Despite the coolness of the cave, sweat made the thin linen shirt cling to her pallid skin. With a bloody hand, Ava wiped the dirt and hair from her eyes and turned to seek out approval from the watchers. Every thief and brigand in the city of Southport had gathered to see if she would go through with her accusations and still keep her life.
Up on a makeshift platform, Orland Farthem sat and stared down at her, eyes of steel boring into her confidence. His appearance of youth was challenged only by the salt and pepper in his neatly trimmed beard. The sheepskin cloak on his shoulders was clean and shone in the dimness of the cavern, a mark of his status as Thief Lord in the region. Slowly, Ava brought herself forward in front of the platform, kneeling before him with her head bowed.
“Hail, Orland. I stand by my accusations of trickery on the part of our previous princess.” She made a sweeping gesture towards the corpse of a woman five years her senior, nameless in death. “With the spilling of her blood, I ask you name me as her successor.”
It seemed like eternity before he finally spoke, his voice like the rustle of leaves in autumn. “Ava of the Wayward District, I acknowledge the validity of your claims. The conspiracy you brought to light will be investigated. Rise and stand by me, and be proud to call yourself Princess Rogue.” He dropped from his formal speech, though his voice still carried the weight of severity. “And I hope that you honor and maintain that position well. Make no mistakes, or you will be forgotten just as quickly as the one whose life you took. Do you understand the gravity of the position you are undertaking?”
The knot in Ava’s stomach tightened. She had been born into the clan of thieves settled in the Wayward District, when clans were as family and worked in the underground to better their way of life. She was still a child when tension began to build between the clans. She remembered Orland’s words as he began formulating his plan of a united tribe of thieves, and how many of the clans in the city had revolted at the idea. But she had always admired that dream. Now, in the heat of the underground war, she had exposed and killed a traitor out of honor and the crushing desire to return to the simpler chaos of her childhood. The actions she took only a few moments ago were not actions to be taken lightly, and it was distressing to have the King of Thieves question both her abilities and her loyalties so publicly. Thrusting her pointed chin out in an effort to mask her strained emotions as stubborn strength, she determined to not let her voice shake.
“I understand. My life belongs to the thieves of Southport. If I die, I will not be mourned. If I am caught, I will not be rescued. I will take any job that will ensure the progress of this tribe.” The earnesty in her voice was unmistakable. “I will do what needs to be done to end this war and unite the clans of this city. I want to earn the recognition we deserve.”
Orland’s mouth slowly pulled into a smile as the gathered thieves whispered amongst themselves. He rose to his feet and offered her a hand. She grasped it, both surprised and not that his grip was as strong as hers as he pulled her to his feet and --to her surprise -- into a hug.
“Thank you for those words, child.” his breath was as warm as his voice when he whispered in her ear, before turning her out to face the crowd. “I present to you all Ava Gladomain, Princess of Thieves! May her life be long and her accomplishments many!”
The quiet grew slowly into a thunderous roar of applause and Ava found herself swept up and away in the arms of Justin, a fellow clansman from the Wayward District who, despite being twenty-nine seasons to her twenty-six, insisted on acting like a lust-driven teen.
“Ava, light of my life! You did it!” His enthusiasm was catching, and she found herself laughing as he swept her into a twirling hug. A devious glint came into his eye. “You’ve never looked so lovely, you should make grand accomplishments more often.”
Ava ran a self-conscious hand through her thin flaxen hair, then put a hand on her hip and glared at him.
“Don’t make fun.” she scolded, knowing full well the lean muscles that replaced the soft curves most men preferred. Justin seemed unphased.
“Come on, I’ll buy you a celebratory drink. And then you can buy me one. And I promise, the more drinks we have the prettier you’ll become. By the end of the evening every man will want to share your bedroll…” he casually draped an arm across her shoulders. “But I’m the only one who intends to have that honor tonight.”
“Not if I shove your balls down your throat. Apparently that will be the only way to get you to shut up.” She rolled her black eyes and ducked out from beneath his arm, hitting him lightly on the shoulder. “Did you bring another shirt for me? I doubt going into any tavern covered in blood would be very inconspicuous.”
She took the bundle he tossed at her and once they had entered the streets of Southport, ducked into an alley to change, wiping her dirty hands on the soiled shirt before bundling it up and sticking it in her side pouch.
Very quickly the taverns filled with drinking and celebrating knaves. Ava and her clansmen were guests of honor, and while rarely had so many thieves been in any public place at the same time the barkeeps dared not through them out. Money is money, and with a tip of 10 silver certans even the most honest man would keep his mouth shut about such matters.

