#Thief_fanfiction

[pixichi]

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." 

[pixichi]

Stealth and Witchcraft Cp.10

Garrett ended up falling asleep at his work station that night, after carefully removing his metal prosthetic so as not to accidently crush the more delicate components. After the difficult day he'd had, the thief was hoping to enjoy a long and dreamless rest. But his slumber, was far from pleasant: *** A storm was imminent, though not the sort Garrett was expecting as he remained hunched atop that domed rooftop, surveying the expanse of that sullen midnight sky. It was almost numbing, having her so near. He could have reached out and touched her in that moment if he'd so chosen. But like the phantasmic specters of an impossible dream, the thief feared that such an attempt would shatter the precious veil between reality and fiction. For the moment, she was there. And she was speaking to him again, though far from the way he would have preferred. "Have you caught your breath yet, old man?" she asked with that mischievous, uninterested smirk of hers. An expression she'd long ago acquired from her mentor, and perfected over the course of her short lifetime. Garrett glowered up at her, his bi-colored stare far from amused by her little jest. "I wasn't catching my breath, Erin," he sneered. "I just happened to see something down below," he explained, bobbing his head in the direction of the intricate glass skylight. His accomplice  shot him an incredulous look. "Riiight..." she crossed her arms. "And I have a husband and twenty-seven kids waiting for me back home." "Don't be a smart ass," the older thief discouraged her sarcasm. Erin just rolled her eyes. "Come on Garrett. Basso told me you'd help out," she groused, taking a few moments more to survey the billowing smog as it snuffed out the moon. "Okay, first of all, yeah. And I am," he reassured her. "Second of all, take a peek down there yourself if you don't believe me." The thief pointed a thin and smudged index finger, encouraging the girl to peer down over the precipice of the stately manse. Erin did as she was bade, her cyan eyes narrowing as they began to make out the forms of several hooded figures below. Atop a mahogany pedestal towards the center of the room, was a silvery blue stone glinting with an almost otherworldly luster. "Cult activity?" Erin asked, turning back to her mentor. Garrett said nothing, as he continued to survey the suspicious gathering below with pensive eyes. "Perhaps," he muttered, "certainly seems like the sort of layout for that." As he had done countless times over the course of his time with Erin, Garrett was only telling half-truths. Keeping his apprentice--no, his daughter--blind to that which could potentially harm, or otherwise greatly upset her. After all, what sort of parent could possibly do less? Consequently, he knew full well that a ritual was indeed transpiring far below his piercing glare and stiff form. There were other artifacts resting upon similar pedestals, relics which had been used in a sinister ritual fifteen years before. And as he began to recognize each of the objects involved, a trill of primitive dread traversed Garrett's spine with a sinister shock. A gleaming heart of ruby red, impossible luster and impressive in size. A crown of twisted and savage design, its cold silver and aquamarine adornments visible even from this high up. A golden chalice, a mummified paw. The recognition of the four relics gave the master thief pause. He wondered, if it was down there too. The unshakable sensation of disquieted uncertainty which ravaged his person mere seconds after, gave Garrett his answer. As he leered further still down into the darkness of that place, the hooded criminal could see it leering up at him. Silent and frozen, but watching him all the same. The Eye had promised to return to the City one day. To return for that remaining coal-brown optic which now sat mismatched alongside a venin replica. And now, it was finally here. But it wasn't the presence of that sentient nightmare that gave the thief pause. It was the sacrificial podium which the hooded ones now encircled. More specifically, it was the masked soul strapped down atop it. Even from his present height, Garrett could see the victim writhing and trembling within their tight bonds. The green mask they wore was intricate, frightening. It reminded the thief of Pagans, although there was something almost mocking about the peculiar design. The lost eyes which seemed to stare directly into him from that painted smiling face. It genuinely chilled him. Garrett stood from the window, clasping his ward's shoulder in the process. "Nope. That's it. We're not doing this." Erin gawked up at the thief, as if he'd just revealed the impossible to her. And, in some sense of the word, he had. Garrett: The Master Thief, abandoning a job? It was beyond comprehensible for her. She had watched him take risks far greater, and come out even wealthier still. Her blue eyes darkened against the backdrop of gloomy sky and turbulent weather. "What?!" the word was but a breathless whisper. Garrett deigned to respond, having neither time nor interest for her blatant disapproval. As the thief turned around to leave, Erin jolted upright, stomping across the rooftop after him. "Hey!!" she hollered. That, at least gave him pause. A puff of dense mist exited the girl's dark lips, as she began to seethe. "What are you doing?!" Garrett looked over his shoulder at her, the blustery winds tearing at his cloak. "The job just fell through. I'm going home," he remarked. Erin acquired a stunned expression, her mouth wide open as she struggled to process what the thief had just told her. "You're BAILING on me?!" she gaped. "No way!" "Way," Garrett sneered. Erin gestured furiously with her arms, before throwing them up over her head in a blatant tantrum. "I don't get it!" she shouted, "Basso told me you'd be fine with this!" Garrett hesitated, a deep sigh leaving his lips as he massaged his throbbing temples. In his youth, the thief could recall his own mentor, Artemus, doing this quite regularly. Now, Garrett finally understood why. Turning around, the hooded misanthrope walked up to his child, and gave her a most unsettling glare. "Erin. Look, I'm sorry. But I didn't expect this. Not even the greatest of criminals can prepare for every contingency," he explained. But Garrett could tell by the headstrong look on her face, that the girl was far from convinced. Far from sated. "That's why you have skill. Aces up your sleeve," she retorted, "So what if the nobles are dabbling in the unspeakable down there? The stuff we're after is in the East Wing! Why in the hell are you letting what's happening down there bother you like this?!" "You don't get it," the thief growled. "This isn't about feelings, or blind fear, kid. This, is about past experiences. Mistakes that I don't want you getting tangled up in, Erin." Impossibly blue eyes surged through the darkness as the spry young huntress glowered up at her paternal guide. Garrett had been far from an astute role model to her. He'd disappointed at Christmas, and forgotten birthdays. But seldom had Erin been more disappointed in the man, as she was in that intransigent moment. "I don't care," she snarled, blue eyes vibrant in the dark. "I need what's in the East Wing. And I'm not leaving here without it." Erin's attempts to assert herself proved futile at best. Before her stood a man who'd seen much, and suffered so much more. His eyes served as bi-colored windows into that