Thief, Introspective
Posted: Wed Mar 15, 2006 3:25 am
My fingers have gone numb. Late autumn is stalking winter, and the air becomes frigid when you’re clinging to the side of a stone-and-mortar tower, well past midnight and four stories from the pavement below. I alternate between flexing my hands, to keep the blood flowing, and just breathing into a clenched fist to provide some much-needed warmth. The combination does the job, enough to keep from falling.
Taking a momentary respite, I glance over my shoulder to the city. Darkness drapes over it; only a few flickers of torchlight scattered about the landscape penetrate the shroud. Other than an occasional dog barking, there is absolutely no sound. It makes me feel alone in the world, and with that comes a strange sense of peace. The night is my time; it belongs to me. I am a living cliché: the thief in the night.
But I’m likely far from what you imagine when you hear the word thief. I’ll get to that more in depth later. For now, back to business.
Hand over hand I scale the wall of the keep. Though the sheer surface might seem insurmountable to most, time and practice has made the act almost effortless for me. At times it’s unsettling; I catch myself becoming lost in thought, not recalling much of the climb. Remembering the slightest mistake could mean my demise, I force myself to concentrate.
In seconds, I reach my goal: a fifth-floor tower window in a noble’s keep. In my mind, I spit the word ‘noble’ like a sup of sour milk, but again, I’ll get back to that. Easing my head closer to the ledge, I hold my breath and listen. Nothing, save some bloated snores emanating from inside. Perfect. I raise my head further to peer inside; thought there is only moonlight, my eyes are accustomed and I can tell there is no movement. Instinctively, I inspect the window ledge and jambs for traps, as well as the floor just inside, then slip through, coming to rest with a muffled sound only detectable to one like myself.
The room reeks with opulence. Paintings and tapestries adorn the walls, and exquisite furniture stands throughout. The price of any one of them could feed a starving family for a year or more. My stomach lurches.
My eyes move to the source of the snores: a heap of velvet atop a canopied oaken bed. Underneath the velvet is a mound of a man, a self-proclaimed business-man. In truth he is a slum-lord, and a more despicable thief than I shall ever be. His tenants shiver in domiciles that can barely be labeled such, while he wallows in luxury. Should they miss a payment (one far too hefty for the product), he does not hesitate to put a widow or gaggle of orphans into the street. If only he knew how often those payments were made at the last minute with coins from his own coffer!
I am a thief. I steal for many reasons, most of them selfish. But one reason is to lash out at those such as this man. I have stolen enough in my time, from this one and others like him, to keep myself in similar luxury the rest of my days, but I give much of it away. I have no desire to be as they.
I move to a chest at the foot of his bed. My eyes scan the edges of the lid for signs of a trap. None apparent, my fingers check as well, feeling tentatively for any hint of danger. Satisfied, one hand moves to the lock-picks at my belt and the other to the chest’s lid. It opens without protest, not secured at all. My stomach lurches once again. I’ve taken gold from this chest twice this month; the letch has wealth enough either not to notice or not to care. And his tenants struggle just to survive.
In silent rage I fill my pack, forcing myself not to take too much. Seconds later I stand again and observe the sleeping behemoth. In a brief darkness, I consider slitting his throat. The gods know, my blade has seen its share of work, and as often as not, my enemies felt it from behind. But no… a cold-blooded murderer I am not. Part of me wishes he would wake and pose some real danger; then I would cut him down without remorse. With a disgusted grimace, both at him and myself, I turn away.
My work here is done, and it is time to leave. I shun the window and move to the stairs, taking the opportunity to map more of the place for future visits. A few moments later, I unbar the front door and step out into the streets. My head is held as high as any lord’s.
Soon a ruckus erupts in the night, a few blocks over. Angry shouts mix with frightened ones, and both soon turn to cries for the guard. It appears my efforts from earlier this evening have been noticed.
A feeling of danger I have learned not to ignore puts me on alert. With a mix of instinct and practiced skill, I melt into the shadows. Seconds later, a patrol of city watch members dash by, oblivious. I smile, and I head home for the night.
I hold no delusions about myself. I am no hero. I lie, I cheat, and obviously, I steal. Most mornings I wake where I passed out the night before in a drunken stupor. I’ve mistreated many a maid… though not physically, mind you. At times I hate myself as much as I hate anyone.
Neither would I have you believe all that possess wealth are evil. There are some who have earned it through hard work and luck, and who share it with others. Those people I admire.
