Fantasy The Secret of the Seventh Sea

[opaline]

- story -

by SkyGinge and opaline

the secret of the

SeVeNtH SeA

 

[opaline]

Reyna Patrixe, the Impossible Girl

The height of Reyna's angst always swelled in response to the soft snowfall and the festivities they beckoned each year. It was the epitome of salt in the wound, one that had rotted for twenty years.

Peace had been acquired through clandestine bargains, but the celebrations of the milestone were anything but—galas and markets, competitions and games, handcrafted goods and travelling merchants and tourists alike being shuttled on dirigibles. Kael had become well-known for it's particularly exuberant festival; some other islands of Vequa hosted smaller events, but for this one time of the year, Kael was the focus. It teemed with life that threatened to burst it at the seams, until calming back to its perpetual state. The world came to Reyna, and it was still beyond reach.

Greil often brought back various trinkets, having even paid an artist once to sketch one of the tight alleys on a particularly cool year. It hosted awnings straining under the weight of a blizzard the night before, and people huddled amongst stalls trading novelties and providing warm mead. She had cherished it dearly, the basis for more vivid daydreaming than books and words enabled. After two years, she found it had lost its novelty.

Many of the staff of the Manor took leave on rotation, resulting in them coming and going, gushing around the halls of the wooden whittling they'd bought for their son, or the most delicious pie they'd shared with their partner. Their excited chatter faded, replaced by tense silence and guilty gazes when Reyna rounded the corner: she did not hold it against them, but she did grow tired of the farce.

Reyna was returning to her room, and heard a maid buzz through the thin walls and empty, echo chambers for hallways: "I bought a true Irrean-made sword from a travelling merchant, since my son is turning sixteen and wants to enter the army when he's of age! Can you believe it?"

A male voice replied, "Truly? I'd heard it was still near impossible, since the cities have scarcely been rebuilt. I'm hoping to find a brass watch for-"

Her green eyes locked with his dark brown, his face contorting as though he'd eaten the sourest of lemons. "It is fine! I like hearing about it all, you do not need to hide it." Reyna smiled, though it did not quite meet her eyes. The pair nodded and scurried off citing there was cooking, cleaning or another mumbled chore to be done, that they'd evidently only just recalled how pressing it was. Sometimes she pondered on the many staff employed by the manor, considering it was mostly only herself living there they seemed far too numerous, but she wouldn't dare raise the issue, enjoying the liveliness they brought to the otherwise soulless building.

She continued in the opposite direction, spotting Greil keeping himself occupied in a side room jutting off one of the labyrinthine hallways. They had spoken earlier in the day and Reyna often exhausted options for conversation, but he turned and spotted her. "Father is still away?" Reyna asked, her eyebrows furrowed. She barely even knew what he did whenever he ran off, only that the gaps had grown larger and the amount of times he left more frequent. He sometimes brought gifts, but all usually from this temple or that: a not so subtle suggestion and question as to when she'd seriously consider attempting to practice magic. Amongst them all he never thought to bring a staff or stone suitable for channelling, which was counterintuitive considering they were almost always required to do anything much.

Typically, she was given some half-truth or vague response that he was on business but this time, Greil only nodded in reply, and Reyna left. Her bedroom was not far, and she had a half-read book laying open on her desk that she was eager to finish. She was grateful he was nearby, for he foiled many trespassers attempts to take Baron Patrixe's belongings, some crying about a fabled treasure. No heist had ever succeeded and no harm had ever come to herself, though they kept coming, more so when the Baron himself was away; he was a powerful man, beyond mere influence.

In a few moments, Reyna reached her room, settled in a deep corner of the manor almost as far from any main entrance or exit as one could get. The building proper sat at a higher elevation than much of Kael as the manor and surrounding grounds were nestled on a plateau, with only ones means of access - the path specifically carved out to weave across the hillside from the city. Her room was angled such that she could catch glimpses of the structures below but lacked a full, overarching view of Kael's city in its entirety. The dark sea has began to conquer the light, bringing forth the blackness of night. Yet the city itself flickered with lanterns and gas lamps strung about, to allow the festivities to stretch into all hours. The frigid wind carried music further than it should reasonably be able to be heard—the work of Kael's own wind mages—still clear and discernible from where she was perched. The delicate tinkling of bells and laughter intermingled, leaving a sour taste in her mouth; jealousy as true as the blood in her veins.

Yet, every year, the daughter of the Baron Patrixe sat at her windowsill and felt the frosty glass under her fingertips, longing to be amongst the people, no matter the tightness in her chest and conflicting thoughts it brought with it. She grasped her novel and sprawled across the cushioned divan inset under the window and began to read, the warming comfort of the words melting away the tight frustration and sadness woven into her shoulders. A fire crackled gently in the corner across the room, past a woollen rug and four poster bed. Everything sat in the same spots in perfect order, with Reyna completing the painting like another object in a still life. Everything was the same as it always was.

