Where to begin?

I have had a lot happen to me in my relatively short life. A large number of notably perilous, sad or victorious moments… Where to start then. I could go from day one, but I don't really want to. Perhaps from when I woke up from the coma… but it's not particularly interesting. Okay, I think I have decided. I will go from the night that I decided I would become something.

I will endeavour to describe it to you as I felt it, no third person perspective with the benefits of hindsight or nothing like that, no explanations for my choices that didn't occur in my head, no looking into pockets before I open them. What I will do is give you better explanations, more poetic descriptions for things where I didn't have the words before, which you should thank me for because I was not exactly erudite at the time, maybe I'll give context where I need to for things I understood but you might not. Sound good? Right.

We begin my story on the first night of my life. In the metaphorical senses, I don't have much to tell you about my birth and I'm not sure I would want to. I call it the first night because It was the night that I resolved to become worth something.

----------------------------------------

The roiling, writhing tendrils of fog stroke idly at the bare wooden beams. Opaque, hostile, suffocating greyness smothers the world under its omnipresent blanket. Street lamps below spawn golden tendrils among the silver but achieve little else; It eats sound and light and sanity and is the only reason I have a chance at what I'm about to do.

Balancing on the thick apex rafter, the roof bare of thatch and only half covered with replacement tiles, I try to swallow my fears and choke on them instead, a slimy ocean slug crawling up my sand dry throat. All around me the fog flows unceasingly, a quivering, undulating deep-sea mass of cloudy tentacles. Half formed abominations prowl in my peripheral vision, ever shifting shapes, never quite solid but always predatory. I'm stranded on an island with increasingly diminished certainty that anything outside of my perimeter of vision even exists. Thankfully both moons are out; The smaller, Titra, is even full. In other cities that would be a sign of ill omen but whether Titra is goddess of rouges and thieves or a hunk of rock, in Destra, where the mountains split open to the edge of the desert, the choking mists make the diffuse light of the moon a tarnished silver glow instead of a revealing spotlight beam. Whatever the case I'm glad of Her tonight.

I stand suddenly, swaying only slightly, and try to centre my mind. In the vacuous nothingness of the dim night I let violently turbulent thoughts pull me one way and then the other. Riding the storm of my emotions like a dingy in a hurricane. Ideas rumble through me like thunder, their cruel, encouraging, hopeful, anxious and confused enthusiasm leaving my body shaking and confused before the storm of emotion.

'This is the best chance you will ever have to become something.'

'Do it Pyre, too much has gone in to this to back out!'

'You are, small and weak, underfed and uneducated, can you really pull this off?'

'Here's an idea. Walk to the edge of that roof and let yourself fall, it will be quicker and less painful that way.'

'This is just more second story work and you've done that a million times!'

'You coward, you gutter racht, move fucker! Run!'

'Even if by some miracle you succeed you will be hunted.'

'People have believed in you, sacrificed for you, you can't betray that trust.'

Thoughts and emotions like ant colonies at war crawl back and forth through my mind in vicious combat. Voices in my head, my own, those of friends, enemies, strangers… they speak one after the other, then multiple at once, then all together until the clamour becomes a buzzing hum in my ears, still infused with emotion, like the voices of gods, vast, incomprehensible and thunderous, rattling through my body and soul. With an inbreath I cease the clamour, bring my mind to empty silence. A new voice, clear, calm, pleasantly husky with accent and melodic in a way I wish could emulate.

'Too much has effort has been expended. You must do this.'

It's true. Far too much has gone in to get nothing out. Three and a half months of preparation, nights spent shivering and wet, two and a half heists to get specific materials prepared, money earned from several more too, favours exchanged and expended, blood, sweat and tears, constant hunger and the ache of a mind crammed full of information. That's not even mentioning the half dozen string of coincidences and lucky breaks. The training, the learning. This is the greatest, the only opportunity of this kind I am ever likely to get, and nobody else but me could even hope to make use of it.

Hesitation and doubt die. I run.

Padded feet thud along the squared wood, muscles full of fire stretched and pull in perfectly balanced harmony. The last three streps, practiced for hours upon hours for this precise moment take me to the exact end of the beam, so that my toes curl around the end, and then… into space.

