Fantasy The Secret of the Seventh Sea

opaline · Aug 25, 2024

- story -

by SkyGinge and opaline

the secret of the

SeVeNtH SeA

opaline · Aug 27, 2024

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 · Aug 29, 2024

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 · Sep 2, 2024

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 · Sep 3, 2024

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 · Sep 6, 2024

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 · Sep 6, 2024

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 · Sep 8, 2024

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 · Sep 11, 2024

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?"

opaline · Sep 16, 2024

Reyna Patrixe, the Impossible Girl

Reyna had largely decided the man was too cocky, and yet she was dangerously intrigued. He couldn't be much older than herself, his caution more than just thrown to the wind, but rather almost one with the Vequan sea. In his fiery blue gaze, confidence blazed. If he truly were not only a garden variety thief, which being in her room already evidenced, then perhaps...

She did not let herself finish the thought, but in her mind it burrowed, festering despite being unwanted.

"The Patrixe Jewel." Now that, she had not heard. There had often been vague whispers of the general treasures and wealth (with one item that was particularly elusive) as well as her safety—but she had long come to doubt that narrative, as being all but locked in a tower was barely a life worth protecting so ferociously—but with how few thieves had actually made it so far as to speak to her... Confusion morphed her features momentarily, before she settled them back into a cool mask. She lamented that he was certain to have seen it. Oh, how she loathed being embarrassingly caught unaware, or her lack of life experience to be glaringly obvious. Not knowing the Patrixe Jewel highlighted both; maybe she'd ask Greil or her father, but she could hear the answer already. Just a silly tale.

The man before her could easily be lying, too. Worse yet, he was awfully charismatic, an easy-going air to him, the ideal conditions to foster the growth of her delusions that maybe this time, there was a chance worth taking. Maybe.

"Oh, plenty of traps. The Baron Patrixe only employs the latest in technological developments, but I wouldn't want to bore you with the details." He was not a man want for wealth, and much of it had gone into improving the Manor in a multitude of ways, some of which she was not privy to, largely when it came to the defenses. Which also happened to be a decent majority of the upgrades over the years. Once she had thrown tantrums over not being allowed to learn about the technology—the word why saturating her vocabulary—and though Reyna's question remained the same into adulthood, its nature was completely different and the answer she sought was one Reyna would never receive.

Slowly, though, puzzle pieces aligned in her head. They felt like the sort of patterns you find after convincing yourself there had to be one: the kind that may not be there in truth at all. The pieces she held slotted in nicely alongside that awful idea.

"I'll just be impressed if you manage to escape at all." A truth veiled in her otherwise even tone. She was well acquainted with its impossibility. "Hopefully your crew is larger than that of the Manor's staff." It did not matter whatever the size. Unless he had somehow gathered a full army of thieves who were known to associate but never so significantly, then they stood no chance. It was even less likely that if he had gathered an army, that they would all be as skilled as he apparently was—the bare minimum to test fate at the Patrixe Manor. Simply, the mathematical probabilities were stacked against him. So naturally, there was no chance, Reyna assured herself.

Her own gaze followed his in a flicker of annoyance, with an underlying twang of dread. It was the latter that bled through her tone. "Hardly. It is working as intended. I wonder which will get you first: it," she motioned to the vents casually then to the door leading to the hallway, "or my big bald butler friend."

Her heart raced, knowing the time grew slimmer with each moment of inaction. Steadying breaths or convincing reassurances failed to combat it. With a crack in her cool composure, Reyna blurted, "If you escape, where will you go?"

Reyna's answer would have been Licia, she could only imagine the paintings and photos could not do justice to the vibrancy of the flora and fauna. Thankfully, she bit her tongue before excitedly daydreaming out loud any further than the foolish question.

SkyGinge · Sep 24, 2024

ZANTE GRETT: THE HALF-MASKED THIEF

As he spoke, the young thief kept his eyes locked on hers - confidence hides a thousand thoughts, or so he'd once been told. At last, he unearthed a chink in her armour as he purred out the name of the famous, legendary treasure, only for her to react in genuine confusion. Bingo - they all crack eventually. She really is clueless, huh. Fascinating. A puzzle box girl inside a puzzle box mansion.

The next question was obvious: why didn't she know? Maybe knowledge of the jewel's existence was over-inflated in his dark, criminal circles - he certainly hadn't heard any old joe mention it on the streets. But then what reason did the marketeers have to theorise about an elusive treasure they'd never dare to see? No, this girl was intimately connected with the workings of the manor - the only reason she'd be unaware of the manor's treasure is if she was being intentionally kept in the dark. By whom? It had to be the Baron himself, surely.

But why? And why was she here, of all places? He was going around in circles. Maybe she really was just a decoy - after all, the best decoys are thoroughly unaware that they're decoys in the first place. But the more he stared into her eyes, the more he felt a tinge of familiarity about her. So close, and yet like the illusionary double-vision of a drunkard, the answer wasn't quite coming into focus.

"Oh, plenty of traps. The Baron Patrixe only employs the latest in technological developments, but I wouldn't want to bore you with the details." More like you don't want to mess up and reveal something you're not supposed to, Zante continued to grin. No matter - he'd broken her already, and he'd break her again. That is, if she wasn't already bluffing here. At times, she was infuriatingly difficult to read.

