Thief

The coin purse slouched open as leather straps dangled loosely on either side of the tan hide pouch. A hand fished around, coins clinking. The dim light of the alley’s lanterns glimmered off of a golden coin. A grin flashed across his face as he knew he’d be eating for at least three nights. Two if he found himself a hooker. 

The pouch snapped shut as the straps were deftly tied together into a neat double knot, and now softly clinked as it bounced against his running leg. You never stay in the same place too long. A few dozen metres away, between The Rusty Hook and The Night Cap Inn; the Thief crouched, tucked away in a corner rustling through a soft cotton-spun sack. First, he pulled his black hooded tunic off, and then his snug pants down. His arms shot through the holes of his mostly white shirt, and legs struggled to find the foot hole of his dark denim jeans. The sack disappeared in the shadows as it was tossed into the alley, the Thief walked towards The Rusty Hook fixing the final button towards the collar of his shirt. He ran his hand through his dark, greasy hair. He stopped a few steps short, unbuttoned the top two buttons, and pushed his way inside. 

The bar was bustling, as it usually is on any given evening. The sounds of laughter and cutlery clinking warmed the air. Lanterns on every other support beam lit the Tavern in a cozy orange glow. The hearth next to a wooden staircase added to the actual temperature while burning logs cracked softly. In the corner near the hearth, a group of six bandits played a card game. Their belongings were strung about, belts and holsters strung up on the coat hanger beside them. Swords sheathed in their scabbards, hung across the backs of their chairs. Coin purses were abundant; it’s clear that they were gambling. Their taunts could be heard throughout the crowd, “I’ll get you for that one ya bastard!” a hearty man with an even heartier beard bellowed, laughing. 

The rest of the bar was rather bland, with friends getting drunk together, couples on their first dates, and people sprinkled about, drinking away the pain of living in the Undercity. 

The Thief walked up to the bar and sat haphazardly on an empty stool, one boot still on the ground. Next to him a grizzled drunkard looked over, noticing the Thief but not paying any mind. Not that he could pay any mind, much less speak coherently. At that moment he let out a small hic which was followed promptly by a baritone burp. He cleared his throat, but forgot his pardon. The Thief turned his attention to the barkeeper; a tall, lanky man with a well kept moustache that protruded several inches from his cheeks before curling back towards his lips. He donned a top hat and suspenders strapped over his white linen shirt. The shirt was freshly pressed, although a touch stained from the night of fixing drinks. 

After pouring his third ale, the barkeeper finally made his way over to the Thief, “You’re an unfamiliar face. New in town or just stopping in?”

“Just stopping in, might stay the night at The Night Cap, is it worth it?”

“You’ll be fine,” the bar keep twirled his moustache before cracking a smile, “it’s pretty gross in there, if I’m being honest. But you won’t get fleas at least... What can I get for you?”

“For me? Oh, I’ll have a bourbon. Can you send a round of ale to those burly men at the back over there?” The Thief motioned with a thumb behind his back towards the gamblers, still entranced in their game.

“Oh, you really must be new here if you don’t know that lot. That there is the Deadlock Gang, they’re not the type to take well to a round of drinks from a feller… er- a feller like yourself that is.” 

“Tell ‘em she sent them,” the Thief shrugged and nodded his chin towards the barmaid. 

Her rosy cheeks lifted as she smiled and handed two mugs of Ale to a couple sitting at a table close by. She spun and made her way back to the bar to pick up the next round, her bust bouncing in her pale blue blouse as she skipped up towards the bar. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before she bit her lip in confusion at the missing beers. She looked up and locked eyes with the Thief. She held his gaze for half a moment before looking down, blushing. 

“Isabella?” the bartender scoffed, “now why would you-“ A heavy thunk stopped the tender mid sentence as the tan hide coin purse from his last stint hit the table. “Well who am I to argue with coin?” He turned and shouted, “Isabella, c’mere would ya!?”

Isabella walked over on the opposite side of the bar, and got noticeably close to the Thief, her thigh touching his leg. “What can I do ya far, Marcelo?” she giggled, and shot a glance over at the Thief. 

“This here gentlemen wants you bring a round of Ale to the Deadlock’s.”

The rosy colour in her cheeks faded immediately as she stammered, “The D-Deadlock’s? W-why?” 

“Well, I’m sure our friend here can answer that,” Marcelo motioned to the Thief.

“I sure can, but I’m afraid every question I answer will cost ya a fraction of that pouch. Now, you can keep the whole thing if you bring them one beer short. Tell them it’s on the house, but don’t mention the shortchange. You just go on about your business, ‘kay?” 

Isabella and Marcelo exchanged glances before Marcelo nodded in approval and poured five Ales. 

As Isabella returned, she noticed that the Thief was gone, the bourbon sat at the bar, empty. The front doors swung slowly. By the time she looked back over, the Deadlock table was already in an uproar. Arm wrestles and hollering matches begun as they fought over the right to their beer. 

Outside, the Thief sprinted to his cotton-spun sack and donned his all black attire. His soft-soled shoes made no noise as he trotted behind The Rusty Hook, and threw a lasso over the smoking chimney. He climbed the side of the building and made his way to one of the upper windows where Marcelo slept, finally slipping through the window and into the top floor. By now he can clearly hear the commotion he caused downstairs, chairs scraped across the floor as the Deadlock’s began standing up, shouting. As the Thief slowly descended the staircase he could see patrons start to pay their bills and leave. He reckoned he had about two minutes before the Deadlock’s cleared the bar out. 

He picked up his pace once he reached the bottom of the staircase and swiftly darted from shadow to shadow. In only a few paces he had made it to the table, the Deadlock’s would not have noticed a horse stampeding through the bar. He made away with what he could quickly, two coin purses, a black overcoat, and a small dagger with jewels inlaid in the hilt. Up the staircase, out the window, the Thief rappelled down the side of the tavern back to his makeshift hideout. He quickly threw on the overcoat, heaved the sack over his shoulders, and started making way down the dark road ahead. He turned to look behind, the Deadlock with the beard exploded from the front of the Tavern cursing, “WHO FUCKING STOLE MY COAT YOU SONOFABITCH!” patrons fled the tavern in fear. Some heading next-door to the The Night Cap, others to their homes not far. One patron was not so lucky, the bearded Deadlock grabbed him in a fit of rage and smashed his head against the stone pillars leading up to the doorway. His body drooped as he slide down the stairs, a streak of blood following the gash on his temple. 

The Thief couldn’t help but let out a chuckle as he broke out into a light jog, “fools,” he muttered.