 

[SkyGinge]

PRELUDE: AN INTERVIEW WITH A PIRATE
All artwork sourced from Pinterest
​

In the darkest, dirtiest alleyway in the scummiest, shadiest suburb, there stood a tavern called The Headless Horseman. Whilst the city outside revelled in its expensive festivities, it was business as usual for the tavern patrons. Any good tavern knows its target audience - this was a tavern for crooks and thugs, where the barwomen were built like bouncers, where sinners gathered to swindle and game with fellow sinners, and where the mugs of cheap ale and pungent mead were often smashed in drunken rage. Among the rogue’s gallery of scruffy ne’er-do-wells, one man stood out above the rest. A giant of a man who shook the walls as he thumped the bar in hearty laughter, his waves of jet-black hair shaking behind him. A man with a sense of boundless charisma, whose loud voice and energetic manner overshadowed those in his company. And a man who couldn’t look more like a pirate if he tried.

In other words, he was exact person Zante Grett was looking for.

The young man smirked to himself, recalling the marketing pamphlets he’d seen plastered around Neo-Utopia. There’s something for everyone at the Kael Festival. Ha! Even scumbags like these.

The tavern reeked of sweat, the odour of a thousand nasty men hard baked into its walls. Steeling himself and dulling his senses, Zante strode into the building. Several people glanced up from their games of cards and dice and caught his icy gaze – others he caught eying up the fine silk of his navy-blue cloak with a mix of envy, disgust and opportunism. Gaze all you like, my vulturous friends. I haven’t the time to waste playing with the likes of you.

“Mind if I take this seat?” he asked, approaching the bar. The pirate and his crones turned, as if startled. Then the pirate broke into a wide grin, as if greeting an old friend.

“Ahar! Not at all, be my guest!” Before Zante had even taken his seat, the pirate clapped his hands together briskly, summoning a barwoman. “Another round of drinks, if ye’ll please.”

The barwoman glanced him up and down, as if first testing the truth of his words and then lingering as she liked what see saw. She must have been in her mid-30s, built like an ox and with a face that seemed to be 80% comprised of the bags under her eyes. No thanks, love. Not my type at all. She turned to the pirate, expecting payment.

“I’ll cover this round, gentlemen,” Zante interjected, flashing the barwoman a serene smile as he retrieved a pouch of coins from his inner cloak pocket. As he did so, he made sure that the pirate caught a good glimpse of the richness of the material, as to verify that he was in fact able to front the cost. For a fleeting second, their eyes locked, an unspoken understanding passing wordlessly between them. Those aren’t the eyes of a fool, Zante mused.

For a second, the pirate and his companions seemed stunned. Then the laughter returned, louder than ever. Bloody Aekra, this man will deafen me.

“Well buckle me down ‘n’ send me to the halls of Cap’n Hogwash, what a generous friend we seems to have made!”

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” Zante smiled. I’ll be stealing it back on my way out anyway. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the pirate signalling with a hand towards his companions – as fresh flasks of ale clunked down on the counter beside them, the other men rose and went outside.

Alone at last. It was time for business. Evidentially the pirate was thinking the same thing, his ever-present grin taking on a knowing sharpness as his one unmasked eye narrowed interrogatively.

“So what brings a gentleman like yerself to this neck o’ the world, matey?”

“Business. And pleasure. I often find the two are deeply intertwined.”

“Business, ey?” the pirate snorted, examining his already empty flagon with disappointment. “And what sort of business would that be?”

The pair locked eyes again, a sly smile breaking onto the young man’s face.

“I intend to steal the Patrixe Jewel.”

The pirate reclined on his stool, cocking a brow as his eyepatch swivelled and clicked contemplatively. “Well, that certainly be… exotic business. I suppose ye’ve heard the stories?”

“I have.”

“And I suppose ye knows that no thief has ever returned alive from beyond those walls.”

“No thief has ever returned alive yet.”

“I see. And what makes you think ye’ll be the first?”

Zante shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m in the habit of getting what I want.”

“Aye, I sees that.” The pirate placed a giant hand on his shoulder with a surprising degree of tenderness. “Well, I’m afraid me merry mates and I are full enough with fools as is. ‘tis a pity ye weren’t here earlier – my daughter’s a healer so ye see, p’raps she coulda helped you with whatever flavour of insanity ye seem to have going on in that pretty head of yers!”