"I'll just be impressed if you manage to escape at all." A truth veiled in her otherwise even tone. She was well acquainted with its impossibility. "Hopefully your crew is larger than that of the Manor's staff." Again she could have been bluffing, although he was inclined to trust her here at least. So it's not just these fancy hidden machines in the Baron's arsenal, but his entire staff, eh? Zante had to admire the efficiency of it all - employing bodyguards and house-staff as a single role no doubt saved costs and enabled him to waste his money on amassing whatever other pointless items nobles so gravitate towards. To be fair, that Irrean butler had the build and the glare of someone who was more accustomed to backstreet brawls than washing delicate finery. If even half the other staff were as competent as he looked... but then, there's always some kind of weakness to exploit. If the worst came to the worst, he could always use Goth's rope device to make a hasty exit, although he somewhat doubted he'd manage to pull off the same feint twice.

As he mentioned the sound beyond the walls, her own gaze followed his in a flicker of annoyance, with an underlying twang of dread. It was the latter that bled through her tone. "Hardly. It is working as intended. I wonder which will get you first: it," she motioned to the vents casually then to the door leading to the hallway, "or my big bald butler friend." The young thief couldn't help but stifle a laugh, his grin sharpening. Was that a hint of concern in her voice? Whatever the 'it' was she was so anxious about, he wasn't planning on sticking around to find out. His gaze wondered over to the window. If I'm going to have to leave emptyhanded and in a hurry, the least I can do is give the baron a big old glass-repair bill to keep him busy.

He was about to respond when suddenly the girl blurted out: "If you escape, where will you go?" Zante's eyes narrowly slightly, the young thief taken aback by her sudden outburst. Then his gaze softened slightly, as he took a long second processing the implications of not just what she had said, but why she'd felt the urgent need to say it. She almost sounded more interested in his next move than he was.

Now, at last, everything was beginning to click into place; for the first time, he almost felt sorry for her. Here she was, impossibly naive, locked in a tower by some stuffy old noble like a caged canary, so bored and sheltered that the arrival of a tall, dark and handsome stranger in her bedroom was enough to enrapture her with romantic ideations. So unaccustomed to the grit and the dust and the blood of regular life outside of fancy manor walls that she could stare him in the eye and match his wit with her own. And somehow so valuable to the baron whatever their connection that he'd shelter her from even knowing about the treasure she was clearly put here to protect. Her stock as a hostage was rising exponentially by the second - in fact, she was practically begging for it. Still, that wasn't his style, and he still had a reputation to uphold. All he needed was her cooperation - at least, until he had the jewel in his hands and was safely out of Kael. His confidence had won him a lot of valuable information already - if he had to play up some romanticised version of himself in order to finish the job, then he was more than ready. The half-masked thief had many more masks than the literal one still gathering sweat beneath his shirt.

Even as his mind raced, he'd almost instinctually decided to reward her honest outburst with some honesty of his own. This seemingly trivial question had become the key to solving the whole puzzle, he felt. Two minutes left, at a guess. It was time to change tact.

"Depends. I'll need to sell the jewel - the best place for that is Neo-Utopia city, where the tallest towers kiss the Blist-tide before the dawn, and the lowest alleys are shadowed by the four seas themselves. After that, who knows? I go wherever the wind takes me. The world's an open door, and I'm very good at opening doors." He exhaled in amusement again, enjoying his own joke perhaps a little too much. "'course, all that depends on me getting out in the first place, which you don't sound all that convinced by. But I know a sure-fire way to ease your worries."

And almost before he'd had time to think them out, the master thief also found words spilling from his mouth. "Come with me."

For once, Zante cursed his impulsiveness internally, though his well-trained façade revealed far less weakness than the girl's outburst. Another fine plan to weasel yourself out of, scolded his self-consciousness. "Of course, I could just sneak on out of here the way I came in. But the journey's better with company, wouldn't you say?" He didn't need her help, but it would certainly be advantageous if he could obtain it. If she perceived vulnerability there, then all the better - better to be under-estimated, always.

And if he could piss off the stuffy duke by turning his unwitting decoy into his own unwitting bargaining chip, then all the better.

opaline · Oct 6, 2024

Reyna Patrixe, the Impossible Girl

Perhaps worse than his cockiness was the sharpness behind his eyes: it was an impossibility to discern what lay beneath them, but she could feel their cutting edge tick away, revealing a thousand thoughts beneath. Or, was that just what any person from the outside seemed like? Anybody who would hold her gaze, without the far away glaze slicked over their eyes so as to give nothing away? It was then Reyna realised that glaze was predictably still there in his blue eyes, just with a new polish, one she was frustratingly unfamiliar with.

Her fingers knit together, producing naught except a reflection of her anxieties. Reyna forced them to still in a simple clasp in front of herself, a shaky—maybe sheer, if she were being honest— curtain settling again over her features. She had always been poor at putting on a convincing charade when her emotions came any stronger than a sprinkling of rain, but in her defence, Reyna rarely had to and often preferred expressing herself.

His language only invited more daydreaming on her behalf, of the mercantile streets of Neo-Utopia, and the opportunities a blending pot of cultures such as it invited. Reyna could be anyone. She wondered if a thief is who the man before her had wanted to become; she supposed the allure of technically unlimited profit could be reason enough to choose it when posed with extensive freedom. But his next words were the most surprising—"Come with me."

Reyna furrowed her eyebrows. But her heart skipped a beat, the momentary pause to give it the space to launch into a gallop. Her mind raced with it, the hallways of the manor illuminated like the answers to a children's puzzle book. Though she was as much in the dark as to what game he was playing as any other person in the Manor, Reyna simply didn't care. He was suggesting that she leave and despite not a soul considering his words as a vote of confidence or encouragement, Reyna took it as all that and more.