which an imperious child such as she could never hope to comprehend. A dismal, inescapable prison of his own design. One that he secretly aspired to safeguard her from at all costs. "You can always come back for it later," Garrett rebuked, as the midnight rain grew frigid. "Whatever it is, it isn't worth your life..." The young woman stared awestruck at him for several moments, before releasing a raucous, mocking chorale. "My LIFE?" Erin blinked, brushing a strand of jet black hair from her pallid face. "Okay, Garrett. I have time to play. I see...hmm, maybe six gaudy trinkets, a masked sacrifice, and some hooded freaks down there. No offence," the girl grinned up at him. Garrett refused to dignify her with a response. After a while of cold, awkward silence and raindrops, Erin cleared her throat. "Okay, so my point was, just what exactly do you suspect's down there anyway? Just what are you so afraid of?" The thief glared at her, his cloak billowing in the air behind him like an imposing black flag. Garrett could smell the trepidation laced upon those chilling gales as they stung his face. It was as though the nocturnal abyss that surrounded them, was preparing for war. He glanced down at his boots, memories of perilous encounters long since past racing through his head. They were mages, and they knew the baron. He didn't have to ask why--the situation spoke for itself. Something frightfully dubious, was happening down there. Something that involved that sinister winking relic. "It was the first real commission I ever took--and the last. An enthusiastic nobleman and his consort contacted me regarding the thing," Garrett explained. Erin raised an eyebrow. "You? Working for a noble?!" "I was young and stupid back then," Garrett grumbled. "All I could focus on, was the promise of wealth beyond my wildest dreams. What sorts of things I could have done with all that money..." The thief trailed off for a moment, closing his eyes in profound shame. Bitter lament. Thoughts of fine wines, a lavish manse by the sea. His own concubines, and enough treasure to make even a pirate king envious. Such worldly desires had corrupted and clouded his mind, much like Constantine's curious green wine had the eve of their first meeting. Garrett still chastised himself for never recognizing the obvious. The Trickster's façade had been only skin deep, that devilish grin prominently out of place upon the old man's face. And yet, the thief had taken the bait regardless. Erin's cold fingers tapped his hand, snapping Garrett from his disquieting stupor. "So, you stole this dude an artifact back when you were my age? So what?" she snorted," and what the taff does that story have to do with anything?" Her mentor glared at her. "The thing I stole for him--it's down there right now," Garrett responded in a distant, unsettled voice. Erin peered over the skylight again, watching as one of the hooded figures reached for a large and tattered tome. "Which one?" she asked, more curious and casual than the thief was comfortable with. Reluctantly, Garrett pointed out the object in question. Though he couldn't be certain, the thief thought he heard the thing emanate a gravelly chuckle as he did so. "That one. It's called The Eye." "The Eye?" his ward parroted, a derisive grin contorting across her face. "Stupid name. It doesn't look anything like an eye." "That's far from the point," Garrett sneered. "It has one. Two, actually. And it's looking to obtain a third..." The moonlighter fought to contain a hitched shudder, but Erin caught the troubled grimace upon his weathered face. "Garrett? You okay?" she asked, genuinely concerned but still grinning. The thief released a loud, shaken sigh. "No. I'm not," he replied, his gaze never leaving that horrible relic. It was watching him too, and the thief knew it. "Look, we need to leave now, Erin. That thing...it's..." Garrett's mouth went dry, rendering him momentarily speechless. Erin inched closer to where he sat hunched over the edge of the skylight. "It's what?" she inquired, trying her best to sound genuine, and helpful. Garrett shook his head, standing once again from the rooftop. "Never mind. We're leaving," he commanded, starting back towards the  edge of the building again. "Come on." Erin started off after him, nearly tripping herself in her haste. Somehow, she managed to reach and intercept Garrett before he could begin his decent back down the side of the building. "Wait a minute!" she panted, arms outstretched. "You're seriously abandoning this heist because you're afraid of a ROCK?!" Garrett scowled at that, his pupils gyrating in a deep, personal fury. He had always known better than to reveal too much of his past to the girl. But for whatever inexplicable reason, that night, he had. Perhaps it was the overwhelming elation he felt to see her again after nearly four years of alienation. Or perhaps, it was the thief's own distorted brand of paternal instinct, fighting against his aloof personality in order to keep her safe. "It's sentient, and it's very evil. Let's leave it at that," he snapped. But Erin, was far from satisfied. "So what?" she argued. "You're Garrett! You single-handedly blew up the Trickster. You broke up the entire Mechanist order by using their own prophet's weapon against him. Hell, you even destroyed that horrible hag who murdered my parents! You expect me to believe for even one second that you're THIS terrified over a 'very evil' sentient bauble?!" Lighting lit up the night sky, revealing the thief's innermost turmoil to the girl he'd raised since she was twelve. Erin wasn't prepared for what she beheld chiseled there upon his gaunt, grizzled features. The unspeakable stillness, the icy and detached expression of a man who had seen more than his fair share of evils. Garrett ground his teeth beneath stiff, compressed lips. His eyes closed, and as the thunder rocked the foundation beneath his feet, the criminal wrestled with an extremely delicate conundrum. He had never told Erin the specifics regarding the loss of his right eye. The details were far too preposterous for anyone to believe, far too agonizing for the thief to relive. But if he stood any chance to convincing her to abandon the mission that night, risks had to be taken. Sacrifices, had to be made. This reveal, would be his final attempt to try and illustrate the severity of peril to his headstrong charge. It was a moot decision, but one made out of desperation rather than practicality. A part of him knew Erin wouldn't listen. She never did, once the prize was in sight. But another part of him--a part only a handful of souls had ever been privy to--had made the attempt out of some improbable hope that tonight would be different. "It's also the reason I lost my eye..." he managed, his voice low and distant. For the briefest of moments, Garrett's heart surged with hope when he beheld the mortified expression upon the girl's pale features. There was not a hint of skepticism  locked away behind that lapis glare. Erin, believed him. But the thief's hopes were to be dashed just as quickly. Because although she did indeed believe his harrowing tale, Erin still possessed the same regrettable weaknesses that he did: Arrogance. Tenacity. Greed. After all, he had raised her that way. Children often inherit the traits of their guardians--both good, and bad. She did not understand. Why, after all this time, all of her personal sacrifices, should SHE admit defeat?!  