Chance Again (Taraak)

[Capitan Sinn]

Being the Thief Lord of Teirm was not nearly as glamorous as many believed. It was paperwork, and a shite-tonne of it. Belloque walked without knocking, which would most likely get on other's nerves but Torn was extremely pleased, though he didn't show it. Belloque was a middle-aged man with brown greying hair and hazel eyes with blurring vision, for that reason he wore a pair of wire-framed seeing-glasses. He walked with the stiff authority of one who was more like a noble than a thief who pulled himself up by the bootstraps, and his rightfully won gold. But he and Torn were old friends and a very familiar glean in the hazel eyes made Torn wonder what the old coot was up to.

"Belloque, I thought I had left you in charge while I was away. Why is my comfortable desk hidden behind this-" Torn faltered for a moment, trying to think of the correct word.

Belloque beat him to it. "Shite-tonne of paperwork?"

"My sentiments exactly."

Belloque looked Torn straight into the eye, having been as much a father to him as Fox, Belloque knew just about every individual fiber of his being, he had acquired more silver in his hair than Belloque possed, he sported a new scar on the right side of his neck, just missing an important artery it seemed. His bearing was not nearly as outlandish as normal, even the fierce light in his eyes, the only thing that disarmed the toxic color, seemed dimmed. In all, he seem subdued, he hadn't looked this bad since Isra had passed.

"Sir, what happened while you were gone?" Belloque asked in plain concern.

Torn looked around his office, it was comfortably, if simply furnished. The walls were a dark cherry-wood, with many convinient nooks to place candles and lanterns, for later when the sun was down and Torn still needed light. As it was, the narrow, arched window to the facing west, and the large sky-light provided with more than enough light for the time being. His desk was an even darker wood than the walls, and made of the the timbers of a once notorious, now forgotten pirate ship. Papers literally covered all the available space on the desk, some becoming veritable mountains from mole-hills. The high-backed leather chair was vaguely reminiscent of a throne, but Torn couldn't help it, the study had been decorated the same way for near one-hundred and fifty years. The very prescense of the interior was near-sacrosanct and Torn himself was rarely in the study, that's what he had Belloque for, to do this paperwork. But the real reason Torn was noticing all these tiny details that had long ago been memorized was that he was stalling. He didn't want to answer his dear friend's question, not yet.

After he recalled the name of the ship that his desk had been made from for the third time, Torn knew he couldn't stall any longer. He took in a breath and sighed deeply. "Friend, I can't tell you, not yet, I can't accept the truth of it myself yet, I must be given time, but know that when I can, I'll tell you, everything." Torn's voice was suddenly world-weary, as if trying to call out for help, but muffled by an attacker's unseen hand.

Belloque was about to try and press a bit more when an urgent knock at the massive double doors diverted his attention. Torn nodded, and went to sit on his throne of thieves. Belloque marched briskly to the door and with no theatrics, opened the door to let in a ragged looking youth. That wasn't uncommon, many in the Thieves' Guild were young street-rats who knew no other trade.

Torn's voice, which seemed on the verge of tears but a moment before, now was full of bravado and mockery and mischief all at once and boomed boisterously, "Hello there, what can this simple thief do for such a man?" Torn had sincerely meant it though, Belloque didn't doubt that if one of his thieves asked him to, Torn would steal the Emperor's own dragon, simply because he was asked. Oh he had a great many people fooled, many thought he was a selfish thief, shamelessly using whatever he had to do whatever he wanted, but Belloque had known Torn Remus "Goodthief" Locke for most of his life. Belloque was not so easily fooled.

The youth had dark skin, a sort of chocolate color with intelligent green eyes, muted compared to the horrible radience and intensity of the distinctive eyes of the House of Locke. He had short, black curls that kept close to his head. He fidgeted, unaware what to do in this situation.