Try me, said Zante’s gaze, calm and yet intense. He reached into his pocket again. Without dropping eye contact or his sly smile, he raised the object he had retrieved to his face. An ornate masquerade mask, deep azure with a silver trim, cut so as to only cover the left side of his face.

A flash of recognition widened the pirate’s one functional eye. Then he doubled over in laughter again, his bear-belly jiggling enthusiastically underneath his coat. Zante’s smile softened too. The usual response was fearful respect, or envious anger. Hilarity was a new one.

Eventually, the pirate gathered himself. “Forgive me, matey. ‘tis just ye look a lot less… snarlier than yer wanted poster.”

“Really? Yours is the spitting image."

“Arr, that’s a bold-faced lie and ye know it. Still, Zante Grett. The half-masked thief, in the flesh! And buyin’ drinks for a scurvy old sea dogs like me and all!”

“We both know you’re no mere scurvy sea dog. You’re Captain Clockwork, Scourge of the Four Seas. As for the drinks, consider them a prepayment for the completed job.”

The pirate laughed again. “By the soggy beard of Shanty Pete himself, yer completely barmy! I love it! There’s a dangerous fire to yer eyes, y’know, son. Reminds me of myself when I was yer age. Maybe there’s life in these old bones yet. Well, Master Grett, what role would ye have me play? Me days of chasing after impossible treasures are long gone, methinks.”

“I’ll need a way off this island by midnight tonight. I don’t care where you’re going, as long as it’s far away from here.”

“Aye. And what makes ye think me and me maties are willin’ to play the part of glorified chauffeurs?”

“Your services were recommended to me by a certain acquaintance. He told me how to find you and said you’d be understanding of my vision. I’d make my way out the same way I arrived but, regrettably, that arrangement is no longer possible.” To be fair, that nobleman was unlikely to miss that hand, and the lady could always replace that necklace with another gift from Daddy’s estate.

For the first time, the pirate’s grin dropped. In the absence of his laughter, the silence left behind was thick and palpable. “Ah, to Aekra with it, why the hells not. I’ll humour ye. Midnight at the docklands. I’ll be makin’ it obvious where to find us.” He sighed, his cheeky expression reappearing. “And just to be on the safe side, I’ll find ye a suitable coffin.”

“They’d have to catch me first,” Zante grinned. Satisfied, the young man at last took a swig of his ale, its bitter taste sweetened by the satisfaction of the final cogs of his scheme fitting into place. The stakes were immeasurable and brilliant. An impossible treasure, an impenetrable mansion. And him, a lone thief. Tonight he would change history.

Damn, I need a stronger drink.

---

ZANTE GRETT: THE HALF-MASKED THIEF​

Built atop a towering hill, the frosty fortress of Manor Patrixe towered over the town below. At the base of the hill, built into the snow-coated cliffside, stood the grand Kael Library, considered by many to be one of the greatest collections of literature in the entire central layer. A great place to spend an afternoon lost in fantasy, probably, if you’re the boring indoors-y type. They probably had the same fairytale collection that Zante’s brother Virge had read him as a child, maybe even the volume their orphanage was missing. But this was not a night for reading. Business and pleasure – for Zante, they were one and the same.

At the same time every night, a certain servant of Manor Patrixe would routinely make his way to the library, where he’d spend his evening downtime immersed in a book. Even the glitz and spectacle of the festival outside would not disturb his steady routine – in fact, a near-empty library was a far more appealing proposition to him than a bustling crowd. Tonight’s choice of reading material was a weighty tome entitled ‘Agri-cuter: A Rural Romance Romp’, the latest in a series of sleazy romance novels. Though his fellow servants believed him to be an uptight, conservative chap, these novels provided the guilty pleasure of an escape into another world where incredible, impossible things happened to ordinary people, and where the monotony of cleaning dishes and sweeping floors was reduced to a distant afterthought.

Just as he reached the denouement of chapter 5 – in which the handsome Prince Dandelion had broken into the heroine Belle’s farmhouse for a secret liaison – the servant’s engrossment in the story was abruptly ruined when the light of his reading candle was blown out. Curse that infernal winter wind, the servant thought as he fumbled in the dark for his matches. After a couple of failed attempts at striking a flame, he finally got the match to light, and guided the flame over to the candle.

As he did so, a half-masked face grinned back at him in the flickering candlelight.

“Boo!” said Zante Grett.

