Wynna Blackwing - Heist

[Obsidian Sea]

The Smiling Smoke.

That was the name of her contact. Thanks be to the discreet path it offered her between the bustle of the city square and her tenements on Magpie Row, the alleyways are not unfamiliar to Wynna Blackwing. As the skies darken, still the seagulls hold their chaotic chorus over the harbourside that hides behind the ramshackle crooks of buildings that frame these cobbled walkways. This scholar can move as discreetly as she likes; she is a Rogue, but she is also to be considered a minor public figure in this region. Anonymity may serve her, so might openness. She has agency here.

The Smiling Smoke is garbed to fit the title, or the title is apt to describing the one that evoked it. A one-piece leather suit holds their taut frame together, occluding the face under a needlessly large hood. A mass of shapely gray, androgynous until closer inspection. Could be that a nimble man; a worthy cat burglar awaits her? Or a small-chested, spirited young woman? The ammunition fencer from whom Wynna had ascertained the contact had fulfilled their obligation to be discreet.

They adhered to a dialogue of thieves. Wynna hands across the Sembian pipeweed as The Smiling Smoke reaches out the pipe with their left palm towards her. They apprehend the pipeweed, and promptly exhaled a plume of smoke that further distorted the certainty of their physical existence. The conversation was confirmed.

"Blackwing." It was a man. "Exact to the minute for arrival. Crows come to carrion less promptly. You had no difficulty? No, I trust not. You have had plentiful time to acquaint yourself with the city, and me - well," he sweeps a hand down the front of his torso, signalling the cloudy suit of leather he wears, "My role within the industry is not to be forgotten, or ignored. You require aid. I am the one to give it."

His tongue crosses the top row of his teeth; a languid action that covers the seconds as a woman passes by. The conversation does not concern her.

The Smiling Smoke extends his hand. He speaks without burden in his tone. The line of work he is in seems not to have scarred his conscience, nor made him grim.

"I am an admirer of your writings. In my experience, it is very promising to work with clients with whom you can agree beyond the boundaries of your professional association to one another. But I know others who find it preferable to know nothing of their client's interests. With you, that is hard to be the case. You are not within your own personal sphere of influence here in the city. I have distant family living in Thelnam, I am told."

If she took his hand or she didn't, The Smiling Smoke is not offended. His figure is telling of an ability for the physical side of a Rogue's work, but everything about him breathes expertise in the social skills, and an unflappably amicable attitude.

"How precisely shall I help you, Blackwing? What do you need?"

[Ostheim]

Sometimes she came to these alleys simply to be there, gliding among the throngs of the poor and orphaned in her unassuming, drably colored garb. With her hood up to conceal her womanly charms, Wyn was often perfectly content to ignore and be ignored as she paced through the labyrinthine walkways. During the day she paced to think, to ponder on what to write about next, on the events that had transpired as of recent. Obligations she'd made, places she'd gone, people she'd seen. Killed, perhaps, but those seldom troubled her for long; they usually had it coming.

During the night, she paced to reminisce, wearing an altogether different garb. Her darkened leathers, not terribly good for protection in itself, but more than adequate to render her unseen if given a convenient shadow to delve into. She wasn't as small as she used to be when wearing this sort of attire had been an everyday occurrence; children, younger adolescents, they had a much easier time of it. She missed those days, sometimes, when she'd been a youthful street urchin, flippantly cutting purses and evading the eyes of the watchful.

Wynna found herself wondering how long this fellow had been in the 'game,' as everyone was so wont to call it. She shared in his lack of remorse for doing what he needed to do; she'd be a hypocrite otherwise. But when the opportunity to move on had presented itself, when she knew her letters and numbers and began to fill her head full of knowledge, the passion for urban pursuits had lost its charm. She would burglarize old places for the knowledge they kept, instead. Contacts and fellows she had used to run the streets with became ears to the ground for her legitimate pursuits. Criminal bosses became seldom-called upon resources for funding her less-than-legal endeavors; searches into sites that the Cormyrean government wouldn't approve of, and there were many.

She never truly left Suzail's underworld, not until she left the city itself. At a most charitable assessment, all she had done was left the streets and moved into the salons, to plot to steal other, more cerebral treasures instead. A thief always needed a fertile environment to work in, and every part of that underworld fed into the other. She had been no exception.

No regrets. Still, she missed it sometimes and found herself missing it again as she spoke to the esteemed Smiling Smoke.