***

Duncan Arroway stared at the scroll his master had given him with a dubious eye. The paper was yellowing and peeling away from the glue on either end of the wooden staves, but otherwise it looked like any of the other scrolls in Spelloyal’s archives.
“I understand what ye want me to do, but…” he ran a hand through his amber locks in frustration, and set honey-colored eyes on Master Scribe Spelloyal. Spelloyal was aged beyond time itself, the only thing that did not shake about him was his voice. He had always retained a firm, soothing and compelling tenor that Duncan had grown to love over the years, and it was this very voice that compelled him to leave Ianhand Manor and everything he loved. Duncan loved the master scribe like a father, and knew the old man felt the same. It made little sense to him why he was being sent away so abruptly.
“Duncan, listen to me well.” Master Spelloyal leaned heavily on his cane, gnarled body nearly doubled over. “You’ve learned much under you apprenticeship to me, but I have not taught you everything you need to know. Some things must be learned on your own, and it if to this purpose I am sending you on this errand.” his smile was thin and his eyes watery, and Duncan suddenly felt that not all was being spoken. “I will not be around forever, as you and I can both see. This body has been deteriorating around me for far too long, and soon you will have to take over the trade. I trust you to do everything necessary.”
“There’s something more, t’aint there?” Duncan asked, tucking the scroll carefully into the travel satchel at his feet. Master Spelloyal chuckled, a soft raspy sound that reminded Duncan of wind through reeds.
“You always were a clever lad. It will come in handy, should you need it on this excursion.”
“Aye.” Duncan was dissatisfied with this answer, but knew better than to press for anything more. Something in the master’s tone prompted him to say, “I promise I won’t be killed.”
“You had better not be,” Spelloyal scoffed. “I haven’t enough life in me to train another replacement. Now get you gone and see Master Ianhand at the manor. He’ll have more supplies for your journey to Vicices.”
Duncan nodded. “I’ll leave on the morrow.”
“Be wise, Duncan. And be safe.”
His tone prompted Duncan to swoop down and give the old man a tight hug. He held him tightly for a moment more, trying to embed in his memory everything about his life at the archives.
“I promise. I’ll return quickly, to thank ye for everything ye’ve done for me.” Duncan swore. The master gave him a reassuring pat on the back.
“You deserved everything I ever gave you, lad. Now be off with you, before you make this pitiful old man cry.” With as bright a smile as he could muster, Dunan gave one final salute before leaving the small building and trekking towards the manor.
He couldn’t help but worry about the road to Vicices. After leaving the orphanage to be apprenticed to Master Spelloyal at age eight, he had not since left Ianhand Manor and the surrounding area. Rumors flew about the bandits that prowled the roads to prey on individual travelers, and Vicices was far away…putting all doubtful thoughts aside, Duncan took in his surroundings once again, in order to engrain everything he could to his heart. It would be a long time before he saw any of it again.

1.Which is probably a good thing, as her name happened to be Saffron Elvira Marietta Santinea Floozerbuzz Wilcox. Reflecting back, she had always regretted taking on Floozerbuzz, but one can’t always be held responsible for events that occur when drunk and making bets. The consequent nickname of “Floozy” didn’t do much to help her career.