Her eyes widened for a moment, before glazing over once more with those less-than-desirable traits. "Alright, I think I get it," she hissed, turning away in an exasperated motion. Again, Garrett assumed that he'd gotten through to her. But hope, often has a way of amplifying disappointment, and pain. Erin faced him, her blue eyes shimmering with brazen confidence. "But I'm not like you. This doesn't effect me," she hissed cruelly. Garrett's eyes grew wide beneath the shadowy confines of his hood, as the grueling ultimatum of the situation overtook him. Despite everything he'd just explained. Despite everything he'd risked and revealed at the sake of his own comfort, his ward would not be stopped. It was as though her mind was deadlocked, her body acting for the sake of another. Even at her most unruly, Erin had never been this blindingly foolish. It made Garrett wonder, with a sickening shift of his gut, just what she was truly after? And why? As the girl proceeded to head back across the rooftops in the direction of the Eastern Gallery, something rough grabbed her arm. Erin whirled around, dagger at the ready. Only to see Garrett, the most bothersome look of severity present upon his face. "Don't..." he snarled, though his features reflected far more concern than anger. Erin broke away from his grasp with a sharp, unexpected strength. She sneered up at her mentor, the midnight breeze ruffling her unkempt black bangs. "Cut it out, Garrett!" she shouted, shoving him backwards. "You know what? This, is beyond stupid. If your gonna be stuck on this roof having  little PTSD episode, then I'm going on without you." A sensation like cold electricity swelled within the thief's chest the moment those careless words left her mouth. He could accept her sassy attitude. He could endure her defiance. But when she dared to make light of the hell he'd suffered, after he'd just revealed a particularly terrible experience with her. That was the one thing Garrett couldn't tolerate. "What the hell do you know about it?!" he shouted, extending his hand and slapping her. "I'll tell you: You don't know shit! So keep your damned mouth shut, Erin!" His outburst was an instantly regrettable action. A last resort to try and get his heedless waif to listen to reason. As the Keepers would have put it, a lapse in judgement. Yet another loss of balance. The look of deep fear and pleading within his weathered face emphasized this, but the girl at his side felt only the burning in her face, and a vicious resentment budding within her chest. Erin grabbed her cheek, growling in frustration as she leered up at the man whom had practically raised her. "I won't. I'm not a child anymore Garrett! And YOU..." she snarled, hesitation holding her venomous tongue for but a moment, before her sinister reprisal bit through those conscientious bindings, "...you, will NEVER be my father..." Her words tore away at him, wounding the thief in a place his headstrong charge could never hope to see. A myriad of callous words flooded the thief's mind like briny water; murky and chilling. But in that conflicted moment, the wounded moonlighter could only bring himself to ask one simple question in response. "Erin, why is this damned gem so important to you?!" The girl's breath hitched in response to his unexpected quandary. It was as though she could once again feel the knife at her neck, smell the bile and whisky upon her captors. Erin's eyes flooded with hot tears, as she recalled what they had said to her at the start of the week: "You dare to defy us?! We lost Vanessa 'cause of you, bitch. Now, you're gonna get us that taffing gem, or I'll have your heart instead!" The Burrick's Soul. One of the largest diamonds in the world. A marvelous prize indeed. Her 'employers' had made their rather passionate request known, but despite all of her previous experience with both thieving and assassination, Erin knew that obtaining the gem would be difficult indeed. That's precisely why she'd contacted Basso, asking him to recruit Garrett onto this little excursion of hers. Despite her arrogance, Erin knew that she couldn't do it without him. But for his sake--and for hers--she couldn't tell him the truth about this job. Thunderclouds rolled overhead, and Erin released a loud, distressed sigh. "Listen Garrett...I-I can't tell you, okay?" she tried. The hooded rogue glowered down at her. "And why the hell not?" "I just can't, alright?" Erin snapped. "It's...complicated." It had been almost four years since they'd last spoken, and suffice to say, the evening hadn't been anywhere as hospitable as she'd hoped. When she first encountered her old mentor atop that roof beneath a vibrant sea of twilight and newly-birthed stars, Erin had expected a look of surprise to overtake his rough features. Perhaps even a smile. But instead, Garrett acted as though time itself had been absent for the last four years. She continued to eye the thief, how his face now displayed such shock. Though for a different reason entirely. In truth, Garrett had his own ways of expressing intense emotion. That was to say, he disliked doing it at all. Outwardly, he preferred his features to remain steadfast and stoic. However, what transpired within, was a different story entirely. He hadn't said a word, hadn't asked for even the slightest of details when he'd met her atop the shingles that evening. Garrett didn't bother, because he didn't care. Seeing his girl again after so many years. Seeing her back, not only alive but according to Basso, doing quite well for herself. It filled him with an indescribable joy, a pride which even an arrogant man such as Garrett had never experienced before. Garrett didn't question Erin's whereabouts, because simply having her back was more than enough to satisfy him. But now, how he wished that she'd stayed away. The truth can be a very damaging thing, regardless as to whether or not one choses to believe it. While Erin hadn't meant them, even now as she deeply regretted those words, the tragedy remained. They were still undeniably true. He was but a bereaved misanthrope, trying to pay homage to a dead man he'd never so much as thanked for saving his life. Erin, had simply tried to pickpocket the wrong man at the right time. As the malevolent ritual continued to commence beneath their feet, Erin looked up at her mentor again. Her eyes were large, pleading. Desperate to correct a disastrous slip of the tongue. "Look, I'm sorry for what I said. You...you're the one who saved me. That's more than my biological father could do. I owe you my life, and I don't tell you that enough. I--" Before she could conclude her apology, Garrett held up a hand to silence her. Rubbing his temples, the thief allowed his balance to slip for the second time that night. "--Erin. Just stop. You've been gone four years. You made your choice. You're an adult now. Why the taff should I care how you feel about me?" Upon receipt of those callous words, Erin's entire world crumbled. Her sapphire eyes shimmered with tears there against that rumbling leaden sky, as she stepped backwards. "Is...is that how you really feel?" she gasped, her hushed voice nearly drowned out by the vile storm. Garrett turned to face her, his movements stiff and constricted. Remorseful, yet far too proud to admit his guilt. Another clap of thunder echoed throughout the City, as veteran and apprentice made eye contact. The thief's tongue brushed the roof of his mouth, as though the act would ease the flow of words from his tight throat. But before he could even open his mouth, a shrill crackling sound disrupted the night. Both Garrett and Erin began to survey the area, seeking a culprit for