The moment I leave solid footing and surrendered myself to monochromatic emptiness I know, with absolute certainty, I have made a mistake. Every doubting, hateful, fatalistic thought I'd forced out come rushing back in vengeful force, punching me in the stomach with acid hate. It is too late for that though and neither momentum nor gravity respond to blows of emotion. For a moment I hang in nothingness, feeling cold death grasping at me despite the blood burning red hot in my veins. Then a shadow materialises through the vapour and it isn't some nightmare monster as I halfway expect but a roof, and it is rising quickly. I reach… Fingers catch, a brutal wrench almost detaches shoulder from socket and pops half the vertebrae in my spine. Legs swing and smack into stonework, I gasp at the impact and wince for painful bruises I can almost feel forming to torture me later. I hold there for a moment panting as quietly as I can, lungs gulping thirstily, the swirling moisture muffles noise as much as light but even so a pair of guards and their leopard hound could walk by at any moment. With a stifled groan I heave.

A minute later I pull my aching, shivering, twitching self onto the roof. The edge of the stone gutters had torn through the skin of my fingers but held my weight; supressing a groan of pain from my gouged digits for long enough to heave myself up with thin arms was horrific and left small trickles of blood spilled in the guttering. Sat on the tile roof clutching injured mitts to my chest and heaving for breath I don't think I have ever felt more alive. The air feels crisp on my skin, every fibre of my tight clothing and recently cut hair on my head are exquisite in detail. My antlers stubs, recently trimmed, tingle in pulses that spread through my whole body. Every rustle of wind sounds like music to my ears. The leather straps holding the equipment tight to my back is a loving embrace, even the intangible almost imperceptible pressure of the magic bubble I have just jumped through feels like victory. The voices don't take too long to come back but even they seemed almost awed, subdued by the intensity of my feeling.

'Well done, you dumb fuck, you've just committed to a messy suicide by pissed off rich toff.' Says the cruel voice.

I just grin because even the voice in the back of my head that mocks my every fuck up sounds more impressed than anything else and that more than anything else I just did is glorious.

Someone spoke below and elation crumbles under panic. There is a whole staff of reasons to make the risky leap between buildings and two of them are talking just two stories below

"I know I heard something."

"Yeah, well I didn't."

"I don't care what your deaf ass heard. Now shut up."

The voices drifting like phantoms through the night are dampened but still clear. The area around the bank is lit up with an abundance of lanterns that turn the soupy grey haze into a warmer if still mostly opaque glow in the immediate proximity of the bank complex. I crawl carefully away from the edge of the roof then scramble a bit faster leaving little bloody hand prints on slate. There's no time to lose and a bank to rob.

The Obsidian Sands bank in Destra is not one building so much as a loosely connected campus, with garden, surrounded by an enchanted fence. The front with tills and such, but also offices for a small army of clerks, a small guard station with a watch tower to keep an eye on the patrols and in case someone tries a rooftop or arial approach, even a residential building for bank agents and important clients. They all share a design motif which, like most expensive things, is imported. Large squat buildings comprised of heavy grey rock from the local mountains and grey slate. Imposing, uniform and utterly out of place in the local half desert climate. The main building, the one facing the city square, is topped by a copper dome above the main atrium and lined by bronze gargoyles. I have come from the back of the area landing on the slanted roof of the offices, shielded from the view of the watch tower by the tiled peak. Destra is an old town but a new city and it had been growing rapidly, some point early on in the process the Obsidian Sands had arrived and started buying land and lending gold and now they own many key areas outright and are collecting mortgage payments for many of the rest, all that is managed from the desks bellow my feet. Luckily some consideration has been made for local climate. Destra is in a strange place because it experiences both incredible heat and crushing rains depending on the season. I think it's called a monsoon climate? Not important. A system of intakes and vents pulling in air from the outside to circulate through the building to be ventilated through gaps between the wall and the eves of the roof. It's a modification to the original foreign design I'm grateful for. First things first I wrap my fingers, they're not badly damaged there's only a tiny trickle of blood from a couple of fingers. That done I make my way over the edge of the roof again, waiting until I'm certain the guards are gone and then use a gargoyle and the drain as holds while I lean around and set myself to opening one of the vents. I spend longer than I am likely to admit getting it open. Luckily I have come quite early in the evening and it's winter so there is more than enough time to do everything that's needed.