Some hours later, the man awoke, his precious keys gone along with his uniform, replaced with a thumping headache and a nasty bruise on the back of his head. Nestling between the pages of his book was a thin slip of paper, on which the following was written in a messy scrawl:

The ending is lacking, 5/10. Maybe try a better series while you’re searching for a new job.
Sincerely, The Half-Mask Thief

---

An outfit is much like a mask – dress yourself up in the right clothes and you can waltz into just about anywhere. You can learn a lot about a job from its uniform. The fine silk of the servant’s shirt taught Zante that the baron was a man with wealth in abundance. The cravat (which took him an embarrassing amount of time to tie correctly) provided the only colour to the outfit and pointed to the baron’s patriotic pride, blending the nationalistic green of Vequa with the dark purple of Kael. And that the trousers felt so airy and easy to move around in suggested that employees were expected to deal with more than just kitchen chores.

Getting inside the manor was the easy part. He even got away with wearing his usual shirt with all its hidden tricks, given the difference was so insubstantial. The greater challenge remained. How do you find and steal a treasure that nobody has seen?

Business and pleasure, baby. Zante had adopted the dour, dutiful expression of a worn-down servant, but his inner smile gleamed from his eyes. He walked steadily and purposefully, as to mask the fact he was really scanning and searching. The manor was built like a puzzle-box, a labyrinth of endless corridors and show-rooms, each only distinguishable from the other by the heirlooms and artifacts on display. The echo of his footsteps from the wide, empty corridors made his pulse race deliciously fast. Occasionally, he’d catch the glance of another servant passing the opposite direction. Some turned away with an almost guilty hurriedness. Others gave him a quizzical expression of unfamiliarity. Zante made a conscious effort to keep eye contact with these servants, almost as if to challenge them. With the servant’s wintry cloak wrapped around his waist, he’d managed to completely conceal his belt of tricks.

The Patrixe Jewel. A treasure of near mythic reputation, said to be of immeasurable value and of unparalleled beauty. Said by who? None had ever laid eyes on it, yet word had somehow gotten out. Was it the servants who had blabbed and started this whole legend? They evidently knew where the Jewel was kept. The bloke he’d left gagged and tied underneath a fruit cart earlier that day had said as much. Yet even the glint of Zante’s favourite knife had failed to persuade him to loose his lips further. Something, or rather someone, was keeping them strictly in line.

What about the baron himself? The townsfolk said he made few public appearances. Every year he opened the gates of his island city to the watching world and indulged in lavish celebrations, and yet veneer of hospitality did not extend to opening the doors of his manor. In Zante’s experience, most nobles barely needed a reason to flaunt their riches. Baron Patrixe was evidently not most nobles. The statues and paintings that bedecked the long, dark halls would fetch enough coin to give a lesser thief an aneurism, yet he elected to keep them in his own private world. This privacy certainly leant credence to the suggestion that he had something of great value to protect.

There was still a part of him that wondered whether all of it was a lie. An urban myth, spun wildly out of hand. Maybe the Baron was just another proud, obsessive noble with an increasingly imaginative view of his own importance, whose overexcited pride had developed in his own cold, introverted manner. After all, he had lost his wife and had no family of his own. Must’ve been hard, even if he was a stonehearted as his subjects suggested. This wasn’t the first jewel the young thief had stolen to be given such superlative description.

Legendarily beautiful or not, Zante didn’t particularly care. What mattered was that nobody had ever stolen it, and he would be the first.

Because whether the young thief’s assessment of character was correct or not, the Baron had a weakness shared with all noblemen – his busyness. Busyness had taken him away from his own festival; it also meant that he wasn’t able to control the contents of his famed library. Information gathering was one of the least glamorous parts of being #2 on the most wanted list, but it rarely let him down. There, hidden in plain sight, he had discovered historical archives of the city and its architecture, including several records of the building work carried out on the manor. Having burnt these to memory, he cross-referenced the details with the visible appearance of the manor and came up with a pretty good guess of where the jewel might be hidden. One part of the building was conspicuously absent from all records – the tower.

That or the vault, which would be the obvious place to look for in any mansion. But his gut instinct was telling him to search the tower first, and years of experience had taught him that his gut was rarely wrong.

Upwards and onwards, then. Zante rounded a corner, finally reaching the central staircase of the ground floor. The echo in here was even greater than before, setting his hairs on edge. Each step felt like trespassing on holy ground – how many others had followed these footsteps before? He ascended one story, and then another.

He reached the top of the stairs. His brow furrowed. Only two stories up. There must be another staircase. Still, he could ill afford to stop and ponder, lest he be discovered. He had to keep forging on.

Jovial music could be heard from the city below, carried by the wind, amplified by magic and punctuated by the occasional firework. Zante’s heartrate danced in time to the music. Where the halls below had seen him pass several butlers and servants, this floor was completely silent. There’s little reason for anybody to be working up here at this time of night. I’ll need a hell of a story if I’m spotted.