She took his hand and shook, discrete. She would not bother with reassurances or extrapolating on her needs; he already had an idea of them, and it would not matter in the slightest to a fellow like this if her need of spectrolite was in aid of the greater good. To deny a cult of the most nihilistic whims its chance at attaining some power would not sway any common thief but the most idealistic and political.

She reckoned Smoke was neither of those. When she speaks, it's in the clipped tone that every thief, at the end of the day, appreciated.

"Lord Ashkyr of Drumaire Manor has come into possession of a certain rare mineral, and his resulting reclusive behavior has me displeased. I need this material rather badly; my usual contacts for dealing with such a problem have erred towards non-interference, and so I am here now in your presence to discuss alternative methods."

Wynna leans back against the close-by wall, her hood still up and doing a decent enough job of concealing herself from curious passers-by.

"My second-story days are well-behind me, I'm afraid, else I'd pursue such a thing alone. What I can provide you are three-fold; firstly, information regarding the manor and the custom of its keepers, to ease any... activities that you might elect to pursue. Second, I am prepared to pay for your services promptly for your trouble. Third, I waive any claim on whatever else you might chance to take interest in. All I need is this mineral."

With a resigned frown, she adds, "... and I might consider a foray myself, if required, though my strengths lie in knowledge these days."

[Obsidian Sea]

"How involved you choose to be, Blackwing, is your own margin to negotiate. You are not without your skills in the field - this I know - but many of those who seek my services are not so self-sufficient, as you can imagine. I have a great network which I can tap, and agents who can do your bidding at a slight price. Well ... relatively so.

"But the information that you elect to give may be of benefit. What's more, I shall tell you with utter discretion, I have another client whose needs are aligned with your own - not in the material, but in the site of infiltration. And so, information being my trade, that which you can offer is like velvet to the requirements of my business."

The Smiling Smoke regards Wynna Blackwing for a time then, his head leaning off to one side in dreamy speculation. He blows a haze of smoke into the air, behind which the certainties of his expression are once more concealed.

"One wonders the significance of the materials you require that drives you to such lengths. A move such as this could be the ruin of your good reputation in the city. I wonder ... is it worth it?"

A woman passes by. The Smiling Smoke holds his tongue until she is gone from earshot.

"You need not answer. Information is my game, but I do not need you to be doubtful. And I suspect you have no wish to divulge the answer. So forget I asked. But what I say is no canard, Blackwing. Your reputation is well upon the line. It is my job to minimise the risk, but you are an intelligent woman. The team that is to be assembled to acquire what you desire must be optimal. Failure will cost you everything."

Silence; even from the seagulls.

"I will forward dossiers. Potential candidates for the heist. As I say, you are an intelligent woman. You should have some stake in the agents that are chosen for this, and if you wish to be among them, I have no objections. Where shall I forward the intelligence to? I recommend it not be to your tenements on Magpie Row. For ... future-planning discretion, should it become necessary to conceal our tracks."

[Ostheim]

Quite a bit was worth it to Wynna, as a matter of fact; and this would not be the first time she had crossed the nobility in her short life. She just hoped that her 'luck,' as it were, would continue to hold strong. Regardless of how she felt, though, it mattered not a wit to the Smiling Smoke, and so she did not, in fact, answer that question.

"Deliver it in parcel to Functionals; I've rented out locker fourteen for an extended period for such things, and Felik appreciates my patronage of his poultices and tools." She stuffs a hand into her pocket and withdraws it again, a key falling to the snow between them. On that, she does not comment, though she seems to trust in the man's perception to notice the 'mishap.'

"I shall check it again at noon on the morrow - I trust I shall find what I need, then. Good day, friend; may your custom be secure and profitable."

Without another word, she saunters off down the alley again, pulling her hood over her head some more as she goes. Only when she's out of the alley again, back onto the streets of Sarshel, does she allow herself to smile. Sticking her hand into-pocket again, this time she draws out a single, gilded coin with a familiar goddess' visage upon it. Stopping between a pair of doors and out of foot traffic, she flicks it into the air and watches it spin, catching it deftly and placing the coin upon her hand.

Heads. Wynna tilts her head, exhaling shortly and putting it away again. Perhaps the luck would hold, perhaps not. But in this case, all she needed was to be bold. Let the other thieves trust in the Lord of Shadows; fortune had not failed to find her thus far.

And, win or lose, she was at the very least excited.