"Of course, I could just sneak on out of here the way I came in. But the journey's better with company, wouldn't you say?"

"You can drop the charm, and don't make any assumptions." she said throwing an accusatory point in his direction, though her tone betrayed a brightness of passion, "But I will come. I'm going to get out."

Though true that Reyna did not care about his charm, it that did not mean she didn't care for any of his words at all. She had gleaned much from him already, with one piece still swirling inconclusively in her thoughts. The Patrixe Jewel. The Baron's wealth had no crowning jewel as far as she was aware, the staff and the Baron himself making broad statements merely about his general wealth being of such envy. Either they had purposefully excluded any information about the star of the collection, or it was an old wives tale bred from an unhelpful and not to be trusted chain of whispers sorely lacking any definable detail. Yet within all those rumours no one knew anything about her. Not this thief, and not the frightfully small collection before him who had spoken to her. It was an absurd thought, but typically every whisper began with a truth. Reyna was drawing her connections that she assured herself could not be there, despite seemingly explaining countless questions. The main one remained unanswered—why?

Regardless, the decision had already been made and it left no time to consider the questions appropriately. A much louder clunk of machinery seemingly falling into place reverberated in the walls, the gentle clicking stopping abruptly. Perfectly on time, though it now meant they were hastened by the present circumstances. "By the way, I lied. Your time was closer to two minutes."

It was eerily silent, but Reyna could see the mist pouring in from all the hidden crevices she had surveyed. It had the opacity of the lightest of Kael's fogs, where you only realised your vision was hazy when noticing the words etched on a sign had a subtle softness around their usually sharp edges. Luckily not completely undetectable, but every other sense would have no luck noticing it and it acted quickly enough that a person's eyes and mind barely had the time to observe and deduce before darkness overcame them.

Though it made only the most inaudible whine, especially when compared to that of the steam of the rest of the mechanism, it flooded the room with an alarming pace. "Don't breathe it in!" Reyna crumpled her flowing velvet skirt in her right hand, so that it no longer licked the lacquered wooden floors, pinched her nose, and raced past the young thief to burst past the threshold of her room. Maybe he was part of some elaborate trick on her, but in the moment, the tiniest push was enough to quash her fears of another failed attempt.

Tragically, the gas encompassed the entire wing, she had learned, which equated to at least two minutes of running without breathing. It would be three if not for the short cut straight through one of the maid's chambers—which was only at times like these, left conveniently abandoned. It also lacked any ventilation openings of its own, in spite of this, it would inevitably be enveloped in the same gas as it flowed through door cracks. With some clever stoppage in the crevices, Reyna knew they could buy a few seconds to catch their breath, albeit if they were fast enough to get there before the air was already tainted.

So naturally, Reyna did not bother looking back, not even over her shoulder. Her lace up boots clacked as she ran, loud enough that she found it difficult to discern if there were footsteps behind her or ahead of her. Each foot simply kept rolling in front of the last, weaving in and out of rooms and hallways. Just a touch further ahead and it would be a sharp right to double back into the maid's chambers, by design appearing counterintuitive. But Reyna knew better than that.

SkyGinge · Oct 7, 2024

Zante Grett: The Half-Masked Thief

"You can drop the charm, and don't make any assumptions," the girl replied, almost defensively, as if embarrassed by the eagerness of her former question. There she was again, fretting about his safety, scolding his blind confidence, believing whole-heartedly in the manor's unbeaten security. It was cute of her to care, but no sheltered noble pup's warning would spook a master thief. Still, her first-hand knowledge of the manor workings would deal him a massive advantage, if she accepted his offer. And accept she did: "But I will come. I'm going to get out." An additional hint of smugness crept into his grin; another scenario successfully read.

"By the way, I lied," the girl added, "Your time was closer to two minutes." You slimy little bitch, thought Zante, his mind racing even as his grin broadened defiantly. So you were a decoy all along.

"Perfect," the thief smiled, his heart-rate racing deliciously, "I love me a good deadline."

But the girl was no longer focussed on his witty comeback - her gaze had wandered past him to the bedroom wall. He span around, following her gaze. Nothing was obviously wrong. Was he falling for another lie? He turned back, only to catch the young lady hitching up her skirts with one hand and covering her nose with the other.

"Don't breathe it in!" she exclaimed, dashing past him with surprising agility. For a moment, Zante remained, processing what had just happened. Don't breathe... what? And then he heard it, his night-honed senses pricking up: an almost inaudible hiss. Some kind of gas, surely - her gaze had focussed on the same spot whilst warning him about the hidden machines. He was familiar with a feast of different poisons and chemicals, but never before had he encountered a gas with the same affect. Maybe the Baron was a bit more imaginative than he'd given credit.

He had to think fast. His instinct, as was often the case, was to leap out of the window again, but then he'd be back to square one. Though he was loathe to admit it, the girls familiarity with the manor and the traps was a massive boon. He didn't have time to question if this was another lie - he had to decide now to trust her or not. Besides, there was no way a fragile little thing like her would be able to run for long without breathing, especially not at that page.

Alright, puzzlebox princess. I'll bite.