the peculiar interruption. However, it was the blue-eyed girl who found it first when she looked down. A sickening twinge of dread overtook Erin's person, when she at last realized just where she was standing. Before Garrett could react, the skylight began to splinter outwards around her boots. He lurched forward, his instincts overtaking both reason and guile in that horrific moment. "Erin! Get back!" he barked. But his warning came far too late. The world around him faded to a inhospitable grey, as the thief felt the blood drain away from his face. His heart plummeted into his quivering stomach, and Garrett could only watch through his helpless stupor, as his entire world shattered beneath her. *** Garrett sprung from his mattress, panting and drenched with sweat. It ran like blood from his temples, the clammy chill of the clocktower tickling his face. Clutching at the sheets, he stared through one maddened eye at his lap. His body was a trembling mess, his perception hazy at best in lieu of the nightmare and lack of depth perception. But that was until he noticed her. Gwenevere was kneeling beside his bed, and as his vision gradually swam into focus, Garrett registered on just how concerned she actually was. Her cherubic face was riddled with an intense worry, her large green eyes almost luminous against a dismal backdrop of filthy shadows. "Are you okay, Garrett?" she asked, the moment he glowered up at her. "I'm fine!" Garrett barked, catching his breath with a shout. "Why wouldn't I be?" "Because," Gwenevere crooned, resisting the urge to rest a comforting hand upon the thief's quaking knee. "You were screaming." Garrett gawked up at her, the lack of symmetry within his features giving him a frightful appearance. Had he really been screaming? Considering what his nightmare had been about, the thief didn't doubt it. He clutched the bedsheets tighter beneath his thin fingers, chastising himself for allowing the brat to hear him in a moment of weakness. "Yeah, well even if that were true," he huffed, "I'm fine now." Gwenevere scooted away from him, her eyes narrowing in response to his cutting words. "Yes, I can see that you are," she snorted. "Back to your usual, jerky self..." "Then what are you still doing here Gwenevere?" Garrett stared pensively at her. Gwenevere looked up at him, focusing her two eyes into his one. The remaining dark optic seemed to take on an almost sinister tone in the dead of night. She could tell that this sort of prolonged eye contact made her mentor very uncomfortable, but all the same, she needed him to see the gratitude written within her eyes. Furthermore, she had to know why he'd done what he had. "Garrett?" she asked. The thief's brows furrowed at her bell-like voice. "Shouldn't you be getting back to bed?" he sneered. Gwenevere bit her bottom lip. "I-I haven't been able to sleep at all tonight, actually," she admitted. "I mean, I tried yes. But..." "But?" the thief raised a cautious eyebrow. Gwenevere looked down at her crossed legs, and began chewing on her hair again. "Garrett?" she mumbled through a mouthful of red. "What?!" he snapped, feeling beyond uncomfortable by this point. Gwenevere shot upwards, allowing the moistened strand to slip free from her mouth. Once again, she locked her gaze into Garrett's, though there was an glint of skeptisim and intrigue written within her face this time. "Garrett, why did you keep me from those men tonight?" Her question rattled him, causing Garrett's entire face to warp into a look of utmost perplexity. "What men?" he decided to play the fool, knowing full well just what scum Gwenevere was indeed referring to. "The bounty hunters outside of the tavern," she explained. Then, the young woman acquired a authentic bleakness within her features. "I may be ditzy. I may be clumsy and naïve. But I know that you despise me, Garrett. No doubt you've come to understand that there's a reward offered for my safe return, and--" "--considered," the thief corrected. Gwenevere blinked. "What?" "A reward is being considered. That's what your poster said anyway," Garrett grumbled. "Right," the girl nodded. "So, if you indeed hate me so much, why did you hide me back there? Why didn't you just hand me over to those men?" Garrett sighed hard, cracking his knuckles as he contemplated the esoteric reasoning behind that innocent question of hers, and the actions he had taken earlier that night. Truth be told, he'd been asking himself the same question. He did despise Gwenevere. More than anything, he wanted her out of his tower. Out of his life. So why had he allowed such a superb chance to be rid of her to slip from his grasp? "I just hate bounty hunters," he shrugged, perverting his response with both lies and truth. "So don't you go getting it into your senseless little head that I actually care about you, or anything like that." "I...never said you did..." the girl smiled. Feeling flustered, the thief's discontent intensified. Despite her best efforts, Gwenevere soon found herself captivated by the empty void on the right half of his face. It seemed to be pulling at her, dragging her down into the unsafe realms of his morose world. When he noticed her incessant staring, Garrett grimaced. "What is it now?" he barked. Without even thinking, Gwenevere blurted out exactly what was on her mind. "How did you lose your eye?" she asked. The question had been innocent, but it caused a surge of torment to seize Garrett by the chest. No one--not even directly after the incident--had ever possessed the bravery to ask the thief that question. But now, out of all the possible inquisitors he had come across, it was this insolent girl who had just unwittingly requested more than she could ever possibly understand. Her clumsy hands and wanting mouth had just ripped open those horrific scars which Garrett had tried so desperately to forget. The thief ground his teeth. She had no right. Initial chagrin, was soon replaced by a savage fury. "Don't you EVER ask me that question again! Keep your nose in your own affairs!" he bellowed, before abruptly jerking his face away from hers. Gwenevere remained motionless upon the floorboards, her mouth drawn open into an exasperated gape. The girl continued to watch him, feeling for him as he brooded there in the darkness. However he had lost his eye, one thing was now eminently clear to her:  It must have been beyond awful. "I'm so, so sorry Garrett..." she finally spoke up, holding back tears as a lump began to form within her frail throat. "I never wanted to hurt you like this. I-I just--" "--Go. Away," he snarled, his slouched posture heaving with every breath he drew inward. Gwenevere stood, tears shimmering at the edge of her remorseful eyes. "Thank you, for today," she curtsied, before returning to her place atop the stairs. Garrett remained motionless for a time, perched within the serene blackness of his tower like a statue. He shook his head, beyond baffled by the entire situation. Why did she waste those frilly manners on him like that? Why did she stare at him so? And quite possibly the question which haunted him most of all: Why did she--upper crust lady that she was-- want anything to do with a thief like him? When he was sure that she was indeed asleep this time, Garrett felt around the empty socket with the base of his thumb, and stood. Slinking past a now slumbering Gwenevere, Garrett ascended the stairway, and propped his elbows against the window ledge. With his remaining eye, the thief looked out over the slumbering city, lost in a sea of deep contemplation. 