[Obsidian Sea]

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Wynna Blackwing has assembled her team. Of the agents that The Smiling Smoke forwarded to her, three have been selected for the infiltration of Drumaire Manor and the acquisition of the spectrolite that is believed to be stored therein. The mission shall be dangerous, and the cost of aid for such a task will not be cheap. In the end, however, a price more than gold will truly be paid. The word is sent through back channels. Soon three of Impiltur's finest thieves will come together, unified by Wynna Blackwing's purpose. Blackheel, Trickfinger, and The Jade Deception make their way to the rendezvous point, anticipating a mission which might make or break their careers in the nation of Impiltur...

[Obsidian Sea]

BLACKHEEL'S PART, I

It was my job to make the operation run smoothly. I was working the operation on the 'front line', as it were. If Blackwing had missed a beat, it was my responsibility to fill in the gaps. We were embarking upon an ambitious project: a project that would define our careers in Impiltur, and make or break our reputations. Foolish that reputation counts for so much in this business. Mask favours me. I could not - would not be nervous even for a mission of this significance, but I was at all times to be focused. My squad was capable, I knew, but it was me standing at the head of the operation, and it was not my own confidence that I had to keep in check - it was theirs.

There were two primary gaps in information from all that our contact and Blackwing had forwarded to me: the precise location of the cache, and how to get onto the estate grounds. The manor we could handle: Blackwing had given us one method, and I had my own. We moved in the thick of night to scope out the situation. The estate was heavily protected. Perhaps a bribe? It had worked for me before. For all their riches, the nobility has been deceptively cheap in my experiences working upon them. And I had experience aplenty.

The decision was mine to make. The Arcanist was wanting for my skills, or The Burglar's, but she was prepared; operational; and talented in other ways. And she was amicable: a Gnomish trait, forever underrated - if not personally, than certainly so professionally. The Burglar was another matter. He might have scaled the walls unseen - and perhaps the Gnome could, too, but I could not let them move ahead of me. And not with his ego to drive them.

"We move together. The stables."

The Arcanist lead the action. Patrols were scarce about the ostler's grounds, to spare from spooking the horses. We had to do the same.

"Stay close to me," she advised us, and so we did. In her radius, we became unseen. Undetectable in shape as we were in sound, moving like spectres through the stable. We were using our resources already, and that made me uneasy, but if we could not pass the first hurdle they would come to little purpose anyway, and our services had to run along this timeframe. An opportunity created within the manor's architecture could be taken tonight, or not at all.

The stables skirted the back of the house. The Arcanist's magic did not fade before we were hugging the wall again, and the patrols were half as frequent here. A foolish oversight, but a Rogue's career can become unfortunately dependent on the stupidity of others time and time again. I had needed to reach the rear side of the manor one way or another, and this suited my purposes.

The copses covered our climb. The Burglar moved most easily in this way, but each of us in turn made an easy infiltration from the copse, shading us until we dropped down into the shrubbery on the other side. We were on the grounds.

An hour was spent tracing the movements of the estate guards, and overhearing any word of Easting they shared between them.

"The burial site haunted? Och, I hope it is only hearsay and not the work of Necromancy," the Arcanist remarked. Even with her quiet, I insisted upon further silence. To be betrayed in our stealth by our own tongues - how embarrassing.

We had scoped out their patrols, and we had the intelligence we needed to go forward.

"You're with me," I dictated to the Arcanist when we had our opening to speak and to act. "Find the window, they said it was around that side."

And so, quick and impressively, the Burglar was out of sight with the direction and equipment he needed. We would meet him on the upper floor. Two coughs into the left sleeve.

We made a quick cut across the estate grounds. The servant's quarters were located to the back of the house, the latticed window rattling just a touch. Sub par accommodations - typical, and an unwitting invitation to treachery. A candle suffered inside, which I could perceive from the imperfect draw upon the drapes. An accident? Not at all.

"Gilt for the cannon," I uttered against the window. I heard my maid girl slip down from the top bunk. Her knuckle touched the window lightly, twice, and that confirmed it.

I gave it forty seconds. We could afford no more, but I had not had the chance to explain that. I had to trust she would know that for herself. The lockdown had been the passing of information prior to now a tenuous affair. Improvisations would need to be made, I knew. In the next room, a window opened. We were in.