Zante set off after her at a jog, following the heavy rapid stomp of her boots as it echoed up the tower stairwell. Instinctually, his hand had reached into his shirt pocket and now he was wearing his trademark half-mask - there was no longer any point in playing things quietly. A silent, invisible, deadly weapon, he mused, good thing I'm not an assassin or I'd be out of a job! He reached the bottom of the stairwell just in time to see the young lady disappear around a corner; he upped his pace, determined not to lose her. Not deadly, he corrected, because she's done this before.

He chased her in and out of rooms and corridors, gaining on her through his athleticism. The girl's pace and head start had forced him to push a little harder than he would have liked; his vision was beginning to blur, his lungs practically pounding against the cage of his ribs to demand air. His focus lay solely on the girl, her dress a bright light in an increasingly blurry building. Even if his body was screaming at him, he knew he would not falter or fall as long as he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his body. One leg in front of the other, right, left, right, left...

opaline · Oct 14, 2024

Reyna Patrixe, the Impossible Girl

Reyna barely ran, which became increasingly obvious when she could tell the thief was in fact following her, since he was close enough on her heels that his own footsteps were distinct—an assorted blend of nimble yet decidedly athletic. Though it was unsurprising he would be fit and fast, Reyna's heart sank, the dread creeping in amongst the fountain of hope that fed her, for she had never been able to outrun anyone or anything in the Manor.

She half expected and feared the footsteps to belong to Greil or another, moments away from reaching out and stopping her in her tracks with almost inhumanly firm grips. But she knew it was not any of the staff, for the moment never came. The thief was truly following her, and heeded her warning. Strange. She already admitted she'd lied once.

She skidded around a corner into the maid's chambers and knew instantly there would be no luck of clean air for momentary reprieve. Typically, she was not fast enough. Reyna barrelled onwards with enough haste she barely remembered her hope to stop herself. Her heart pulsed louder and louder in her ears, as the pressure inside her lungs wanted to surge out. She almost would rather be underwater: water was at least tangible, pressing in on all sides in an oppressive smother, but the feeling equally served as the reminder of the ruin that lay just beyond. A moment of urgency could easily make the mind forget why air was beyond its reach, which was problematic where the labyrinthine paths were purpose-made to induce panic.

Reyna's mind grew foggier itself as the remaining oxygen behind her clamped mouth dwindled. Little space for thought remained beyond the continued pace of her legs rolling; luckily, there was almost no thought as to where to go, for it was a path she had walked inconspicuously countless times to satiate her delirious belief of escape. The fragility of the deprived mind bled into the competency of her movements—pace slowed with dragging feet, edges of vision pooling in black and crashing into door frames but sailing beyond them regardless.

As they continued to navigate, the gas did not ease, the subtle hiss an unwelcome background to their efforts. They had passed through one more staff chamber, two game rooms, three hallways, and a hopelessly abandoned dining room. Hook turns and doubling back was not uncommon that she wouldn't have blamed the thief for determining she was part of the master plan in getting them caught. They went down a staircase, and only a few paces along bounded back up another. It opened up to a much larger corridor, the sight flooding Reyna's veins with another surge of adrenaline.

She did decelerate for half a beat to throw a glance over her shoulder to spot the thief behind her, whilst being unable to see any other figures. Somehow her heart quickened in line with her thoughts, this time.

Reyna found a small burst of speed, counting the doors on her right—one, two, three... four! She flung her body into a hard right and dropped the grip on her skirt so that it was cast in an arc behind her. The doorway opened into a vestibule, but the gas was now thick enough that it resembled a heavy fog or light smog; shades and shapes the extent of detail that she could discern. Reyna's hands glided along the wall, until one brick inlay buckled ever so slightly under her delicate touch. She desperately pulled it out and threw it carelessly to the ground, reaching into the cobwebbed crevice Reyna fumbled until she felt cool metal and pulled out the key, spinning on her heels and slamming into the door to lean upon it as she unceremoniously jammed it into the keyhole.

The double doors then came apart with a tug of the handle, her lean suddenly losing support and having her stumble into an enclosed courtyard. Reyna grasped the thief's wrist, tugging him impatiently through them before slamming them shut and locking it. She stumbled backwards as many paces as she could before letting out a guttural gasp for the frigid air.

The courtyard itself was flanked by three sets of double doors, on two edges, a portcullis on a third (that, upsettingly, did not lead to any part of Kael beyond the Manor's walls, but only another larger enclosed courtyard) and more paths of archways lining the perimeter generally, many of which housed yet further single doors to where some of the staff slept. From the doors which they came, the gas could be seen trickling out of the slits, curling up into the atmosphere as peacefully as tendrils of steam. If they kept their distance and the doors stayed tightly shut... "Gas... not enough-" she spoke through breaths deeper than she knew she could take, pointing instead to supplement her at best brief explanation, "to work."

Reyna gave in to a knee buckle and plonked right onto the grass as her vision slowly revealed more vivid colors, and sensations returned all at once to her extremities, each part of her body waking up. She let out a weak laugh, with joy, fear, disbelief and adrenaline still concocting a dangerous and confusing mix.

The words were shaky still, but a fire returned to her tone. "Any genius plans from here? Maybe that crew would come in handy."

Reyna asked only because she had not gotten this far and personally lacked any genius plans from this point onwards.

SkyGinge · Oct 18, 2024

ZANTE GRETT: THE HALF-MASKED THIEF

Gaining on the girl was a conundrum; he barely had space in his thoughts to exercise restraint. He kept his pace by zigzagging down the corridors, keeping a couple of meter's distance so that he could react accordingly. She's stumbling, he thought. He didn't blame her - his head felt like a dammed stream, his ears ready to burst at any second. He was tiring himself out through the extra running, but to hesitate would only invite weakness. He needed his adrenaline to drown out his body's urges.