Finally, in an uncertain, but deep voice, "I, er, I found something." He pulled a piece of paper that looked like the kind that official Empire business was written on, if a bit crumpled. He spoke again, "Name's Trout, uh, your grace. I don't have no contacts in the Varden, but there's rumors you do, you wanna help me strike a deal with 'em? If the money's right. Usual guild cut, 'coarse" Troat slowly found himself gaining confidence when talking about what he knew.

Torn smiled, not the lopsided grin that infuriated most, but a pleasant smile about a business prospect that seemed impossible to complicate. Of course, as usual, Torn was mistaken about that.

Torn cleared his throat and simply said, "I may happen to have some acquaintences who have run into a good friend of mine who might know what to do with your plunder."
Torn didn't say that he'd had people watching Taraak since he had arrived in Teirm, not that Taraak was unaware of them he knew, but Torn figured it'd annoy him enough to demand to see Torn just to call them off.

[Angmor]

For the first time in what seemed like years, Taraak was not hiding on a rooftop, lingering in a doorway, or sneaking into someplace he wasn't wanted. He wasn't arranging a covert meeting, nor talking with important fugitives. He wasn't out to kill anyone and, to his knowledge, no one in particular was out to kill him. He was just here. It was a greatly liberating feeling.

The assignment was an easy one, perhaps the easiest one he had ever received on Varden time. Every so often, the Varden liked to send people to various cities within the Empire for the sole purpose of getting the lay of the land, to gauge the mood of the populace and find out about any important events there. Since the war had been steadily escalating over the past year, and the services of Varden spies in increasing demand, many parts of the Empire had become more and more neglected. Teirm was one of those quiet places. And now, with a temporary peace threatening to break out, there was an equally temporary respite, of which Varden intel intended to take advantage. Taraak wasn't sure how the decision was made that he would be the one to go. Maybe his superiors thought he needed a break from his usual high-stress missions rosters. Maybe he did. He was becoming more and more conscious of the deepening dark circles around his eyes, and how haggard his face was starting to look. Even after Dras-Leona, his nightmares didn't allow him to get any kind of unbroken sleep. He had finally admitted to himself that he needed the rest, and he knew that Teirm was probably the best place to do it.

He wasn't sure why, but he was always happiest near the water. Staring out at a large body of water was about the only thing that could quiet the renegade observations of his overactive mind, save for a dangerous mission, and the sound of waves lapping against a shoreline was as soothing to him as anything ever could be. Perhaps it was because he was born here in Teirm, and that sound was connected in his mind to the only time in his life he had ever been happy. Maybe it was the perfect ambient sound to mask whatever noise he made when he was sneaking around. Whatever the reason, he knew that Teirm would provide the rest that his body so desperately needed.
And it had, until about an hour after his arrival.

He had noticed it when he had first started his reconnaissance, in one of the city's many taverns. His approach for collecting the local news was that he was a fairly experienced mercenary, looking to hire himself out to a merchant vessel or convoy in return for protection against pirates. A common enough cover story that allowed him to blend with the local merc and sailor circles. While this had gone well, he had noticed a young man at a table one row back from his own, trying too hard to look like he wasn't watching him. He would have been very difficult for any casual observer to notice, but after spending nearly all his life relying on his senses, Taraak had seen the darting glances in his direction, and how the boy was very carefully orient himself so as to keep him within peripheral vision. After that, he kept glimpsing flashes of movement out of the corner of his eye, certain faces seen once too many times among the crowd.
There was little doubt in his mind that he was being watched.

He couldn't say by who by, but he doubted it was the Empire. They had plenty of professionals working for them, and they gave off a very different feeling when they were on operations. While imperial spies were always earnest and hostile, he got the idea that the people watching him were more doing so for their own amusement. Besides, as far as he could tell, all of his own shadows had been young boys and a few girls, all of them several years too young to be working for the Empire in such numbers. Of course, he himself had done tailing operations at their age, but always alone. No, if anyone from Spearshadow knew where he was, they would send at least two of their very best assassins, not a bunch of trainees. That possibility eliminated, that left only some unknown third party, one that obviously had an interest in keeping an eye on him as he collected local gossip. He didn't know who that could possibly be, but he decided that they didn't care. Since they obviously weren't out to kill him, he had resolved to himself that he would not let this odd development get in the way of his only restful assignment.