[Obsidian Sea]

THE JADE DECEPTION'S PART, I

We were into the servant quarters. Blackheel certainly had her affairs in order, and I was impressed! My magic had taken us inside already. Even though magic is infinite, my uses of it were not. I feared that our party would have to rely upon my magic every step of the way, and if that was the case, then we would get into trouble eventually. Blackheel had friends on the inside though. I gathered from the course of conversation that her informant in Drumaire Manor had been strategically relocated here after becoming romantically entangled at her last station: Blackheel must not have liked that variable, although how she came to accomplish the relocation is beyond my powers to know. And how could it not be? I dropped Divination.

The Halfling had better be as good as he thinks he is. It was his job to scale the house and get in through that dodgy window. We had surmised that the window must open out from the hallway, lacking any more obvious idea of where the servants would be likely to frequent on the upper floor. Although I might have been able to offer some distraction from the inside, Blackheel did not want us to split until she had a clear floorplan and sense of movement within the manor at this late hour. A logical decision. So I return to the thought that was nibbling away at me at the very present moment: the Halfling had better be as good as he thinks he is.

Blackheel came back my way. All being well - and her informant not plotting to scorn the mistress who had drawn her from love's side - the floorplan we had been provided by our contact (a floorplan provided by our contact's employer, no less) was more or less correct, deceived only in details that would not be treacherous had we not observed them, but which may prove advantageous now that we knew of them.

"The cache is located there. Here is where Trickfinger will be coming in. Look here," said I, setting up the trajectory for an escape path. Hey, somebody had to do it, and if there was a chance anything could start slipping south, I wanted to know that we had a clear plan. It does terrible things to a party not to have a rendezvous: in my experience, it meant everybody flocking to me in the hopes that I could cloak them with magic, and that became all the harder when you had several ne'erdowells rushing in from all sides drawing attention to you.

Not that I had much experience of failure, though...

Blackheel agreed. She would go ahead with her maid, taking the main staircase to the second storey. They wouldn't need me for this part, and I had my own preparations to make.

Illusion magic has a seductive flexibility. Spells for sounds; spells for sight - I even had a spell for smells, but that is less useful than I would like it to be. The tall folk don't use their sense of smell as much as they ought to. Halflings, on the other hand, have the sharpest sense of smell. That's why they're such good cooks, you know. Don't worry - my mind wanders all the time, but it actually helps me to focus. When your thoughts are in freefall, creativity flies, and the cradle of Illusion is the imagination. All I had to worry about was keeping my footfalls light.

I got to the north side of the house. The dining hall. This was nice. Maybe I'd get one of their spoons while I was here as a momento. Maybe I should get a spoon for each of us? If I had've had the time, maybe I would have done it, but even then maybe not: the Halfling didn't seem to like anything except the stuff which he'd stolen himself. He might take it the wrong way. Blackheel? I doubt she would approve to know I'd strayed from the plan, no matter how impeccable our execution turned out to be.

Maybe she was right. Better not to take the risk. I had to hope up onto one of the cabinets at the side of the foyer. There was some lovely decanters and antique goblets on display behind the glass, but nevermind. I drew back the curtain very carefully. There it was. Now, let's see what I can come up with for this one...

[Obsidian Sea]

TRICKFINGER'S PART, I

It was more than a long song just to get around to the top side of the manor. Patrols might have worked a good convenience on Blackheel's opening, but it made the second stretch a nuisance for me. Lucky I'm the best thief in Impiltur. There isn't much in the way of competition I guess, what with the Hurbryn being the most of the population. Anyway, the window was right above me. I could hear the 'woop woop' wooping of the wind blustering the fabric that covered my entryway. Easy.

Hurbryn aren't much the type to pay attention. I could hear one fellow talking a lot to whoever he met on the patrols about a woman named Mina. Couldn't be a local sort, unless the name was short for something. People got to be short for something, I guess, even Hurbryn. If it wouldn't've blown my cover, I would have snickered and fancied Blackheel's inside girl would be Mina, but maybe that's my mean streak talking. Blackheel runs a tight burrow, and my ears heard that there wasn't much likelihood Blackheel would permit a romantic life for any of her girls. Mind you, maybe that's why this fellow was bellyaching.

Scaling the building took a bit of caution, and a bit of time because of it. I could have been up there like a shot, don't you doubt it for a sardil. I didn't want to make a target out of my rear end though, and with the lasses somewhere else altogether, I would be putting them in a right and tight spot if I up and made a get out when they didn't even know the jig was up. Shouldn't need to take as long as it did one way or another, if I'm telling the truth, but Hurbryn make their buildings as tall as they can. I think they like to think they're Giants. But they don't kid me. Giants keep better treasure too, storybooks say. Sneaking into a Giant's treasury: now wouldn't that beat all?