Before I enter I take a minute to calm down and focus. I get my breath under control, short in, looong out. It takes me several moments. In the back of my mind the whispers of thoughts recede to a gentle babbling brook of mental noise, almost comforting. Thus prepared I dive into my memory. Trying to separate emotion from experience is difficult but I manage to focus on the plans drawn out perfectly in my mind's eye. Thank the midnight moon that the banks schematics where recorded in the city hall. Reassured that I know my route I clamber over the edge and manoeuvre myself into the opening.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Getting into the opening is a tight squeeze, crawling through the attic space Is also uncomfortable but hardly difficult all things considered. The most difficult part is staying quiet and suppressing the need to sneeze on the dust. It is late but even in the middle of the night the place is not wholly abandoned, so not making noise is a necessity. It takes a significant period of time squirming through tight spaces and holding my breath whenever some overworked number cruncher bangs their head on the desk or curses for seemingly no reason, then I am wiggling into place above a bronze grate which I set about removing. The area is split in two by the security section which sits at the back of the main bank building, in front of the offices and, surprise, surprise right atop the vault. I needed to get past it into the main building through the most circuitous route because it was the only route possible. The problem was that the watch tower cut the attic space in half, preventing passage, and by its nature discouraged me to take to the rooftop to cross over. The problem was then that I had to go through the security centre in order to bypass the security. The irony us not lost on me. The thing is, it is my best hope because the leopard hounds don't get brought indoors. Scent, is one of my big weaknesses in stealth. I can hide better that almost anyone but I'm not too proud to admit that by this point after crawling and stressing through this entire ordeal I'm probably verging on people to smelling me from a distance, and that's before magic even comes into play. Going through the guard house is a risk but one I have to take. I stick my head out of the vent carefully and look up and down. Nobody there.

Thankfully guards are active members of the community, I wouldn't have much of the information I do if not for the team and a good deal of drink. I need to remember to thank them all individually when we all meet up again.

'Okay Pyre, mental note taken but you should probably focus.' The calm voice reminds me.

Thank you voice. Alright, I don't have any real tricks for this bit, I simply have to move quickly and quietly and trust that they do "Sit on their asses, drink tefee and look at a flashing panel for half the night." People pretty often exaggerate when they're complaining about work so I'm not exactly confident but I literally couldn't back out if I wanted to.

Steeling my nerve, I move the grate to the side and lower myself. After a quick readjustment to get my elbows through I hang by an overhand grip swaying slightly. I hate this feeling of vulnerability but I have to deal with it until I can pull the grate back. A slight rasp as the metal is dragged roughly into place, making my stomach drop in dread, no time to worry it's good enough. I drop. Fucking high ceilings and short ass me. My ankles throb painfully at an impact I should hardly have felt. It's the anxiety, making me stiff. No time to delay, I move as quickly and quietly as I can down the corridor. The door to the guard's common area is ajar and I catch a glimpse of a figure humming to themselves as they wait for a kettle to boil. At the end of the corridor a locked door blocks off the main building from the rest, I feel a spike of panic but the lock is mundane and unimpressive, I have it open in seconds without even thinking about it, muscle memory. There's a soft creek as I open it, but I don't think anyone will notice. I close the door softly, remembering to lock it behind me. The bank manager's office is at the back of the atrium space on the first floor, only a wall separating me from it. The problem is that the door is in the open visible behind a banister from the bank floor.

I hate this, the plan seemed so complete in my head, so certain. Not that I fully expected it to work but that I figured it would be my fault, that I would fuck up. But this is dependent on random chance. My entire plan is held together by frayed string and weak hope.

'Move girl, it doesn’t help you to delay.'

Fuck you voice, always being right. Not even my own thoughts are free from scrutiny. It's just unfair.

I skulk forward, trying to stick to the shadows. My heart hammers relentlessly, blood flushes through my skin and throbs in my forehead where it would normally circulate through my antlers. Nobody yells out, there's no alarm. I make it to the thick wooden door and open it without too much trouble despite the fact my hands are actually shuddering at this point.

Fuck me, I need to calm down. This hinge is well oiled and makes not a whisper. I'm in I'm actually in. I can hardly believe it. I sit down on the floor and lean back against the wall. Fuck!