Another corridor down, Zante found himself in a circular room – the shape and quantity of windows suggested he was under a watchtower. Well, it’s progress. Hard to tell whether this is even the right tower though.

His introspection was interrupted by the distant echo of fast-moving footsteps. Instinctively, the thief pressed himself against the wall and cocked his head to listen.

“… saw him go up the stairs,” came one voice, a young man.

“Then we know where he will end up,” responded another, deep and authoritative.

“Should we warn her?”

“That is not the master’s wish. We must first discern whether he is a fool or a threat. Either way, he will come to us in the end.”

The voices growing nearer, Zante’s eyes darted rapidly around the room. A few fancy seats and a couple of ornamental pots, but nothing else. Nowhere to hide, no time to spare. And yet never without a plan. Smirking, the young thief stepped forward into the eyeline of the corridor. The half-mask buried beneath his shirt was practically screaming for him to put it on, but he resisted. It was far too early to show his hand. Fool or threat, hey? Why not both?

Zante stared down the corridor, locking eyes with the pair of servants. The younger one was barely a boy, wide-eyed and full of awe. A pipsqueak like that would prove no issue. The older one, however, looked a challenge, tall, bald and visibly strong. The darkness of his skin and the sharpness of his piercing blue eyes made him stand out in the dimly lit hallway like an alley-cat spying its prey.

“There! Stop!” yelled the younger servant as the pair broke into a sprint.

No thanks, gentlemen, Zante smiled. Now then… this is the fun part!

Turning, Zante grabbed one of the pots and hurled it through a window. The crash of breaking glass pierced the air, distinguishable even through the fireworks. Shards of glass still sprinkling, the young thief hurled himself onto the raised windowsill. And Zante fell.

The Irrean arrived at the window first, peering out into the frosty evening, eyes narrow and contemplative.

“He jumped, right?” came the younger servant’s voice. “He got scared and he jumped to his death. Idiot.”

“You are fooled far too easily,” cautioned the older man, “Go, search the courtyard. Take whoever you can find. And remember, we need him alive.”

With that, the two men disappeared from the windowsill. Beneath them, the thief grinned. The stones of the manor exterior had been punctured by a sharp hook, from which Zante dangled on a rope attached to his shirt arm. As the cold wind buffeted against him and tossed his hair, he twisted and looked up at the tower across the courtyard, the tallest tower of the manor, and the tower in which a certain treasure awaited him…

 

[opaline]

Reyna Patrixe, the Impossible Girl

The rhythm of the fire and flicking of the aged pages coalesced into its own kind of festive symphony, the voice in her head reciting the words to drown out the impossibly distant world below. Eventually she would grow tired, and unconsciousness would instead chase away the bittersweet reality in favor of dramatic dreamscapes that she at least knew were truly foolish and wholly impossible. The separation worked wonders for her sanity.

And then came the distinct, crystalline screech of shattered glass. She'd heard it a few times, would-be thieves and ne'er-do-wells foolishly launching themselves from the cool manor halls into the brisk air. The shock was often enough to have them dead, bodies hurtling into ground like ragdolls. Reyna only awaited the dull thump—only, it never came, and only then was her manufactured veil pierced.

Reyna delicately closed her book and clambered to look, her breath fogging up the glass. Reyna swiped at it with frustration, her gaze crashed into a man dangling from a rope cinched between the manor's exterior stones. Even from the distance and the darkness she could discern there was nothing haphazard about the way he was suspended, his body poised as calm as if he were a boy strolling the streets of Kael.

Her eyebrows furrowed, but inevitably she only rolled her eyes and sat to once again open her book, which had only a handful of pages remaining. He would have to climb back inside or fall, of which his ill-considered theatrics would only draw attention to him across the manor's staff, and the delay gave them enough time to launch into action. She flicked her eyes to the double door of wood and steel, already hearing the manor come alive in its own defence. People scurried along the halls and up and down staircases, living cogs in the machine, along with the very real ones of brass and copper in some of the mechanisms she had been unfortunately acquainted with, steam beginning to pour in a slow hiss.

All rather unnecessary, since most never managed to even leave behind all the snow they'd dragged in on their boots on the plush, viridian carpets lining the entrance. A few lucky ones succeeded in evading beyond the foyer of the manor, particularly when the Baron was missing, any preparedness a significantly less potent influence. Rather, it only delayed the inevitable. She should know.

Reyna appreciated death was at least fairly uncommon. They were whisked away and not to be heard of again; the repeated attempts were always new challengers who failed as spectacularly as the last. She attempted to settle back into her reverie, but Reyna could not ignore the trepidation that danced along her skin in goose bumps.

