Rain softly fell over the rooftops of St. Langostine, lightly caressing the sleeping city with its countless gentle fingers. She ran deftly amidst the rain, hopping from roof to roof, from building to building, tirelessly seeking her prey. She was almost the only thing moving in St. Langostine in the deepest hours of the night, and she liked it just fine that way. She had spent months in preparation for this hunt, stalking her prey, studying his movements and his routines, waiting for the right moment to strike. And her moment was here at last. She could all but taste the triumph.
But she was becoming careless; she was allowing her excitement and her passion to cloud her focus. Coming to a halt, she sought to calm herself, harnessing that excitement and channeling it into the fuel for the not-quite-magic of the Thieving Arts. She repeated the evocations she had called forth twice already that night: to quicken her movements, quiet her steps, sharpen her hearing. This time would be different. This time was on her terms, and she was ready.
She reached her destination almost before she realised it. It was a tenement of no particular stature, well befitting his style. She knew just which flat was his, and had spent the last month locating and slowly encouraging a looseness in the latch on one specific window. As she moved toward her gimmicked window, she drew from beneath her cloak a thin metal bar — a thief’s key; with it, she pulled the window open just a fraction of an inch, and slid the bar up through the opening until it encountered the latch. Very slowly, she worked the latch with her thief’s key, conscious of every movement and every sound she made. Seemingly hours later, she finally had the latch free, and silently pulled the window the rest of the way open and climbed through.
She found herself exactly where she knew she would — in her target’s bedroom. And he was exactly as she knew he’d be — passed out drunkenly on his miserable cot. The fool, she thought to herself, he won’t escape me again. Returning the thief’s key to its place, she drew instead a long, thin dagger, and crept silently to her target, ready to deliver the justice that had been so long delayed. Finally, she would have her revenge, and the Word would be hers. Reaching her target, she drew herself up to her full height, raised her dagger, and breathed two words, almost imperceptibly — “forgive me.” Then she struck.
Before she had time to savour her victory, she was sent reeling by a powerful impact to the right side of her head. So sudden was the attack that she barely detected it in time to roll; as it was, she was disoriented for a brief moment. All she was sure of was: she had been found out!
“I’d reckon you’d know better by now, Scarlet,” came a rough but pleasant voice through the darkness. “You really think you could catch me all nappin’ like?”
She spit with rage; somehow he had tricked her! But she must not allow herself to be overcome by emotion; with effort, she channeled her anger and her desire into more fuel for the Arts. She would need every bit of Legerdemain she knew to get her revenge now that she’d been found. “The Word, Gell. I’ve come for it.”
“Yeah? Scarlet, darlin’, we been through this. Even if I wanted to give it to you, I couldn’t. So how’s about you just go find yourself somethin’ else to occupy your mind and let me get my beauty rest?”
Scarlet bit hard on her lower lip. Reaching into herself, she drew on her least favourite of the Arts: the Art of Slaying. She found it to be very crass and unsubtle, but there were times when it had value, and this was one of them. Focusing power into her blade, she sprang forward at Gell, determined not to give him another chance.