2. Lean muscles were not the only thing men wished Ava did not have. A penchant for beating them to a pulp would be one, continually winning at cards another, and her uncanny ability to make them feel small and stupid with a Look could be done without. Despite the coolness of the cave, sweat made the thin linen shirt cling to her pallid skin. With a bloody hand, Ava wiped the dirt and hair from her eyes and turned to seek out approval from the watchers. Every thief and brigand in the city of Southport had gathered to see if she would go through with her accusations and still keep her life.
Up on a makeshift platform, Orland Farthem sat and stared down at her, eyes of steel boring into her confidence. His appearance of youth was challenged only by the salt and pepper in his neatly trimmed beard. The sheepskin cloak on his shoulders was clean and shone in the dimness of the cavern, a mark of his status as Thief Lord in the region. Slowly, Ava brought herself forward in front of the platform, kneeling before him with her head bowed.
“Hail, Orland. I stand by my accusations of trickery on the part of our previous princess.” She made a sweeping gesture towards the corpse of a woman five years her senior, nameless in death. “With the spilling of her blood, I ask you name me as her successor.”
It seemed like eternity before he finally spoke, his voice like the rustle of leaves in autumn. “Ava of the Wayward District, I acknowledge the validity of your claims. The conspiracy you brought to light will be investigated. Rise and stand by me, and be proud to call yourself Princess Rogue.” He dropped from his formal speech, though his voice still carried the weight of severity. “And I hope that you honor and maintain that position well. Make no mistakes, or you will be forgotten just as quickly as the one whose life you took. Do you understand the gravity of the position you are undertaking?”
The knot in Ava’s stomach tightened. She had been born into the clan of thieves settled in the Wayward District, when clans were as family and worked in the underground to better their way of life. She was still a child when tension began to build between the clans. She remembered Orland’s words as he began formulating his plan of a united tribe of thieves, and how many of the clans in the city had revolted at the idea. But she had always admired that dream. Now, in the heat of the underground war, she had exposed and killed a traitor out of honor and the crushing desire to return to the simpler chaos of her childhood. The actions she took only a few moments ago were not actions to be taken lightly, and it was distressing to have the King of Thieves question both her abilities and her loyalties so publicly. Thrusting her pointed chin out in an effort to mask her strained emotions as stubborn strength, she determined to not let her voice shake.
“I understand. My life belongs to the thieves of Southport. If I die, I will not be mourned. If I am caught, I will not be rescued. I will take any job that will ensure the progress of this tribe.” The earnesty in her voice was unmistakable. “I will do what needs to be done to end this war and unite the clans of this city. I want to earn the recognition we deserve.”
Orland’s mouth slowly pulled into a smile as the gathered thieves whispered amongst themselves. He rose to his feet and offered her a hand. She grasped it, both surprised and not that his grip was as strong as hers as he pulled her to his feet and --to her surprise -- into a hug.
“Thank you for those words, child.” his breath was as warm as his voice when he whispered in her ear, before turning her out to face the crowd. “I present to you all Ava Gladomain, Princess of Thieves! May her life be long and her accomplishments many!”
The quiet grew slowly into a thunderous roar of applause and Ava found herself swept up and away in the arms of Justin, a fellow clansman from the Wayward District who, despite being twenty-nine seasons to her twenty-six, insisted on acting like a lust-driven teen.
“Ava, light of my life! You did it!” His enthusiasm was catching, and she found herself laughing as he swept her into a twirling hug. A devious glint came into his eye. “You’ve never looked so lovely, you should make grand accomplishments more often.”
Ava ran a self-conscious hand through her thin flaxen hair, then put a hand on her hip and glared at him.
“Don’t make fun.” she scolded, knowing full well the lean muscles that replaced the soft curves most men preferred. Justin seemed unphased.
“Come on, I’ll buy you a celebratory drink. And then you can buy me one. And I promise, the more drinks we have the prettier you’ll become. By the end of the evening every man will want to share your bedroll…” he casually draped an arm across her shoulders. “But I’m the only one who intends to have that honor tonight.”
“Not if I shove your balls down your throat. Apparently that will be the only way to get you to shut up.” She rolled her black eyes and ducked out from beneath his arm, hitting him lightly on the shoulder. “Did you bring another shirt for me? I doubt going into any tavern covered in blood would be very inconspicuous.”
She took the bundle he tossed at her and once they had entered the streets of Southport, ducked into an alley to change, wiping her dirty hands on the soiled shirt before bundling it up and sticking it in her side pouch.
Very quickly the taverns filled with drinking and celebrating knaves. Ava and her clansmen were guests of honor, and while rarely had so many thieves been in any public place at the same time the barkeeps dared not through them out. Money is money, and with a tip of 10 silver certans even the most honest man would keep his mouth shut about such matters.