 

[SkyGinge]

​

ZANTE GRETT: THE HALF-MASKED THIEF​

As evening ascended and the wispy daylight retreated into the heavens above, a lone thief hung from a balcony, his grin beaming brighter than fire. Somewhere in the city below, a brass band was blaring the ‘Unity Hymn’, commissioned in commemoration of the Neo-Utopian treaty. The melody was punctured by the colourful blasts of fireworks and the occasional cheer. But Zante barely noticed, his pulse racing loudly in his ears as he wrestled against the biting wind, steadying himself against the wall with an outstretched leg.

Twenty-nine… thirty… Enough time had passed, surely, for the two servants to have left the corridor. Clenching his teeth in concentration, the young man pushed off to the side and began to swing himself onto the ledge above. It took a few tries and the successful attempt wasn’t the most glamorous, but that was a part of the tale he’d reserve for Goth’s product feedback.

Now safely back inside, he peered over the balcony one last time, watching the ant-like figures of the servants below as they emerged to search the courtyard for the corpse he hadn’t created. Zante 1: Patrixe’s plebs nil. The temptation to yell down to them was almost irresistible, but he held his nerved. Sure, they now knew he was here and they probably knew where he was going, but he had an advantage they didn’t know about, a certain important detail he'd observed when hanging about outside.

There was a light on inside the tower. Whatever the treasure within should turn out to be, somebody was waiting for him.

Zante’s grinned widened. Finally, a proper challenge.

---

Zante crept through the corridors, the sound of his heartbeat racing faster in his ears than the tick of the hall’s grandfather clock. It was almost disappointing finding hallway after hallway deserted, as per the instructions of the Irrean fellow with the piercing eyes. An Irrean working for the nobility of the nation who had masterminded their country’s destruction in the war was definitely strange, though no stranger than half of the weirdos he’d seen at the festival. Still, Zante disliked weirdos – they’re far harder to manipulate.

At last, the young thief reached the top of the impossible tower, the sounds of the festival outside muffled by distance and the thick masonry. The quiet added to his growing sense of unease. Was this really another let-down legend where servant’s gossiping and a noble’s ego had blown things dramatically out of proportion? Things were never this easy. Even the lock on the final door was simple, quickly cracking to one of his most basic lockpicks.

Aekra’s chance a man with eyes like that fell for my little stunt. It was almost as if they wanted him to get this far. No matter. They were welcome to spring an ambush - greater men had tried and failed. And there was also the unresolved mystery of the man’s words. Who in Aekra was ‘she’? The head of security, perhaps? Maybe she was a powerful mage, sent to guard the treasure, waiting for him behind the door.

One hand on the doorknob, Zante took a big breath. Though his other hand cradled the ornate dagger on his belt, his greatest weapon was his reflexes.
Go on. Surprise me.

With an almighty creak, Zante swung the door open and stepped inside. There was no ambush, no armed guards waiting to spring a trap or mages pointing angry staffs at him. Instead, Zante found himself in fancy bedroom complete with the usual hallmarks of wealth. A four-poster bed with pillows so feathery you could practically hear the cheap of the birds they were made from. Paintings and other trinkets galore, enough to give an excitable merchant a heart attack. And sat on an inset near the window, nose deep in a book, was a young woman with an icy, nonplussed expression.

Who in the flying fuck is this?!

 

[opaline]

Reyna Patrixe, the Impossible Girl

Quickly she began to forget what she had seen, knowing he would be departed in a handful of moments and the awfully dull normalcy would resume. Then her door groaned on its hinges, and there a young man whom she knew was not part of the manor's staff—despite his outfit suggesting otherwise—stood.

Reyna tilted her head. Then raised an eyebrow. She recognised him as the man dangling only a few minutes ago, but now she could examine his features. Dark hair lay lazily upon his head and face, covering one eye yet not the one that boasted an impressive scar spanning across his cheek. That was all she took note of before her eyes returned to her book, though the words blurred together and were entirely unreadable. If she were honest, they were equally difficult to read in the moments before he had entered.

The ne'er-do-well did well in arriving here, though that would be the last crowning jewel of his likely boastful resume, for he would have no opportunity to gather any more. Her heart skipped a beat, and she cursed it, instead standing to rest her book on the desk once again while the man stood, seemingly in shock. She spoke with her back turned, "You likely have... hm." A painfully long beat passed, the air some stiller than the two of them. "Four minutes at most before they come here and you're dragged off Titans' know where."

She wondered if he would be a good enough distraction: she certainly knew the manor better than he could have. Reyna turned to lean against the desk and folded her arms, letting out a sigh. She'd only scream and run if he attempted to pose an actual threat to her, but most who reached this far—though it was only two others, who had been dragged out before their minds had processed her existence it seemed—wished to glean as much information from her as possible. A glint in their eyes, like she was the key to unspeakable treasures.