Can't... let her... fall. These were his last conscious thoughts before his mind was filled by the image of her fluttering dress, the sole sentinel in the fog of corridors and walkways. They entered an enclosed doorway, which halted his sprint. No longer crowded out by the rhythm of his rushing footsteps, his sense were instead filled with a sort of visceral, agreesive white noise.

By the time that Reyna had finished grappling with the keys and had grabbed his wrist to yank him through the doorway, the young thief's vision had already began to glaze over. He landed on his hands and knees; he remained there, motionless, the image of the running girl that had dominated his focus replaced with a different picture altogether.

He was on the beach at Paxia, its time-torn sands and shingle garnished with rubble and charred skyship remnants. He was alone in the sea, a boy floundering against an unseen force pulling him under. He was fighting in vain to keep his head above the waterline, the sting of saltwater bitter in his mouth. Then, from a rocky outcrop before him, another boy appeared, impossibly tall. Virge stretched out his hand, and smiled.

"Any genius plans from here?" said Virge, "Maybe that crew would come in handy." Except it wasn't the voice of his brother - it spoke with feminine inflection and refined intonation.

Zante's eyes snapped open, rewarding him with a face full of frosty grass. He rolled over, collapsing spread-eagle on the courtyard ground as the sight of Blist above came into focus, his lungs now visibly pumping. Though night had now ascended upon the central layers, there was always a layer of light at the height of the skyline, made distant and dull by the evening's arrival. Amidst the blanket of far-off light were little pockets of brighter glow, which the ladies at the orphanage had once called 'the stars'.

And he laughed. A subtle chuckle at first, which soon erupted into an almighty cackle which echoed off the courtyard walls and into the night sky. He had just followed a girl he'd never met before through the boobytrapped manor of a particularly devious nobleman in desperate flight from an impossible gas. He had no idea where they were, or where the entrance was from here. He still didn't even know where the treasure he sought was, nor even what it looked like. He had no plan, no back-up, no ideas.

And it was glorious.

After what must have seemed like far too long, the laughter ceased abruptly, and the thief thrust himself back onto his feet in a single deft motion. Confidence was one thing, but he did still have a job to complete. His gaze fell on the girl again, her eyes looking back at him expectantly. His mind returned to the words of the servants. The girl knew about the gas, so it was unlikely the younger servant had been talking about that. Yet her continued safety was clearly important enough for the groundsman that 'warning her' of some thug heading for her room was still a priority question for a young member of staff.

"I have a plan," Zante lied, his smile slowly returning, "but first, I need you to tell me something. No games, no lies, no messing about - our lives depend on it. Who are you? And what is your relation to our pal the Baron?"

opaline · Oct 20, 2024

Reyna Patrixe, the Impossible Girl

She watched him with a lack of amusement, as his eyes wandered the sea above. It never changed. She could draw the patch visible from every angle of the courtyard from her memory. Reyna jolted at his abrupt laughter, echoing so loudly it drowned out any of the festival's carried sounds and settled by placing her hands on her hips and staring with a slightly raised eyebrow, anxiety that she'd made a mistake melting instead into annoyance. Yet she was not pessimistic—they were both for the most part alive and well, with a genuine possibility of escape. He may not understand the sheer wonder such an idea brought, having not known the Manor as intimately as her, but perhaps, that was why she almost wanted to smile too.

As quickly as his laughter began it stopped in one swift motion bringing him back to his feet. Whoops, she had not meant to make him fall to the ground, and Reyna only just realised that she had with the slightest giggle.

"No games, no lies, no messing about - our lives depend on it. Who are you? And what is your relation to our pal the Baron?"

Her own laughter died in her throat. What game was he playing at? It made perfect sense why she had not a clue who he was, but for him to not know her? Reyna knew she did not have a social presence, but couldn't grasp the idea she might not even exist outside these walls. Of all her daydreaming, Reyna had never paused to consider who she was to anybody else outside the Manor. The realisation she could plausibly become anyone made her prick up with excitement.

Reyna would have been surprised he’d agreed to follow her knowing who she was, but she was almost more so that he had without knowing. But truthfully, had she not done the same in placing trust and chance of escape in a stranger?

"Reyna Mathilde Claribel Patrixe. You don't know me?" she asked in disbelief, rolling into a scorned, heated tone, "And I would not call my father a 'pal'.”

Her attention turned back to the courtyard surrounding them, surprisingly peaceful despite the festivities below now creating a messy overlap of music and shouting carried by enchanted wind. There were a few paths they could take to reach an exit, though it largely depended on where he wanted to go. He was the one who had gotten in somewhere and likely knew how to sneak away once outside, whereas she had always turned up short on deciding on a beer exit. In fact, Reyna had less deliberately mapped beyond this point, for she had only escaped the gas once before and doubted beyond that. She would ask, she thought, but first it was only fair he tell her no lies.

“It is your turn. The truth, might I add, since you’re in the field of less than honest business. Who are you? And what is the plan?"

SkyGinge · Oct 20, 2024

ZANTE GRETT: THE HALF-MASKED THIEF

The thief's eyes narrowed in disappointment, his half-smile wavering slightly. "And here I was thinking we were starting to get along," he sighed, "Still, if you were going to lie to me, you could have at least tried to make it a bit more believable. You think I haven't done my research? Baron Patrixe has no children. Even the paupers know that." To be fair, he couldn't blame her for not trusting a thief. He'd not exactly merited trust in ballooning up his outward confidence in a way that even an idiot would have been able to see through. Whoever this girl was, she certainly wasn't an idiot, even if his signature mask meant nothing to her. No matter. He didn't need her trust to use her cooperation.