Taraak closed his eyes, letting the cool sea breeze play over his face. Taking a deep breath of the salty air, he cleansed from his lungs the smoky atmosphere of the sailor's gambling den he had just left. He was up several crowns more going out than he had going in.
If I ever need a new profession, I can always take up card-sharking.

[/Color] He thought, smiling to himself. Unfading memory was a very handy thing for counting cards, if one was willing to pay for the privilege with incessant nightmares.
Now he stood on one of the bewildering array of twisting docks and platforms that extended far beyond the waterline of the bay, a labyrinth of twisting, over passing and ramshackle docks and moored vessels that almost qualified as a city of its own. It was here that he had spent a good portion of his time for the past two days, full as it was with potential sources of information. He had even found a large inn not far from the city's west gate. The weather had been warm the past two days, but damp even for Teirm, making the age-old wooden dock he was standing on slippery and brown. He liked to come down here to the docks to watch the sun set into the sea, a show that rivaled any artist's painting. It was an especially rare treat for him, being able to stand still long enough to stare across the huge golden expanse of the ocean before him, just watching the sunset…
Just then, he felt the subtle movement of the dock beneath him, letting him know that he was no longer alone. He sighed, feeling his body make the switch between relaxed tourist to default spy without any permission from his conscious will. He noted that the sides of the large fishing smacks moored on either side where within easy vaulting distance for a quick escape. At the very last resort, he could leap off the dock and swim under it all the way to the shore…
From the vibration of the wooden blanking, he estimated that it was two or three people, either light on their feet or doing their best not to alert him. He subtly crossed his arms over his chest, a seemingly innocuous position from which he could easily grab his knife…
“Sarvis?”

The tentative voice from behind him only spoke one word, but it was enough to send cascades of memories flashing though his mind…
There was no possible mistaking it now. The man's face was practically bisected by that same insufferable grin that Taraak knew from that long, strange, horrible night in that Uru-Baen nobleman's house those months ago, when he had come very nearly to his death no less than four times. It was the same laugh, that same totally carefree laugh that he seemed to use just whenever the situation was the least funny. He used it now.
"Well, this is going to be just like old times, eh Sarvis?" He said jovially, using the alias Taraak had used for that night, making yet more questions that would need to be explained to the other members of the team. Taraak was not amused.
"Aye," He shot back. "Hopefully the old times before I almost shot you."
It all made so much more sense now. The people watching him, their lack of malevolence… All because Torn Goodthief had taken a fancy to messing up a perfectly good operation yet again. He took a deep breath, carefully calming the frustrated anger rising within him as he turned to face the messenger.
“Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?” He found that he was right at his guess, and was faced with two rather scruffy looking teenagers, both of them toting small daggers at their hips. Neither one looked about to use them, though, merely looking like they were trying to remember their instructions.
“I bring a message from an old friend of yours.” The older of the two said, eyes in the air as he tried hard to remember the exact words. “He ‘spectfully requests your ‘steemed presence at ‘is place of business, to discuss a ‘rangement of great ‘ntrest.”
“And greatly lucrative to himself, no doubt…” Taraak said, half to himself.
He wanted to refuse. Every cell of his tired, aching body screamed for him to tell Goodthief exactly where to shove his offer and go back to his coveted R and R… but he knew that he couldn’t do it. While the odds were against it, Goodthief might have actually stumbled across something of value to the Varden. Gods, he hated that man sometimes.
“Fine,” He said at last, checking the position of his bow and quiver just to be sure. “Lead the way.”[/size][/blockquote]