"Hopefully the break in was worthwhile enough." Her tone almost venomous, for Reyna couldn't fathom wanting to enter an inescapable place when all she'd ever wanted was to leave one.

 

[SkyGinge]

ZANTE GRETT: THE HALF-MASKED THIEF​

For a brief moment, the legendary half-masked thief's mask had slipped. He stood rooted to the spot in the open doorway, perfectly still, as if he were no longer a man but a discarded marionette. The only movement came from his stony gaze, which searched and examined the room without a glimmer of emotion.

This was the right place. It had to be. His intuition had never failed him before. Nobody is stupid enough to hide a priceless gem in a clearly marked vault. Nobody takes care to eradicate all record of a specific part of their fancy mansion, especially not a man as calculating and private as Baron Eldridge Patrixe. Unless the records he'd discovered were a lure, designed to draw would-be-thieves into a corner. He'd never seen a trap with a four-poster bed before - but then again, nobles were often unashamedly eccentric.

There was no room for self-doubt now. The jewel had to be there. He could practically smell it.

His gaze turned again to the girl. Everything hinged on her. Who was she, why was she here, and what was her role in the Baron's defence?

She had no visible weapons, and there wasn't anything akin to a staff for her to channel magic through. She wasn't dangerous. She looked pale, lithe, easy to overpower - another pampered noble's pet who hadn't tasted the blood and grit of ordinary life. Which noble's pet, he couldn't tell - he wasn't in the habit of keeping tabs on random nobleman, unless of course they had something he wanted. Baron Patrixe had no children, everybody knew that, and it wasn't like a splattering of freckles was an uncommon feature for a young Vequan lass. Yet there was something uncanny about her, something that he couldn't quite pin down. Sure, she was easy on the eyes, and she carried herself with the irresistible haughtiness endemic to all noble women, but he'd long moved past the age of getting stun-locked by a pretty girl. He'd definitely never seen a girl with hair quite so white before. Was she really the last line of defence? Some laughably poor attempt at a psychological game intended to distract a would-be thief long enough to gain the upper hand?

He needed cold, hard facts, lest his imagination get the better of him. The girl cocked her head and raised an eyebrow nonchalantly, as if a particularly insubordinate servant had spilled soup on her dress for the umpteenth time. Her gaze was frosty, familiar, and had something intense lurking behind it. Not quite as surprised to see me as I am to see you, are you sweetie. So you're used to tall, dark strangers in your room - or is this another type of familiarity altogether?

Then the grin returned, broad and defiant. So it's a game of puzzles and mysteries you want to play, eh Patrixe? Well, bring it, you stuffy old fuck. I don't lose.

The girl had turned her back on him - so much for proper manners!

"You likely have... hm." A painfully long beat passed, the air somehow stiller than the two of them. "Four minutes at most before they come here and you're dragged off Titans' know where." Then, shortly after, she continued: "Hopefully the break in was worthwhile enough."

Before 'they' come, she'd said. So she clearly viewed herself as separate to whatever the operation the servants were running trying to hunt him down. And she either didn't know what happened to the trespassers or she purposefully wasn't telling him. What she had told him, however, was that he was right. If the servants would inevitably come to the room, then the jewel had to be here. He recalled the conversation between the two servants below, connecting the clues. No doubt this girl was the 'she' they had spoken about. The younger asked about 'warning' her about his arrival - that protective instinct suggested that the girl was valuable to the rest of the house, and potentially to the Baron himself. If that were true, she'd no doubt make a vulnerable hostage, though kidnapping is such vulgar business.

Zante exhaled sharply in apparant amusement, tossing his dagger into the air with playful lackadaisicalness, before tucking it back into his belt. If the young woman was unfazed by his arrival, he doubted his dagger would be of much use in prying out the information he desired. Besides, playing the game of diplomacy was far more fun.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, my lady," he smiled, adopting his go-to gentlemanly demeanour, "Rest assured, I'm not in the habit of invading manors for the thrill of the chase." This was a half-lie, he admitted internally - anybody who had caught a glimpse of his face minutes earlier when he was hanging around outside would have had good reason to doubt this claim. "Besides, I'd wager they think me dead. Thieves of the common or garden variety don't tend to survive leaping from third-storey windows."

 

[opaline]

Reyna Patrixe, the Impossible Girl

She watched him as his eyes scanned across the room, drinking in every feature, an almost joyous frenzy held in his eyes, but still pointed as though searching for something particular. They always seemed to be searching for a specific thing, and Reyna had long begun to question the truth of what it was, having formed a few suspicions she had a limited basis for. Candour was a scarcity in the manor, after all.