Zante opened his mouth to intercept whatever protestation the girl was about to make with another question, but before the words had the chance to escape his mouth, a deep, well-mannered voice cut across the courtyard: "Good evening."

Zante span, instinctively clutching a dagger from within his shirt-pocket. They were no longer alone in the courtyard - standing underneath the portcullis was the tall, bald Irrean butler, flanked by a group of four other servants. The thief cursed internally. Normally he felt the sensation of being watched like actual needles on his skin, but holding his breath for so long had clearly muddied his instincts. Either that or this random butler and his crones had an impossibly invisible presence.

"I must commend you for making it this far." Greil's tone was serene and, like his statuesque face, impossible to read. "You are the first to make it past the gas."

"The pleasure's all mine," said Zante, his voice chipper and cheery even whilst his eyes frantically scanned the courtyard for a way out. "I will commend you in turn for an altogether enjoyable evening so far." He felt further eyes watching them from the second story hallways above that overlooked the courtyard. Even if Goth's rope gizmo could hold the weight of both him and the girl, there was more back-up waiting for them above.

"I am pleased to hear you have enjoyed the evening's activities," the man intoned monotonously, "It is always pleasant to spend one's final hours of freedom with a smile."

"Final hours? Don't be so pessimistic."

There was a glint of something in the man's icy eyes. Amusement, perhaps? The man's gaze shifted to the girl, with another indistinguishable emotion bubbling behind his stony expression. Disappointment? Worry? Fury, maybe? He'd sooner make sense of a boulder. The man kept eye contact with the girl whilst he spoke, almost as if scolding her, not him. " The Baron himself may be regrettably unavailable, but in his absence I shall not permit his greatest treasure to be stolen. No thief has ever escaped this mansion."

"No thief has ever escaped this mansion yet." Zante flashed the man his broadest smile. So baldie thinks I've already got the Jewel. Interesting - perhaps he could use that assumption to his advantage. The man did not smile back, his gaze still fixed on the girl.

"Such a dangerously imaginative tongue you have," he said, "Little wonder you have so bewitched the young lady with your honeyed lies."

"Outwitting your gas wasn't a lie."

"You were assisted. You will find your accomplice rather less effective in the challenge to come." If a fight was next on the schedule, the butler wasn't wrong. The girl didn't look like she'd know what a fight was if it smacked her round the face. The enemy certainly had the numbers advantage, but the master thief had fought far fiercer foes than mere servants. At least, they were just servants... right?

"I already tricked you once," Zante scoffed defiantly.

"A small victory, and yet irrelevant now that we have you trapped."

"I stole my way in easily enough."

"Only because we let you."

Zante's eyes narrowed as the pair locked eyes. Such distinctive blue eyes the man had. Were these the eyes of a liar? Out of the corner of his vision, he thought he saw the butler's lips perse into the subtlest of smiles. "Was it not all a little too easy?" the butler continued, "Did you really think a man as thorough as Baron Patrixe would leave architectural records overlooked in his library? Were you not surprised by the lack of guards and the emptiness of the corridors?" Zante's grip on his dagger tightened. This shiny-skulled show-off is beginning to piss me off. He couldn't let the man intimidate him - though had he not suspected the same thing on his way to the tower? Just how deep did the rabbit hole go? Was the entire manor just a cage designed to lure and entrap criminals? Was the girl in on this too? How about the black marketeers?

No, it didn't matter, at least for now. He was half-masked thief, #2 on the most wanted list. He'd gotten out of worse scrapes. So what if he'd fallen into a trap? A wounded beast is still dangerous.

"Suppose I give you back the jewel," Zante began, quieter. The butler thought he had the upper hand - it wouldn't hurt to play into that narrative.

"An irrelevant hypothetical. You possess knowledge far too dangerous for the outside world, now that you know the true nature of the Patrixe Jewel."

The 'true nature?' Zante stewed, I still don't know shit! And yet, the butler's wording was careful, deliberate, and sent his mind racing. If the 'jewel' had a true nature then perhaps it wasn't a jewel at all. A treasure of unquantifiable beauty and value, kept safely locked away from the watching world, and the only thing he had already 'stolen'...

With this final shred of evidence, the puzzle pieces had slotted into place. The girl wasn't just connected to the jewel, she was the jewel. What treasure would be more valuable to a secretive, grieving noble than his own daughter? What 'jewel' surpasses monetary value more than life itself?

"Corrin, Alzore, escort the young mistress back to her quarters, and ensure that she has a long, restful night's sleep." The butler's instructions signalled that the time for conversation was over, and the servants approached them steadily. So many questions remained, but he hadn't the time to think. His mission remained unchanged - he would be the first to steal the Patrixe Jewel. Hand back on his favourite dagger, he cast a final knowing side-glance at the girl.

"You don't have any favourite servants, do you?" he asked with a hollow smile that didn't reach the intensity and seriousness of his eyes. "I hope you're alright with blood."

With that, the thief span, swinging a dagger in a wide arc in front of him. The first servant stepped back in evasion, but Zante had already anticipated this, retrieving another knife with his other hand and throwing it towards the servant's leaning leg. In the nick of time, the servant dodged the blade by kicking both feet into the air, using his hands to fling himself back to his feet with an acrobatic backflip. Damn, Zante cursed, adjusting his footing. So these aren't just ordinary servants.