[pixichi]

Stealth and Witchcraft Cp.14

For the next few days, on into her second week in Garrett's custody, Gwenevere dedicated herself to the art of picking locks. She opened every door, chest, and cabinet she could find, until her fingers were raw and red from her efforts. Blisters and callouses began to develop upon her once flawless fingers, her nails chipped and worn down to the quick in some places. But if the young woman had learned anything over the course of her short, yet harrowing life, it was that physical pain, was often temporary. It was the emotional suffering, which one had to be cautious of.

Upon an otherwise uneventful afternoon, Garrett left to collect some information from Basso, leaving his boisterous ward in charge of the clocktower. Dedicated and eager, Gwenevere took the opportunity to explore, and hopefully, discover more locks to pick. The elevator jangled and protested as she rode it down into the forgotten bowels of that place. It made her heart race, and for a moment, she was certain the entire lift would plummet her into the abyss. But the Hammerites lived up to their ingenuity, and despite the metallic groans and worrying jerks which accompanied her decent, Gwenevere made it safely down into the depths of the clocktower.

The aspiring vigilante did indeed find much to do down there. Dust and cobwebs had overtaken much of the lower levels, and many of the once sophisticated mechanisms were water-logged and ruined. Because of the baron's decree, the means of repairing and restoring the clocktower were nonexistent. Thus, standing water from rainstorms long since passed had corroded much of the tower's impressive organs beyond repair.

She waved hello to a foraging rat, as the creature stopped to clean its whiskers atop a rather large machine. A faded metal plaque reading, COAL DISPENSER, hung precariously from loose, rusty screws. Another plaque, this one reading, FOREMAN'S OFFICE, hung to her left. Gwenevere ventured into the forgotten area, only to discover a series of moldy volumes littering the remains of a decaying wooden bookcase. Those she could still read were squishy in her hands, their pages turning to mush when she attempted to turn them. The entire area smelled of very old stone, and wet dog.

Using her trusty new lockpicks, Gwenevere sprung the door at the far end of the room. But unlike the others before it, this door bore extra locks and chains around its handle. A part of her began to wonder why Garrett kept these doors locked to begin with. Surely he'd been down here before? So what lurked beyond these sealed passages, and why did he want her to discover it? Was it some sort of test, or another mindless errand meant to keep her exuberant mind occupied? Gwenevere felt herself shrug as she started through the liberated doorway. There was only one way to find out.

"Oh wow..." she heard herself gasp, as she entered this new hallway.

Though it was impossible to tell how or when, it became instantly apparent that a great explosion had once taken place. Everyone, from the most influential noble, right down to the most ludicrous fool, had heard the stories. Of how the magnificent clocktower of Stonemart, had simply fallen over one night, fifteen years ago. Since then, the Hammerites had endeavored to both rebuild their cherished monument, and to bring the miscreant responsible to justice. After all, clocktowers don't just collapse on their own. Sabotage, although never proven, was the most widely-accepted theory regarding the tower's destruction.

Fortunately, very few onlookers were hurt by its collapse, and none had been killed. But the same could not be said for those unfortunate Hammerites who'd dedicated their very souls to maintaining the impressive structure. The worst carnage occurred in the control room, the deepest part of the tower. And Gwenevere, was now gazing at the remains of that tragedy.

The Hammers had done a fantastic job of restoring the obliterated core back to its former glory. Surveying the area beneath her, Gwenevere couldn't see any evidence of the past disaster. The entire area, had an air of stoic peace about it. But it was the tall, dignified pewter tombs that caught her eye, and a tear of bereaved lament soon followed. Before the baron's detested decree, before their banishment from this place, the Hammerites had constructed a memorial for their fallen brethren.

Now, as her verdant eyes took in the profoundness of it all, Gwenevere too found herself wondering just who could have been responsible for this terrible tragedy.

But something glinting within her peripheral vision distracted her mind from such morose speculations. Slowly, she turned her head and glanced down the opposite hallway. There, situated atop a moldy alter, sat a familiar sword.

Gwenevere's eyes narrowed at the sight, crestfallen woe warping into a chilling sensation of unease, as she made her way towards the weapon with reluctant, heavy steps. As she reached it, a most horrible sensation of dread swept over her. Gwenevere felt her heart leap into her throat, as her eyes confirmed that this was indeed, her father's stolen relic. It was ironic--blasphemous even--to see that odious blade atop a Hammerite alter.

She plucked up the sword, feeling as its weight pulled at every sinew and tendon in her arm. It was heavy, cold and cruel within her tiny hands. Gwenevere was no warrior. Truth be told, this was the first time she'd ever so much as held a weapon of any kind. But the sword, was a long-lost, and cherished family possession. Somehow, she had to return it to its rightful owners. The girl creature shuddered. Doing so, would indeed be dangerous.

She had no intention of going back to that mystical place so soon, even though it called out to her every day. Pleading for her to return. Her green eyes glistened in the musty darkness, as she eyed the sleek black sword. Now, at the very least, she had an excuse.

But something still troubled the girl, lingering at the back of her mind like a sinister pair of hungry eyes. Why was her father's sword here of all places? The Hammerites would have recognized it, surely. Cleansed away its perceived wickedness with holy water, before melting it into nothingness with fire and forge. There wasn't any conceivable excuse for the weapon's survival within this place. No divine templar of the red cloth would wittingly keep such a malevolent relic.

A chill, raced down Gwenevere's spine, before being burned away by feverous rage. That was, unless the person who found it was a heretic. A thief. The thief, who had been occupying this tower for years. The runaway ground her teeth, as the realization finally dawned on her.

"That night...it was you who took it..."

***

The warm tickles of enchanted sunbeams danced and played upon her cheeks, as Gwenevere looked up through the verdant green treetops, and smiled to herself. She had always adored the spring portion of the Maw, because it granted her a solace not found anywhere else. Though the frigid gales of impending winter howled, the world dismal and frostbitten, this place remained forever green. Forever warm, and joyful. It had been many years, since last she'd come to this place seeking refuge. Few cityheads dared travel this far into the woods, and even fewer survived the trek. But this place was no more dangerous to Gwenevere, than a placid meadow of poppies.

However, even the serenity of this magical woodland world could not keep the remorse and heartbreak from the child's mind. It had been fifteen years now, since she'd left this place. Not of her own volition, but rather the wicked promises of man's lying tongue, and the cruel iron chains that bound her still. Ever since then, there was no nature, no song. No warmth of bonfires, nor raucous and familiar bouts of song that always lasted long into the night. Even now, the forest was still, demure. The Pagans, were hiding. But to what end, the girl could not decipher.