I know but one cold hard fact; life is harsh, made more so by our own actions. I believe every man has a talent, and they should use that talent to make the world easier for others if and when they can. Even a thief. No act of kindness is too great, and more importantly, none are too slight.
This is something I wrote for an online magazine, and thought people here might enjoy it.
Taking a momentary respite, I glance over my shoulder to the city. Darkness drapes over it; only a few flickers of torchlight scattered about the landscape penetrate the shroud. Other than an occasional dog barking, there is absolutely no sound. It makes me feel alone in the world, and with that comes a strange sense of peace. The night is my time; it belongs to me. I am a living cliché: the thief in the night.
But I’m likely far from what you imagine when you hear the word thief. I’ll get to that more in depth later. For now, back to business.
Hand over hand I scale the wall of the keep. Though the sheer surface might seem insurmountable to most, time and practice has made the act almost effortless for me. At times it’s unsettling; I catch myself becoming lost in thought, not recalling much of the climb. Remembering the slightest mistake could mean my demise, I force myself to concentrate.
In seconds, I reach my goal: a fifth-floor tower window in a noble’s keep. In my mind, I spit the word ‘noble’ like a sup of sour milk, but again, I’ll get back to that. Easing my head closer to the ledge, I hold my breath and listen. Nothing, save some bloated snores emanating from inside. Perfect. I raise my head further to peer inside; thought there is only moonlight, my eyes are accustomed and I can tell there is no movement. Instinctively, I inspect the window ledge and jambs for traps, as well as the floor just inside, then slip through, coming to rest with a muffled sound only detectable to one like myself.
The room reeks with opulence. Paintings and tapestries adorn the walls, and exquisite furniture stands throughout. The price of any one of them could feed a starving family for a year or more. My stomach lurches.
My eyes move to the source of the snores: a heap of velvet atop a canopied oaken bed. Underneath the velvet is a mound of a man, a self-proclaimed business-man. In truth he is a slum-lord, and a more despicable thief than I shall ever be. His tenants shiver in domiciles that can barely be labeled such, while he wallows in luxury. Should they miss a payment (one far too hefty for the product), he does not hesitate to put a widow or gaggle of orphans into the street. If only he knew how often those payments were made at the last minute with coins from his own coffer!
I am a thief. I steal for many reasons, most of them selfish. But one reason is to lash out at those such as this man. I have stolen enough in my time, from this one and others like him, to keep myself in similar luxury the rest of my days, but I give much of it away. I have no desire to be as they.
I move to a chest at the foot of his bed. My eyes scan the edges of the lid for signs of a trap. None apparent, my fingers check as well, feeling tentatively for any hint of danger. Satisfied, one hand moves to the lock-picks at my belt and the other to the chest’s lid. It opens without protest, not secured at all. My stomach lurches once again. I’ve taken gold from this chest twice this month; the letch has wealth enough either not to notice or not to care. And his tenants struggle just to survive.
In silent rage I fill my pack, forcing myself not to take too much. Seconds later I stand again and observe the sleeping behemoth. In a brief darkness, I consider slitting his throat. The gods know, my blade has seen its share of work, and as often as not, my enemies felt it from behind. But no… a cold-blooded murderer I am not. Part of me wishes he would wake and pose some real danger; then I would cut him down without remorse. With a disgusted grimace, both at him and myself, I turn away.
My work here is done, and it is time to leave. I shun the window and move to the stairs, taking the opportunity to map more of the place for future visits. A few moments later, I unbar the front door and step out into the streets. My head is held as high as any lord’s.
Soon a ruckus erupts in the night, a few blocks over. Angry shouts mix with frightened ones, and both soon turn to cries for the guard. It appears my efforts from earlier this evening have been noticed.
A feeling of danger I have learned not to ignore puts me on alert. With a mix of instinct and practiced skill, I melt into the shadows. Seconds later, a patrol of city watch members dash by, oblivious. I smile, and I head home for the night.
I hold no delusions about myself. I am no hero. I lie, I cheat, and obviously, I steal. Most mornings I wake where I passed out the night before in a drunken stupor. I’ve mistreated many a maid… though not physically, mind you. At times I hate myself as much as I hate anyone.
Neither would I have you believe all that possess wealth are evil. There are some who have earned it through hard work and luck, and who share it with others. Those people I admire.
I know but one cold hard fact; life is harsh, made more so by our own actions. I believe every man has a talent, and they should use that talent to make the world easier for others if and when they can. Even a thief. No act of kindness is too great, and more importantly, none are too slight.
This is something I wrote for an online magazine, and thought people here might enjoy it.