Pulling the knife from the frosted earth, the servant advanced slowly towards them, new weapon outstretched. Zante offered a few tentative thrusts of his ornate dagger, testing for openings - each time, the man twisted his body out of the way. The servants might have had the numbers advantage and they were certainly more combat-ready than they had first appeared, but the young thief still had a major advantage. He's playing defensive because the butler said they need me alive.

Grin broadening with newfound confidence, Zante made another jab with the dagger in his right hand, but as the man rotated his body, the thief brought a clenched fist rocketing towards the man's stomach, clenching his teeth in anticipation. The impact never came - somehow, mid-turn, the man had sensed his feint and caught his fist in his hand. Squeezing his knuckles, the man twisted Zante's wrist with enough sharpness to unbalance him. The young rogue was powerless to resist, forced to kneel before the servant. The man released him, towering over him. Not half bad, Zante smiled.

Zante rose to his feet, stretching his knuckles. Again, the thief made the first jab, following the same pattern of motion as with every previous dagger swing. Except this time, there was no dagger in his hand - with his spare hand, the young rogue had tossed the dagger spinning up into the air. The servant glanced up at the thrown dagger, startled for a split second. His gaze returned to the thief, but the damage was already done - Zante's knee powered into the man's groin. The man collapsed to his knees, with barely the opportunity to wince before a fierce right hook crunched against his jaw. The servant fell backwards, desperately blinking to try to refocus himself. But as he made to sit up, the flying dagger skewered into his abdomen with an audible slice.

The thief pulled his weapon from the man's flesh, blood bubbling from his open stomach. The wound was enough to stun him and take him out of the equation, but it wasn't severe enough to seal the deal. Snarling, Zante gripped the dagger with both hands and held it aloft, preparing to strike, when another pair of hands grabbed his arms, pulling him back, twisting his arms into relinquishing his hold on the knife. The unseen attacker was taller and stronger than him, holding his arms in an unnatural position before kicking him down to the ground in a puff of dirt. Zante turned onto his back to see the servant readying a knockout right hook, but the thief's hand was faster, flying instinctively to his right sleave. The hooked rope shot out from his arm, embedding its spike in the man's forehead. The dead servant stared back at the thief blankly as he yanked on the rope, bringing the corpse to its knees.

The next servant approached, spinning a hefty quarterstaff with mesmerising speed. Cutting the rope with one of his last daggers to sever his device's connection to the corpse, Zante scrambled to his feet, retreating tentatively. Suddenly the staff-wielder swung his weapon - the staff cut through the air mere inches from where the thief had stood mere seconds ago. Almost by reflex, Zante navigated his slender frame away from each untelegraphed swing, leaping, ducking and diving to avoid a heavy impact, all whilst the second servant tried to find an opening behind him. He attempted another thrown dagger, which the man batted out of the air with the spin of his staff, sending it clattering far out of sight. The man swung high towards his face, but this time the thief was ready for him, crouching and using his bent legs to launch into a tackle. The servant hit the earth with a thud, instinctively dropping his staff to grab the rogue. The pair grappled for supremacy, pulling each other tossing and turning in the dirt, the staff kicked to the side amidst the struggle. Zante found himself overpowered, pinned to the ground by the servant's weight. The thief released his grip, the sudden absence of counterforce catching the servant off guard. In reaction, the servant pulled the thief towards him, but the second's weakness was all the thief needed to point a dagger towards the man. The servant's eyes widened as he pulled the blade into his own chest, before his heavy frame slid limply off of the thief.

Zante smiled to himself as he climbed to his feet. For a brief second, he locked eyes with the butler, who was still stood cross-armed on the other side of the courtyard, his expression distinctly displeased. A moment of recognition passed between the two of them, and then the butler unfolded his arms and began to run towards him with surprising agility for someone so tall and bulky. Cursing, Zante took his penultimate knife and threw it towards the Irrean, who grabbed it out of the air as easily as plucking a grape from the vine. Touche, Zante smiled wryly. The underlings had been bad enough, but if this bloke was anywhere near as dangerous as he looked...

The only option was to make a run for it. Zante turned, finding the fourth servant grappling with the girl. Breaking into a sprint, the thief retrieved the discarded quarterstaff from the floor and cracked it against the unsuspecting servant's head. Pushing the unconscious man aside, the young rogue grabbed the girl's waist with his right arm and pointed his left towards a window on the storey overlooking the courtyard. The butler would be upon them in seconds - it was now or never. One rope, one hope, one opportunity. It's time to teach this caged canary how to fly.

"Hold on tight," he commanded, gritting his teeth as he pressed the button on Goth's other rope device...

opaline · Oct 28, 2024

Reyna Patrixe, the Impossible Girl

Not only had the man presumed she had lied, he hadn't even deigned to give her any name at all. But his tone, he seemed truly convinced her father had no children; her own shoulders involuntarily fell.

Then came Greil's voice, her body stiff as an involuntary reaction to her accursed hope dissipating. Bewitched? Honeyed lies? As though Reyna cared about what the thief had to say! And what of the lies they told? She eased back into her stance, frustration replacing her fear. Nonetheless, Reyna stood still and silent as Greil spoke with the thief, soaking the information like a sponge. It was more than she'd ever been allowed to hear. They let intruders sneak in purposefully? And there was that term again—Patrixe Jewel.