I once made a easy jump on a lordly estate at Brigtun Barrow. Put a spook on the chickens when they were in their coop, and the rest was easy as stealing sweets from a surly maiden.

I land without a sound on the corridor in Drumaire Manor. Carpeted, sure, but I wouldn't've made a sound anyway, and you can trust that for a sardil. The entire walkway was utter dark, and it'd never been easier to hide, so I cut up to the far end of the corridor and started sticking my ears to the walls, see if I couldn't figure out the rooms where people were sleeping and where they weren't. If Blackheel's trick didn't come through for us, it would be down to good old sneaking in and out anyway, and I think the whole squad would agree that that would be my job. While they're tongue wagging for a few long songs, I might as well get a head start. I wanted to find a nice ornament to take for myself too, if I could wrap this up quick enough.

Sometime later I spotted a candle coming up the staircase. I was so well hidden by the time it reached the top even I couldn't tell you where I'd got to. Who was this going to be, I wondered? Only one lass; a maid, but was it ours?

She turned the corner into the adjoining corridor, but I stayed where I was. I thought maybe a fainting stroke had taken her when she dallied at one of the doors, because you never want to get presumptuous about who your friends were in this business and who they weren't. She wasn't going to faint though; there must have been a little tickle in her chest, because they she coughed quietly twice into her left sleeve. That was my cue.

I made my way quickly up one side of the corridor, noting the door. The cache was in there - a lump of metal, apparently. Doesn't that just beat all? All this for that. I saw a drape flutter in the corner of my eye and looked back. It was Blackheel. Clever lass. I hadn't even realised she'd been skirting her girl up the staircase.

[Obsidian Sea]

TRICKFINGER'S PART, II

We're in the treasury. Blackheel picked the lock, but I could have done it as easily. Honestly? This is the easiest part. Picking up the prize? There's nothing tough about that. Getting in can be tricking; getting out can get hairy, and it was about to. Apparently our employer relayed it to the liaison that House Relindar trades in exotic goods; wines and perfumes, mostly. That was clear even to the blind eye in here. A tansu stretched the fair length of one wall in the room, and chests of goods abound. Two wine racks adorned the furthest wall of the windowless room: that figures. It's security, but I suppose these wines have been hidden away in here to age, and light isn't much good for the process. We Halflings produce some great wines, you can bet your top sardil on it, but it isn't the most common thing we put out there on the flavour market. Most families can't wait to open the wine, and that's what does them in in the end.

Blackheel is right away looking for the most likely hiding place for the cache, and scolds me for not doing the same. There's a lot of nice goods to take. What's the rush? Unless that Gnome goes and gets herself into trouble like she might, I wager this is a fine chance to take our tips. Sure, you have to know how to carry everything, or you'll be rattling the whole way home, and that'll draw some attention, but that's just inventory planning if you ask me. I'll always go the extra mile to make a good haul. I weren't much a fan of Blackheel's habits, but there was no denying she was on her way up. By her forty-year, I could see her running the underside of a whole city if she were up for it, and I wasn't about to get a dark mark on my reputation if that were the case. There was one real nice domino on the second shelf of the tansu though, and I know I could conceal it on my person. One quick look around to check that the Hurbryn had her attention elsewhere, and now its mine. Nice

"This is it. Snares?"

She trusts me with that. Why not? Best burglar this side of everywhere, me. The chest isn't snared like you'd expect, but from what we'd been debriefed on, we might have a unique sort of scolding for getting our hands on the cache. I get the lock sorted out quickly, but I let her lift the lid. There was a sense of something about doing it. Weird. I don't get nervous - especially not when I'm winning, but I let her lift the lid this time.

"I have it," she spoke, and I saw her hand slip down towards her left boot. Blackheel was left-handed - that was a quirk, but I had heard about her a couple seasons before that she had an enchanted stiletto. That must be where she kept it, I figured.

Now that nervous feeling is definitely nerves: I'm feeling that now. She's got her enchanted dagger at the ready, and I'm starting to really think that shadow stuff we were warned about is going to start being true too soon.

