that information. Gwenevere, wasn't some mere noble's brat thirsty for the taste of danger and defiance. No, it was far, far worse than that. The starry-eyed youth before him, was dead serious. But she'd built all of her plans on the foundation of a dreamer's mentality, without any thought or foresight for what this would realistically entail. Memories of Erin's death, her fall upon that horrible night one year ago, came flooding back to him, as Garrett glowered back at the innocent redhead. "Are you serious?! That's what this is all about?!" "Yes," Gwenevere responded, as casually as though the thief had just asked if she'd like some more coffee. Garrett stared at her, his face darkening and dumbstruck by her sheer naivety. "But you have no idea what you're even doing!!" he finally exclaimed, slamming his half-full coffee cup onto the chest beside hers. Gwenevere startled at his sudden outrage, her emerald eyes awash with bitter upset. "Then maybe instead of pointing out all my mistakes, why don't you just teach me so I can improve!" she countered. Garrett swallowed his frothing rage, and began to massage his aching temples. "Gwenevere. Do you even know what being a vigilante entails?! You'd have to be leagues ahead of where you are now, and that would require years of training on my part. And if you think I'm gonna house your sorry hide for that long, you are out of your mind." The girl's lips grew taut, and for a moment, Garrett was sure she was about to cry again. But somehow, Gwenevere gulped down her tears, and collected herself before answering him. "But I thought you were the best," she countered. "Surly, it wouldn't take nearly that long for you to train me..." Garrett frowned. Oh, she was good. Using his own pride against him like that. He stood, staring down at the curious girl, still baffled by what to make of her. At times, Gwenevere seemed downright stupid. But then, there were moments such as this one, where she would spout something quite clever and poignant. Such instances, never ceased to surprise him. "I may be the best, but you're the absolute worst. I can't train what isn't there to begin with, Gwenevere," he spoke coldly. "If you possessed some semblance of talent, then maybe. But I'm a thief, not a priest. I can't work miracles." "But you told me just the other day that you wanted me to be able to pickpocket someone by the end of the month. You said that was a reachable goal for me. If you can teach me something like that so fast, then I can't be all that hopeless, now can I?!" Gwenevere argued, once again demonstrating the quick wit she was more than capable of. "So what's the real reason you won't train me to do so much more? Why won't you help me reach my goals, Garrett?" "Because you don't belong here," he muttered. "That's what you keep saying, but I think--" "--Listen to me. For all of your idiocy and clumsiness...you're actually a pretty nice girl. I don't know your situation with Lord Simmons, but I do know one thing: This city will eat away at your soul real quick if you continue to stay here." His honest words, prompted the girl to shiver. Gwenevere watched as a look of great disturbance registered upon Garrett's face. The rusty-haired runaway narrowed her eyes, as the pieces of this macabre and depressing puzzle gradually began falling into place. The moonlighter quickly turned away when he realized she was now staring directly at him.Â The realization of what he'd just divulged to her--albeit unwittingly--was harrowing indeed. "Is that what happened to you? Is that...why you're so mean?" Gwenevere asked, half assertive, and half compassionate. Garrett still refused to look at her. He resisted the urge to shout, or otherwise flay her with his cruel tongue and biting words. Instead, he grimaced, and stared upward at the cobweb-coated ceiling above them. Knave. Charlatan. Murderer. All accusations he'd been saddled with over the years, and all more or less true. Others, saw more in him. They saw a hero, a chosen one who could deliver this foul world from the brink of disaster. These portrayals too, held grains of truth--however small. But in truth, the Master Thief, acted of his own accord. He did as he pleased, and damn the consequences. Killing Karras, the Trickster. Saving the City, nay, the world, from their madness. It had all been done, for personal reasons. Garrett, was a survivor. And if the rest of the city survived along with him, that was acceptable. But it didn't make him a hero. Nor did it make him a malevolent demon of the night to be feared. He, was what he chose to be. Nothing more. "No. I've been like this for as long as I can remember," Garrett finally spoke. "I'm nothing like you. And you're nothing like me." "Be that as it may, I DO want to change an unjust world, Garrett! I can't stand all the pain and injustice that pollutes this place!" Gwenevere proclaimed, her face twisted in emotional anguish. She'd seen more suffering and death than any girl of eighteen should ever be privy to, and it was silently killing her from the inside. Garrett sneered at her. "It's the City. Get used to it or leave," he snapped coldly, masking his growing interest and to a lesser extent, concern for her. Like a beautiful flower struggling to grow within this place, the thief knew this girl too would be trampled if she remained much longer. Gwenevere's eyes widened in response to his bitter statement. "What?! But I can't go! I'm your student now! I made a commitment." "You didn't commit yourself kid. You begged. Basso bought your doe-eyed charms and paid me to train you, even though you clearly have no promise or motivation to become a thief," Garrett barked. "And just so you know, you're probably gonna get yourself killed." He turned away, leaving her stunned into silence. For a time. As the thief began Â to exit the dormitories, Gwenevere's soft voice reached his ears. "We're all gonna die one day." Her unexpected words caused Garrett to halt outright. He turned slowly, and glared down at the girl through his venin green prosthetic. "What did you just say?" he hissed. Gwenevere, didn't even flinch this time. Whatever remained unsaid, it far outweighed her uncertainty. "Death finds us all eventually," she croaked. "But it's what we choose to do before we die that matters. If I go out trying to help people, trying to steal bread for a mother and her children who can't eat...then that will be enough for me. I'll know I lived a good life." Garrett stared transfixed upon her, hardly believing how noble this girl truly was. When he'd first encountered this precarious, genial young lady, she'd been jumping at her own shadow. The thief thought he had her pegged as just another pampered snob. But for some inexplicable reason, he'd gotten everything wrong about her. He stared down at Gwenevere, wordlessly watching as that ineffable thirst for purpose and justice shimmered like diamonds within her eyes. Garrett did not feel his lips move, as a grumbling modicum of decision eked its way off his tongue. "Gwenevere. You don't have to die," he stated, in a low, hesitant voice. "What?" Gwenevere blinked, her face contorted into a half-stunned stupor at his proclamation. "Look. It seems as though you've got your mind set on this. Not that I approve, but..." "But?" Gwenevere stepped closer, her body trembling in anticipation. A part of Garrett wondered still, how he'd allowed a simple sack of gold to effectivly control him to this extent. But something was beginning to tease and irritate the far reaches of his subconscious. Was this even about his arrangement with Basso anymore, or the gold? Was there perhaps another reason why the stubborn criminal continued to endure the exasperating chatter of this skinny little imp child? Such wonderings, troubled him greatly. But Garrett did his best to ignore them. For now, he had a new apprentice to teach. "If you listen to me, if you learn to do this right, I can keep you alive."

#Thief_deadly_shadows #Thief_fanfiction #Thief_ii_the_metal_age #Thief_gold #Thief_the_dark_project #Thief_Garrett #fantasy_story #drama_story #romance_story #steampunk_story

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