She heard another grind of the cogs hidden amongst the walls, glancing up through her eyelashes from where it echoed in the large chambers. Before returning her steady gaze to the man when he all but laughed in an exhale. Reyna knew people sometimes exposed the glint of their blade in threat, but he was almost nonchalant, languid even. Nothing seemed serious to him, and Reyna almost found jealousy prickling underneath her skin—that was what she thought freedom must look like. "Thieves of the common or garden variety don't tend to survive leaping from third-storey windows."

"Garden variety thieves largely don't leap from third-storey windows to begin with," she countered. "Nor do they attempt a heist on the Patrixe Manor when everyone has failed before them." Reyna was certain there must be some renown or fables surrounding the manor that swallowed every thief whole, but once again her mind was brought to the thing they were desperate for: it was something worth risking their life, and she supposed that must be part of the fable. Her books often wove delightfully impossible stakes for protagonists to overcome, and the reason they were so common and beloved was because children and thieves and nobles could not deny their allure.

Perhaps she would have stopped speaking there, but it was rare to be able to speak to anyone who had not been thoroughly vetted prior to their induction into manor staff. Reyna took a few confident paces forward, closer to the thief. There was still a solid few feet due to the sheer grandeur of the room, though.

"If not here for the thrill alone, then what exactly are you hoping to find?" she asked, before adding mockingly, "Though I must admit, I'm personally thrilled at the prospect of your dramatic escape."

 

[SkyGinge]

ZANTE GRETT: THE HALF-MASKED THIEF​

"Garden variety thieves largely don't leap from third-storey windows to begin with," she countered. "Nor do they attempt a heist on the Patrixe Manor when everyone has failed before them."

Precisely my point, darling, thought Zante behind his smile. Her response was as guarded as it was sharp, barely revealing anything. She had practically agreed he was no ordinary thief - a nice pat on the head for his ego for sure, but nothing he didn't already know. Whoever she was, she was clearly accustomed to the inner workings of Manor Patrixe, including the seasonal arrival of ill-fated thieves - she spoke of the historical failed heists in an almost personal tone, and she wasn't at all frightened by his appearance in her room, at least visibly. She seemed more frustrated than anything, though whether that was his fault (it usually was) he wasn't sure.

And now she was striding up to him, boldly, her icy expression still conveying very little of her thoughts.

"If not here for the thrill alone, then what exactly are you hoping to find?" she asked, before adding mockingly, "Though I must admit, I'm personally thrilled at the prospect of your dramatic escape."

Oh come off it princess, you can fuck right off if you think feigning ignorance at this point is going to convince me. How could somebody so well acquainted with the manor not have heard of the legendary treasure? And who stalls for time by asking an intruder exactly what they want? She was either impossibly naïve, or intentionally obtuse - either way, she wasn't impressed or intimidated by his show of confidence. Yet.

By the girl's pessimistic estimation, he had three minutes left until the game of cat and mouse caught up to him. Time was running out and he was getting nowhere. This was often the point at which he'd pull out the mask and let his reputation speak for himself, but he doubted it would work on her. Instead, he'd have to figure things out whilst he spoke.

"Not as thrilled as I am," he retorted, acknowledging the bite of her jibe with a nonchalant smile and an honest response - he'd been daydreaming about the escape for weeks now, even though he had no plan. He followed up cheekily: "Any hidden secrets I should know about before I take my leave? You know, traps, nasty surprises, things which have helped keep the number of successful heists so clinically low? And any particular tricks you'd like to see? I'll do my best to entertain, but the rest of my crew will be here soon and I do so hate to keep them waiting." A lie, one only afforded by his decision not to don the mask, for everybody knew the Half-Masked Thief worked alone.

"As for what I'm after..." Was he really just going to tell her? Only a fool reveals their cards so soon - and yet, only a fool wouldn't know why a thief might be enticed to this particular manor. If she was going to play him for a fool, he would gladly play the part. He caught her gaze and kept it with fiery defiance.

"The Patrixe Jewel. A legendary treasure of unparalleled beauty and value - allegedly, although I have been disappointed by similar treasures before. Your friend the big bald butler told me that I might find it up here." A lie of course, but not technically untrue. His smile widened slightly, having amused himself with the implications of his lie. There was absolutely no chance she was going to just tell him where to find the jewel, but he hoped to at least gauge more information from her response before deciding what to do with her. If she really was a naïve as she would have him believe, perhaps she'd make a useful ally.

The unusual sound of occasional mechanical clicks and judders from somewhere behind the wall hadn't gone unnoticed by his sharp ears. Indicating behind him with his eyes, he added: "Plumbing problems?"