Trembles found her hands, as Gwenevere gripped her father's blade tighter. How would they respond, when at last they saw her again? The girl creature had long ago come to the disquieting conclusion, that they must have proclaimed her dead. If not, then what had the woodsie folk made of her disappearance? After all, she was but a child when Lord Simmons had spirited her from this place.

Gwenevere ran her hand over the cool moss of a decomposing log. The forest had healed beautifully since that horrible night. An outsider would never have suspected the bloody terrors which had overwhelmed this place more than a decade before. Screams of both animal and man, rock and tree. Distorted mineral, shaped and corrupted to destroy the very earth which had first given it life.

The canopy above shifted, sending a flurry of petals down into Gwenevere's ruby tresses, as she continued her stroll. Birds and small rodents darted amidst the shadows of the brush, picking at berries and fretting over their colorful plumage and coats. Their chatters and chirps resounded throughout the lower half of the spring village, filling the ligneous greensie kingdom with song.

But all creatures fell silent, when they spotted the estranged girl making her way ever forward upon placid toes. When she at last reached the mouth of an ancient spring, Gwenevere too began to startle. Breath caught in her throat, while something akin to dread began to creep up her spine like nocturnal insects. Bracing herself for the unspeakable, the girl clutched her father's sword tighter against her chest, and turned around.

What stood hulking yet hunched before her, was neither man nor beast. But rather, ligneous in nature. Twisted roots, near black in coloration made up most of its frightening frame, thorns curling over ligaments and branches darting outward like sinister claws. It leaned towards her, its body creaking and groaning beneath the heavy bulk of boughs and roots. Beneath a tangled mass of rotted moss and cobwebs, Gwenevere could see two eyes gleaming a vibrant yellow in the shadow of the tall trees. Though logic demanded otherwise, recognition prevailed. For the young woman did not fear this creature. His kind were a warm and reassuring sight, like relatives from afar who were seldom seen, but always anticipated. Reaching forward without hesitation, Gwenevere touched one of the great wooden horns jutting skyward from the earthen nightmare's head. And slowly, its eyes began to close.

"Elder Treebeast...I have returned," she whispered, as the tears filled her eyes.

Time slowed to a stagnant crawl, as the sentient tree opened its menacing eyes and faced her. There was something horrific and ancient within that sickly saffron light. Gwenevere felt petrified, wooden herself in lieu of what she was witnessing. Before her, stood a creature older than the City itself, or any of the other great marvels the Hammerites held claim to. This was a creature who had seen much death, and even more destruction. He had been there during the first cataclysm, fought alongside her ancestors as they slaughtered their sanguine-clad enemies. And now, he stood before her, wrought with a sensation of utmost betrayal and heartache. Only four guttural words echoed beneath the gnarled mass of branches and vines, but they caused the girl before him much unrest.

"No. You have not."

Gwenevere recoiled from the treebeast, her father's blade beginning to rattle against her chest in response to her constant shaking. She knew what this ancient sentinel meant, and she regretted that he was correct. How long, must they have been waiting, only to watch as she chose manfools over the Vine?

"That is to say, I have come to return father's sword to the people," Gwenevere corrected her previous statement. The treebeast made a strange gurgle within his chest, the sound reminiscent of growing roots crumbling stone. Silence permeated the forest for a moment, as the creature pondered what should be done next.

In truth, he hadn't expected her to return at all, and certainly not like this. Fifteen years, she'd been missing from this paradise, and the consequences of living amongst the disbelievers, was staggering indeed. Already, she had learned to lie, and far better than any of her kind before. They were allowed to lie, even encouraged to do so. But always in service of the Vine, in service to him. Never, directly to the forest. What was worse, the child apparently had no plans of even returning to this place.

The treebeast groaned again--a loud, resounding outcry, before looking Gwenevere over. The luster of the Woodsie was still luminous within her eyes. Within her soul. In time, perhaps, he could convince the child to reevaluate her ambitions.

Feeling nervous by this tension, Gwenevere proceeded to offer the blade to the creature.

"H-here...go ahead and take it back to them. I know your kind guards them, and protects my mother's temple. M-maybe you could put it in there? I think she would want that..."

Again, a twinge of optimism prickled at the treebeast's timber heart. If she still aspired to fulfill her mother's wishes, if the legacy she held within her quaking arms still posed value to her, then perhaps...

Wood creaked, as the guardian of the forest lumbered towards her upon heavy, root-like limbs. His form was more menacing beneath the shadows of the ancient trees, many of them his distant ancestors. But unlike they, he had been given sentience through the Woodsie Lord, a purpose beyond that which his leafy brethren could ever understand in their mindset of perpetual silence.

Thin brown tendons extended from the treebeast's fearsome boughs, and took up the macabre ebony blade. Gwenevere's eyes widened in stunned surprise, as he pressed the hilt against her palm, before closing her fingers around the base with genuine candor. She stared upwards at him, true confusion evident within her frightful and innocent features. But the great beast, merely smiled.

"Keep it close, and learn to wield it," he ordered. "There is a great deal more power within that blade than you realize. In time, it may come to do more good outside the forest than within. And the same holds true for you, young seed."

"W-what?" Gwenevere shuddered.

The beast's great bulk heaved and creaked, as he contorted himself forward. Leaning his great head down, until it was level with her own. So large and formidable was he, that his mighty horns could have impaled her without a moment's difficulty. Thankfully, the treebeast's only intentions for this girl, were benevolent. For this was his instructed duty. The very reason for his creation.

"Though I do not yet understand why you choose to remain within that Hammerite graveyard, I can see that your intentions are pure. Your heart longs for retribution, though not through blood or murder. There is something clever about you, child."

Gwenevere blushed.

"Gee, thanks," she shrugged her shoulder, brushing a strand of ruby hair from her eyes. "Nobody's ever called me that before. Most people think I'm stupid--or worse."

"Manfools often mistake that which they cannot understand as dangerous, or foolish. This has been so, since the dawn of time," the treebeast clarified. "But we, are not so easily tricked by outward appearances or pretty words, child. I see what you really are. Who, you really are."

The soft pink blush which had danced so gaily across Gwenevere's cheeks, dissipated into pallid terror as the rumbling sentinel conveyed these sinister truths to her. With a gulp, she took a deep breath, and started to back away from him.

"You...know?" she gasped, feeling as her backside met with the base of a large tree. She watched as its sentient counterpart continued to grin. The expression seemed more unsettling than reassuring, when placed within the uneven, thorny maw of such a terrifying woodland nightmare.

