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  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 naïve, 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. 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  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."