[Obsidian Sea]

BLACKHEEL'S PART, II

The mission took on an urgent dimension thereafter. There were variables that I could not control: to which I could only give the right or wrong reaction. The Arcanist had her own means of escaping the manor in which we could only trust as what came next divided us. Yet she played her part, and played it well.

My girl is coming back down the corridor. She has given us precisely as much time as we required. I signal to The Burglar. His brief look of confusion does not deter him from following the order. He passes the spectrolite to me. We stepped in line with my girl, moving in silence down the corridor. We stood in the centre of the corridor by my own command. I did not like it: a guard wayward on the night shift would see us immediately, but I would not trust our escape to the shadows. I see the drapes move the slightest bit towards the end of our walk, and superstition seemed to be only that for a moment. More the fool was I for thinking every last moment of preparation would have been unnecessary on a mission as risky as this one.

The drapes flutter further, and I took to speed as their shadows began to crawl up their very creators, leaping then towards us. My girl would have screamed, but I could not let her. A gloved hand quickly grasped upon her mouth, the other slipping into the long pocket of her dress. I spun her upon the spot, snatching the spectrolite from whence I had concealed it upon her person as I did it.

"I am sorry."

These are my last words to her as I kick her back towards the leaping shadows. They leap upon her with such a suddenness as if they felt hunger, and within seconds she is in an envelope of writhing blackness, for they mistook her for the carrier of the cache. Two of those figments jumps towards us all the same. The first misses The Burglar, who makes a quick break for the window, tossing rope to speed our slide downwards - stealth upon the landing was not the plan, but instead, speed. A compromise between haste and precision: I had to trust he could make it, as there was no time for me to take to the task. From my back I whip forth a mirror, holding it like a shield to the second shadow, which comes for me. It glances resentfully off the face of the mirror, and as though dashed away by a stroke of mage's lightning, the black strands of its shape are sent flying down the corridor, silently collapsing in a mass and then taking time to reform to humanoid dimensions. The first, which had gone first for The Burglar, rounded on me now, and my stiletto I drew from my boot, slicing it by what I perceive to be its neck. It was hurt, but not stopped. It met its sibling shadows, and they were ready to come upon me. Death? No.

The Burglar was on his way, and I come swiftly down after him. Had any witnessed our swift slide down the side of the house's wall, they see now great tendrils of black racing moments behind us.

"Whoa! Blackheel--!"

I heeded his meaning. The graveyard that met us at our landing echoed haunting noises, and from their usual routes the guards had scattered for fear of it.

"That is The Arcanist's work," I told my Halfling, half-convinced of the fact myself.

"You're sure?"

"You had better hope so. Our escape is that way."

By my declaration, we move with expedience through the grave site. It was not the time to be tentative, for turning a corner would have us face the guards directly, and I would not fail my mission. Nor, however, would I die for it, so to tarry in want of a wiser course of action was nothing I preferred to do more than take the risk.

Quickly I pull back the grate, letting The Burglar speed into the sewer beyond the graveyard. I follow, dragging the grate back in place with the hope that it will stall the shadows somehow. I had been right to think that the graveyard had been played upon by The Arcanist's tricks, or surely I and The Burglar would be dead. With every step through the unpleasantness of the sewers, the danger seems to be taking its distance from us, but it would be a foolish thing to celebrate too soon. I know many a fool who has died for it: or been stolen from in the midst of his rejoicing.

"I guess we got to thank that Gnome. Think she made it out okay?"

"I don't know."

"Quick thinking with that mirror, too, I saw that. That was real moves, Blackheel. How did you know it would work?"

"I didn't know."

"I didn't take you for the type to take risks like that."

"I don't like to."

"Your girl?"

"Regrettable. We should be getting beyond the grounds soon, keep up."

"You don't have to tell me twice."

"No?"

I pull back the grate, and we are outside the walls of Drumaire Manor, the spectrolite successfully in my clutch. There was a journey to make back to Sarshel. Chaos would abound within the manor now, but the blame could not be laid upon our shoulders. We had escaped anonymous. I would have to cover my tracks on the girl suddenly disappearing, but that was nothing I had not done before. My method, my management: I would accept the charges.

The Arcanist throws back a cloak of magical invisibility that she had thrown upon her, having made her own escape. She was unharmed, as were we for the most part, though the shadows had reached beneath my skin at the moment of skirmish. I check for a fifth time since we got into the sewer passage, and the cache is still upon my person. Good. We quit the scene promptly, all three staying together for safety's sake until we reach the city.

Mission successful.