***

Duncan Arroway stared at the scroll his master had given him with a dubious eye. The paper was yellowing and peeling away from the glue on either end of the wooden staves, but otherwise it looked like any of the other scrolls in Spelloyal’s archives.
“I understand what ye want me to do, but…” he ran a hand through his amber locks in frustration, and set honey-colored eyes on Master Scribe Spelloyal. Spelloyal was aged beyond time itself, the only thing that did not shake about him was his voice. He had always retained a firm, soothing and compelling tenor that Duncan had grown to love over the years, and it was this very voice that compelled him to leave Ianhand Manor and everything he loved. Duncan loved the master scribe like a father, and knew the old man felt the same. It made little sense to him why he was being sent away so abruptly.
“Duncan, listen to me well.” Master Spelloyal leaned heavily on his cane, gnarled body nearly doubled over. “You’ve learned much under you apprenticeship to me, but I have not taught you everything you need to know. Some things must be learned on your own, and it if to this purpose I am sending you on this errand.” his smile was thin and his eyes watery, and Duncan suddenly felt that not all was being spoken. “I will not be around forever, as you and I can both see. This body has been deteriorating around me for far too long, and soon you will have to take over the trade. I trust you to do everything necessary.”
“There’s something more, t’aint there?” Duncan asked, tucking the scroll carefully into the travel satchel at his feet. Master Spelloyal chuckled, a soft raspy sound that reminded Duncan of wind through reeds.
“You always were a clever lad. It will come in handy, should you need it on this excursion.”
“Aye.” Duncan was dissatisfied with this answer, but knew better than to press for anything more. Something in the master’s tone prompted him to say, “I promise I won’t be killed.”
“You had better not be,” Spelloyal scoffed. “I haven’t enough life in me to train another replacement. Now get you gone and see Master Ianhand at the manor. He’ll have more supplies for your journey to Vicices.”
Duncan nodded. “I’ll leave on the morrow.”
“Be wise, Duncan. And be safe.”
His tone prompted Duncan to swoop down and give the old man a tight hug. He held him tightly for a moment more, trying to embed in his memory everything about his life at the archives.
“I promise. I’ll return quickly, to thank ye for everything ye’ve done for me.” Duncan swore. The master gave him a reassuring pat on the back.
“You deserved everything I ever gave you, lad. Now be off with you, before you make this pitiful old man cry.” With as bright a smile as he could muster, Dunan gave one final salute before leaving the small building and trekking towards the manor.
He couldn’t help but worry about the road to Vicices. After leaving the orphanage to be apprenticed to Master Spelloyal at age eight, he had not since left Ianhand Manor and the surrounding area. Rumors flew about the bandits that prowled the roads to prey on individual travelers, and Vicices was far away…putting all doubtful thoughts aside, Duncan took in his surroundings once again, in order to engrain everything he could to his heart. It would be a long time before he saw any of it again.

1.Which is probably a good thing, as her name happened to be Saffron Elvira Marietta Santinea Floozerbuzz Wilcox. Reflecting back, she had always regretted taking on Floozerbuzz, but one can’t always be held responsible for events that occur when drunk and making bets. The consequent nickname of “Floozy” didn’t do much to help her career.

2. Lean muscles were not the only thing men wished Ava did not have. A penchant for beating them to a pulp would be one, continually winning at cards another, and her uncanny ability to make them feel small and stupid with a Look could be done without.