"There is no reason to flee, nor to fear," he reassured her. "Creature born of chaos and tree, you alone choose what to be."

"W-whatever do you mean?" Gwenevere crooked her head. "Why are you rhyming?"

"There are a myriad of crossroads and paths in this lifetime, and answers are such precarious things. Rarely easy, and often difficult to discover. But I encourage you to hunt for them, young seed. Take the lonesome path into the abyss, child. For it is only through our determination, or desperation, that we discover life's most well-guarded answers. And when at last you have reached your decision, I will honor it."

In all honesty, Gwenevere was awestruck. It hadn't been the treebeast's imposing size, or formidable appearance which unnerved her, but rather, his chilling composure. The elder beast knew well what she was, yet he courted her interest in returning to the city with optimum decorum. The green-eyed maiden was not so oblivious, however. Even as she stood there beneath that lush canopy, Gwenevere could sense that the forest was suffering. She could smell the stench of terror and rot all around her, like a noxious vapor, rising from a foundry smokestack. The Pagans, needed her. The Woodsie itself, cried out in muffled whimpers for her return. Yet the stoic ancient before her, gave the girl creature's own desires precedence. But whether this was out of respect or obligation, she could not say.

"I have not forgotten what I am, or where I come from. And I promise you, I never will," Gwenevere clarified, her tone meek yet somehow adamant. "I may yet return to this place one day. But right now, there are still things in the city that I need to do."

Her fair response, seemed to placate the creature.

"Then I shall pray for a satisfactory conclusion. One, that shall benefit both our causes," he affirmed. "Now come. You should see your mother's magnum opus while you're here."

***

Shimmering like a beacon through the silver leaves, stood the decaying remains of an old Pagan temple. Gwenevere stared up at the enormous moss-covered ruin, completely breathless. She remembered the structure as being quite large, but that had been so many years ago. Standing now beneath the majestic dwelling, the young woman could now see that it was monolithic. Its coal-black sandstone design was illuminated by the gentle sunlight, while thick beds of moss and ivy tactfully went about preserving the sacred monument. Gwenevere pressed her hands against the large stone doors, smiling at how cool and comforting they felt. Behind her, sauntered up the elder treebeast.

"Forgive me, greensie seed," he apologized, his ligneous body moaning under pressures both physical and metaphorical, "this place will be in a state of chaos upon your entry. None has come here, since the night your mother died."

Gwenevere offered nothing in response, save for a shrill and hitched little sob which she suspected only she could hear. Pain and lament flooded his sappy innards, as the creature watched her frail hand falter, sliding down the door like that of a lifeless cadaver. Even if this estranged daughter of the Green no longer called this magnificent world her home, she apparently still held precious memories of this place. Perhaps, there was indeed still a chance to call her home. With another loud creak, the treebeast proceeded to press upon the weathered doorframe, and ushered her inside.

"Please, young seed. Pray follow."

The inside of the temple was a remarkable sight for either man or beast. Not an ounce of magic had been spared in the creation of this marvel. Thick, green vines arched and coiled around the ceiling like living art, while rare carnivorous flowers of diverse colors accentuated the outlines of these thick, creeping greens. A dim, natural light flooded down through a carved eye in the ceiling, casting a rather haunting design onto the great stone altar below. Similar patterns dappled the walls around her, giving Gwenevere the alarming sensation of being forever watched.

Built as a conduit for earthen magic, and secrets of the Vine, Gwenevere's mother had constructed this place after the death of her cherished friend and teacher. A place, where she could always come in her darkest hour, and pay homage to all he had done for her. All he had taught her. From the ashes of tragedy and heartache, grand things can arise. This was the lesson passed down from mother, to child. Gwenevere wondered, if her devotions to Garrett would result in a similar demonstration of fealty and gratitude in due time. Though she doubted herself capable of ever constructing him any sort of temple.

But after learning that Garrett had indeed been the one to pilfer her father's sword, she wasn't exactly ecstatic over the possibility. Gwenevere knew her mother had endured terrible disagreements with her own mentor, though the details remained unknown. Furious and hurt though she was, neither the young woman's respect nor appreciation for the thief or his teachings had been tarnished. Perhaps it was her abundant naivety, but Gwenevere still held to the belief that she and Garrett would eventually overcome this. Then, perhaps one day, he too would become a cherished friend. Bestow upon Gwenevere great wisdom and confidence, as her mother's teacher had once done for her. That, was the hope which kept the girl going, moving ever deeper into darkness.

Gwenevere continued to keep pace with the hardwood behemoth, her shoes sinking into the supple carpet of moss with each step. The treebeast swayed on ahead, dead leaves crunching beneath his tangled wooden toes. When he reached the leaden stone alter, he paused, and waited for the girl.

"The cityfools treat these structures far differently than we, do they not?" the treebeast asked over his shoulder, his tone nonchalant. "Always filled to capacity and sound, rather than a place for diminutive gatherings, and silent memory."

"Well, you know what they say," Gwenevere grinned. "Humans are pack animals."

"Indeed..." the treebeast sighed.

Leaves rustled in the wind outside, as a warm breeze wafted its way through the spring village. Gwenevere stared down at her feet, then directed her eyes upward to admire the patchwork of vines and flowers covering the temple ceiling. A squirming from deep within her stomach, prompted the redhead to eye the ligneous beast once more.

"Why did you bring me back to this place, if you don't want the sword back?" she inquired. "I mean, don't get me wrong--it's wonderful to see mother's memorial again. But...why share such a beautiful memory with me, when you know I'm not staying to do as you wish?"

The treebeast remained hunched over the alter, his back facing her. It was coated in a thick layer of hairy brown moss, and strange white mushrooms. Deep growls began to rumble from somewhere deep within his throat, as the ancient one ran his talons over the base of the stone. A horrible screech resounded throughout the temple, and Gwenevere cringed, nearly dropping her father's blade.

"Forgive me," the creature apologized for his outburst. "I know what was said. I admitted to making my peace with your decision, even encouraged it. But in truth, I am still very troubled by all of this."

"All of what?" Gwenevere asked.

"When first I spied you galivanting through this place, your father's forsaken weapon in tow, I believed you here to liberate us from the scum Hammerites."

"I'm sorry, but I am nothing like my father," Gwenevere admitted in a disquieting tone, "and I could never lead anyone to freedom. I wasn't even able to procure my own freedom without help. Even now, I am being hunted."

"By he who first stole you from this place?"