She could hear their words, but they largely held no meaning. Reyna didn't understand what they possibly meant by true nature. There was nothing of note in the forsaken Manor, Reyna was certain of it. She didn't dwell on the thoughts much, for she focused on how she despised Greil's tone. It had a harsh edge she did not recognise; his demeanour had always been that of a stern but kind figure. In this conversation, he reminded her more of a predator calmly toying with their cornered prey.

Reyna had finally found her voice, only for Greil to cut the conversation to an abrupt end. All of the servants in front of them were well trained, she knew, and the numbers were not in the thief's favor either. She would have looked to run, if she did not already know there was nowhere to go. The thief looked at her with no joy in his eyes, "I hope you're alright with blood."

She had read about it but seen little- though evidently, the thief did not care with how he instantly launched into action. The servants responded in kind, with Corrin racing towards herself. Reyna leaped out of the way of his charge, seething, "Don't you dare touch me!"

He stumbled and turned back towards her. "No choice, miss." Though focused on her own dilemma, Reyna could not help but glance at the athleticism of the servants, dodging and predicting every movement to the point of catching a fist. Corrin came rushing again, and though she attempted to sidestep again, her slight distraction and his expertise meant he did not fall for her little trick twice.

Corrin managed to clasp onto one of her arms, beginning to drag her along the floor, even with Reyna burying her heels. Instead, Reyna yanked him towards her, bringing her other elbow up to his nose, the dual momentum managing to leave his face scrunched in pain, grasping at his now bleeding nose. Corrin's eyes flared now with rage. He reached at her again, this time twisting an arm behind her back to which she involuntarily gasped and then grit her teeth.

She saw the thief fighting the other servants once more, holding a dagger ready to plunge into the man who already lay in his own blood beginning to pool. She wanted to protest against the deliberate act, but there was no time, nor for Reyna to warn of the other servant before the thief was kicked into the ground by him.

Reyna slammed her heeled boot onto Corrin's toes, though his grasp only let up enough for her to turn and face him. Corrin grabbed her other arm before she could pull away further, both her forearms now in a vice-like grip. "Let me go!" Reyna cried as she struggled against his hold. She knew her protests or her efforts would not change anything; it never did for thieves and miscreants who were more than double her size. They had all been bested by these servants.

Corrin crumpled into a heap with a resounding crack as wood met bone. The thief was beside her again, and it was then she surveyed the damage, and the metallic smell tainting the air now bombarded her senses. Her skin prickled, and her eyes washed over them all in concern, but the situation marched ahead with scant regard for the injured.

In what seemed like one swift movement, the limp body was cast aside and the thief's arm wrapped firmly round her waist. Reyna let out a shriek of indignation—"Hey!"—his jostling barely different from that of the servant attempting to drag her away. Before she could protest further, however, he spoke in a frighteningly even tone lacking the bravado she'd come to expect in an exceptionally short time. "Hold on tight," he commanded as her own eyes landed upon Greil in a full sprint.

Reyna felt her heart leap into her throat, and she tilted her body inwards to grip onto the thief. The mechanism he pressed was followed by the twist and click of metal settling into place and a small but forceful blast propelling the device to bury into the wall just above the second floor's windows. There was no chance to blink before they were weightless, rushing towards the solid glass window with the whine of the tiny mechanism hidden away in his sleeves. She hadn't felt the crisp Kael air sail through her hair with such force before—she dreamt of how birds felt the wind rustle their feathers as they flew, and now, she thought maybe she knew. It made Reyna want to both scream and laugh, but she only bit her tongue and grasped more tightly onto the thief's shirt, considering the measly hold fabric gave.

He twisted his body in a controlled motion, utilising the momentum to bring his foot up and shattering the glass with a resounding crash. The servants in the hallways scurried away from the spray, whilst he rotated further for his frame to shield her from any rogue shards when they went tumbling through. Before they'd landed, let alone recollected themselves, the splintering sound of the glass was infiltrated by the sharp snap of the cable. The force of the break resulted in the otherwise smooth, relatively refined movements coming to a jolted halt on the floor. Reyna had one small cut to her upper arm, a trickle of warmth working along her skin and dress.

Reyna paid it no mind and scrambled up, relishing in her pounding heart. She focused on the hallway, where it took one glance to orient herself, the Manor clear as ever despite her senses being more than overwhelmed. The servants knew it well too, busying themselves with blocking the hallways and most convenient exits along it. She hissed at the thief, "They're blocking everything. And there's only more coming." And Greil, she remembered.

His other grapple was embedded in a servant's head, she noticed as she looked down at Greil in the courtyard, leaving him with no literal tricks up his sleeve. Perhaps he had some metaphorical ones remaining. Greil locked eyes with her, and she stumbled away from the window and pressed against the hallway's far wall, her stomach churning.

Fantasy The Secret of the Seventh Sea

opaline

rather clumsy

opaline

rather clumsy

SkyGinge

Sad Shroom

opaline

rather clumsy

SkyGinge

Sad Shroom

opaline

rather clumsy

SkyGinge

Sad Shroom

opaline

rather clumsy

SkyGinge

Sad Shroom

opaline

rather clumsy

SkyGinge

Sad Shroom

opaline

rather clumsy

SkyGinge

Sad Shroom

opaline

rather clumsy

SkyGinge

Sad Shroom

opaline

rather clumsy

SkyGinge

Sad Shroom

opaline

rather clumsy

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