Forgotten Yesterday
Hiding in the shadowed alley, his breath was erratic. Yet, he knew deep down that "yesterday" was bound to fade, just like the scars that marked him. (Obtainable from the Thief's Birthday event.)
Kreacher Pierson: Investigation Field Notes I
The name Kreacher Pierson first appears in correspondence marking the handover of the orphanage to the Church's stewardship. This so-called "philanthropist," a close associate of Father Duke, was by no means ignorant of the true purpose behind the orphanage's transformation. Yet Pierson was no reputation-starved merchant or idle nobleman; beneath the surface lay a backstory steeped in mystery and intrigue.
Kreacher Pierson
Public records reveal little about Kreacher Pierson's origins, but the arrest logs from his final days on White Sand Street paint a far darker picture. Before his quiet departure, Pierson had served time in prison. A deeper probe into Plymouth's police files uncovered that he was no stranger to the criminal underworld. For nearly a decade, he prowled the streets, arrested time and again for theft and blackmail. One wonders—was it some unforeseen turn of fate that compelled him to vanish and begin anew elsewhere? His police file bore damning annotations: selfish, extreme, deceptive—traits, perhaps, born of hardship and cultivated in the dark corners of society.My investigation led me to Plymouth—a port city in the throes of transformation, alive with conflict and commerce. The thoroughfares bustled with finely dressed merchants, weary laborers, and the occasional inebriate. But my true destination lay deeper: the slums, cloaked in crumbling brick and sagging timber. Here, where daily survival demanded compromise, many expected an "interview fee." In return, they spoke freely, eager to share what they knew with a roving journalist.
That morning, I uncovered little until a peculiar chant reached my ears, drifting from a narrow alley. At first, I mistook it for a nursery rhyme, but soon realized it was a rhythmic chant—perhaps an action rhyme passed down among local gangs. I had heard whispers of such youths and their spotty records. And it seemed Pierson had not been a stranger to these streets before his days on White Sand Street. Could he have once stood among them?
(……
One swipe, a drunk man hides the light, coal carts rumble, taking flight.
Two swipes, the old man quickly flees, bumps the ground, his trousers knee.
Three swipes, the gold watch safe inside. He coughs and cries, and shakes with pride—
"Dear Sir, dear Madam, help me please! For Mother coughs, the rats do tease."
Four swipes, the bell tolls the hour—to the wall, the stone throws with power!
……)
The leader of the gang, a youth named Hans, bore the sun-darkened face of one seasoned by the street. When I inquired after Kreacher Pierson, he signaled the others to still their play and named his price: forty shillings—the last of what I carried.
("Miss, consider yourself lucky. Out of everyone here, I knew Kreacher Pierson best. They say he made his fortune with that silver tongue of his."
"Ah, he was always like that—could convince anyone of anything. What you just heard? All make-believe. But those tricks don't work so well these days.")
With my payment securely tucked in his pocket, Hans assured me that my investment would yield returns: a guided tour of Pierson's former residence, and all the knowledge he could offer. He even promised—half in jest, half in threat—that this fee included protection, financial and otherwise.
From Hans, I gleaned the most vivid accounts of Pierson's early life. A tattered photograph, which he guarded like treasure, showed a much younger Kreacher standing beside the boy Hans at a charity event held by a local monastery.
After reviewing our conversation, I could more clearly piece together the early years of Kreacher Pierson. The chant, which carried the tricks of a thief, shed light on his upbringing. Born into the foulest poverty, he lost both parents to tuberculosis at a tender age. His first theft, unlike the clever verse, ended in disaster. A novice pickpocket, he was caught and beaten near to death. It was not pity that spared him, but panic—fleeing the bloodied boy crying for his lost parents. When he awoke, the few shillings clutched in his fist were soon pilfered by more seasoned hands.
Each brush with death became its own cruel education. Kreacher learned to dazzle constables with tricks of light, to feign seizures or contagion, to conceal blackmail notes beneath pillows, to read a man's fortune in the wear of his shoes.
Hans added that Kreacher was never the strongest or fastest, but his mind was keener than most. He got things done. He was ruthless when he had to be. Even when he looked like a sickly wretch, folks followed him. He made people listen. As soon as he figured out how to move stolen goods faster, things got slicker—and safer.
Though violence was often his tool of choice, there were moments of generosity. Once, after a successful heist, Kreacher shared a meal—thick stew and warm bread—with his gang. Hans, strutting in his new leather shoes, caught the envy of a boy from a proper family and, for once, felt pride, not shame.
("Let me tell you how we think," Hans said. "If a few kicks from Kreacher meant a full belly and some street smarts, better that than dying under some copper's boot. Do you know what it's like when hunger grabs you by the throat?"
"Don't make the mistake of seeing us as some sob story. Those fine folk reading newspapers over a feast, speaking of dignity—they sicken me."
Kreacher kept us alive. Then he left. Just vanished. But the rhymes? Those stayed. They still do.")
As we approached Kreacher's former home—a decrepit shack beside the monastery—Hans grew quieter. He handed me another faded photograph, this one showing both of them years prior, holding loaves of white bread and wearing forced smiles.
("You can tell—we didn't thank those benevolent sponsors," Hans muttered. "Kreacher hated them—more than I did. Maybe he tried playing the hero that day."
"It didn't make him feel noble; rather, it was a disgrace. Kreacher saved a young lady with flowers, but in the end, he got blamed. Those rich folks didn't care to scam us; we weren't worth the trouble. The funny thing is, to say something good for a man like Kreacher would've embarrassed her.)
Perhaps it was this innate difference that hardened Kreacher and caused him to despise the rich. I offered a word in reply. Hans paused, then laughed bitterly. "Yeah. If he'd been born into a fine home with wealth and title, would you have called him one of the good ones?"
In the house where Kreacher once slept, I found the torn remnants of a monastery pamphlet. Hans said that, for a time, Kreacher would read it aloud, practicing the phrases of mercy and compassion, polishing his stutter, shaping his voice to match those of society's "betters." But by the time he left Plymouth, the pages were slashed through, the words blackened.
I suspect that by then, Kreacher Pierson had found his calling. He may never have trusted the hand that offered mercy, but he learned how to fashion his own ladder—and climb it.