"Yes. He holds power over me still. A relic, which prevents me from taking form and slaughtering him where he stands," Gwenevere explained, an obvious dread coating her words. "He wants my blood--my very life--for...something. I can't quite wrap my head around what his end goal is. But rest assured, it's really, really bad."

"Then why, child? Why remain within that stony world at all? Come home to us!"

"If I came home, Simmons would bring his wrath and violence in here after me."

"Let him come. We, are ready this time."

"Then why do you need me to liberate you?" Gwenevere retorted, a glint within her eyes. "No. I said I have work to do in the City, and I meant it. You said you respected my choice, yet all you have done since bringing me here, is try and dissuade me!"

"For that, I am grievously sorry. But perhaps if you understood your role in all of this, then--"

"--I never asked for this!" she screamed, tears streaming from her eyes like blood. "I never asked to be born as this...this thing!"

"Woodsie one? Whatever do you mean?"

"What do you think it means?! Why do you think I hide so, behind this human skin? It's because I want to be one of them! I want to help them," Gwenevere sobbed. "I hate what I am inside!"

"But the Pagans--"

"--The Pagans have you. They have apebeasts, craybeasts, and many more powerful creatures to safeguard them from future harm," she countered. "The city goers have a corrupted government, and unfair living conditions. Many don't even get enough to eat! Tell me, creature: When was the last time you've ever seen a Pagan go hungry?"

Her words rendered the proud beast just as mute as his oak and sycamore brethren. Gwenevere continued to preach, though in a much calmer voice.

"The forest and its people are strong, diligent. They can survive without my help, at least for a while. But the poor who remain trapped within the darkest places of that city...they won't."

"Forgive me, Woodsie One. Far be it from I, to attempt to shift your decisions," the wooded sentinel croaked.

"Thank you, for understanding," Gwenevere nodded, gratitude lustrous within her deep green eyes.

"Make no mistake, child. I do not understand," the treebeast corrected. "But I accept your decree, all the same."

Gwenevere remained silent, feeling as the ground began to shift with life beneath her feet. This encounter had become uncomfortable, and the girl creature wanted to flee. But something held her there, rooting her down and preventing her mouth from screaming. At last, the branches of the elder tree came down, prying her fingers open. Then, the ligneous beast deposited something spherical and cold within her palm. As his great boughs pulled away, Gwenevere's pupils contracted in wonder as they acknowledged the forgotten object within.

The grand creature of wood and magic leaned forward, until the jutting edges of his deadly maw brushed against Gwenevere's brow, ruffling her messy red bangs.

"Do you remember?" his voice rumbled, vibrating against the girl's forehead, tickling her repressed memories.

"Yes...of course I do. I could never forget..." her voice was muted, sorrowful. As if the very sight of this luminous round gemstone had awakened a world of lament within her very soul. And, in many respects, it very well had.

Flashes of green light, augmented by the flutter of dark leaves and twining branches. Laughter, as she bobbed and chattered upon the burly shoulders of a painted huntsman. Watching as her tears collected upon lotus petals, when word had reached her ears of that trusted friend's demise. Vines softening from deadly, blood-stained branches to hold her close to a wild, yet nurturing mother. A cacophony of shrieking apebeasts and feral roars, as that mother lead her strongest warriors against metallic demons.  

Tears streamed from Gwenevere's eyes like sappy blood, as these faded recollections were loosened from the darkest recesses of her mind. She hadn't forgotten, like some hapless maiden in denial. She had locked them away, purposeful in her intent to never again return to that horrible time. But after finding her father's blade, fate had demanded her return to this place. The treebeast gurgled, caressing her cheek with one of his mossy tendrils.

"I did not mean to upset you this grievously, dear seed," he apologized. "But you must know why my need for your return is so great. The Mechanists are still about, as are the Hammerites. The baron himself now wishes to exterminate the forest, razing both its people and this land to the ground if necessary."

Gwenevere wiped her eyes, and clutched the stone tighter within her hand.

"I will help you. I promise," she whispered. "Mother would want that, too."

"Indeed she would, child," the twisted creature confirmed with a deep moan.

"After I help the humans back in the City, I shall return to this place and help you," Gwenevere promised, tucking the devious blade away within her belt.

***

Gwenevere emerged into daylight, clutching the glimmering orb within her trembling hand. In a past long since forsaken, she had known this object as the Woodsie Emerald, although its attributes were more of glass than gemstone. There had been several others, used as protective conduits by the Pagan folk. Glowing green spheres brimming with an enigmatic, calming green light. This, was perhaps one of the largest surviving.

Before the Mechanists had come, spreading death and destruction throughout the forest, these artifacts had been numerous. However, most were smashed on that awful night, or otherwise lost in the heat of the chaos. Those which managed to survive, had been carefully locked away within the temple depths, only to be retrieved for certain spells or ceremonies. The tree beast's gift, had been an attempt to safeguard Gwenevere from that treacherous realm she longed to return to. But whether the orb's ancient magic was enough to do so, only time would tell.

The vivacious green nature magic within the, 'emerald' bloomed and danced at her touch, as Gwenevere continued to stare at the object with discerning, wondering eyes. The sword loosely tucked between her belt and dress jangled as she walked, the wicked curves of its stark silver hilt the only thing keeping it from slipping free. The elder treebeast, believed she was stronger than this. He must have, to allow her to not only keep the blade, but to also offer this rarified stone for her protection. One as wise and primal as he, did not invest in a weak soul. Such as the way of most Pagan creatures and humans. Nature herself dictated this attitude of dooming the weak or foolish to death, in favor of more aspiring life. But Gwenevere, did not view herself as worthy. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps once Garrett had trained her, perhaps once she had saved the City--

 "--What am I going to do with you?" a miffed voice called from above, causing Gwenevere to stumble. She felt a rush of warm air sweep past her face, and felt as the Woodsie Emerald was ripped from her hand.

 "H-hey!" she exclaimed, grinding her teeth as she surveyed the forest for her treasure.

 She spun around, and nearly collided with Garrett. The thief stood before her, his face empty and dark. The verdant orb was clutched within his gloved hand, and a firm look of unpleasantness was spread wide across his face. Gwenevere covered her mouth to stifle a shriek, only to fall backwards into a berry patch.

 "G-Garrett?! What are you doing out here?" she stammered, berry juice coating her hands and legs from the fall.

 Garrett smirked at the absurd scene, as he bounced the green orb within his hand.

 "I'd like to ask you the same question," he muttered, his smug expression crumbling into a scornful sneer.