To an expert eye the room would is probably an understated but elegant display of tastefully calculated wealth, exuding both a sense of quiet professionalism and casually authority. Paintings, that a connoisseur would doubtless recognise as the lesser known works of famous artists, arranged carefully in gold leaf frames. The furniture, which is made of rich hard wood and upholstered in expensive blue cushions. I am not an expert so to me it seems the gaudy office of the consummate snob, calculated from the plush carpet to the crystal chandelier to piss me off. I suppress the rage that obscene wealth always boils out of me.

The motherfucker has a skylight for two moons sake! Great panels of clear glass. It must have cost a fortune all the way out here. It doesn't matter though, the world isn't fair and now is not the time to be angry about it.

'It never is. Coward.' Crows the raucous voice of a priest I once knew. I know that the comment is only within my mind but It still makes me flinch.

The plush carpet makes footfalls silent at least. I stand and stroll across the floor taking in the space.

A painting of a sailing boat hangs conspicuously behind the opulent desk. It's a cliché and a half but the painting swings away on a hinge to reveal a small safe door despite my mumbled complaints about lacking originality, I push on before I can contemplate it too much. The door itself shows a small square recess for a spell key and a dial bolt lock. I feel myself grin, dial bolts are easy to beat if you know the trick and if there is only one area in which I have a full education it is beating locks; Actually that's really my only area of education…

Maybe when I'm rich I can get a tutor or something. Perhaps get an apprenticeship and learn a reputable skill.

I force my attention back on target. I may not be some scholar genius but I have been trained by one of the best safecrackers in the world and according to him, I'm a talent. I can feel the heat of pride swell in my chest, the rising warmth of a compliment earned. There's the temptation to dive into the memory but I suppress it. The pride and confidence fills me though, fighting off the chill that has begun sinking into my extremities now that the excitement has gone leaving only the sweat that makes my skin clammy.

'Best not go there,' Says the cruel voice. 'He was probably lying anyway.'

To save weight I haven't packed water instead I use my tongue to dampen my fingers then pressed my cheek to the lifeless metal and slowly turn the dial. Dial bots are simple really, I remind myself, recounting the lecture as I apply delicate pressure. The dial moves a pin up and down and when at the right number the mechanism moves on a rail to slide the pin though a gap in a cylinder until it pressed a tumbler, then the bolt slides back and the cylinder rotates to expose a new side. If you try to put in the wrong number the cylinder would be moved, usually that would just cause the tumblers to reset, but in the bank it probably does something worse. It doesn't much matter.

I pull on the bolt, just a feather light touch, until the pin touches the cylinder. The pressure is minuscule, nothing, but I have sensitive fingers. Then I turn the dial, slowly dragging the pin up. About half way up I feel a touch of resistance. I stop, remove my hand, wiggle my fingers and take a deep breath. There's a sting, a bulge in the surface that would have me move the cylinder if I hadn't felt it. I visualise it in my mind's eye, a jagged pitted tree stump lumpy with the stumps of old branches and I, blindfolded, have to find the hollow with the tip of a sword, all while not scratching the bark. I'm tense I can feel it, I'm suddenly feeling cold, shivery, but my hands don't shake and I remind myself that I have all the time in the world. I move the dial a couple of notches then try again. This time I find the space and carefully slide the pin. There's pressure.

Fuck this cylinder has not only stings but false hollows. That is goddess damned devious. I'm aware of the trick now though, whoever made this safe should have done that on the third number when a thief would feel safe and confident. They missed a trick there.

Without issue I find the next gap in the metal, I pull the bolt until the barest of satisfying clicks on my sweat dampened cheek and sigh in relief. Something mechanical deep in the intricate workings of the metal begins ticking.

"Fuck a frosty bramble bush!"

I immediately regret my outburst but don't have time to worry about someone hearing me because the motherfucker put a timer in their safe!

Screw me for thinking they weren't devious enough. There was a clock! I don't know how it's supposed to work but I've heard second hand that there were engineers trying to integrate time limits into mechanisms to make it harder for safe crackers, I haven't ever seen it before though.

I reset the pin and go back to moving the dial with nervous over haste. I'm rushing, I know I'm rushing. I need to calm down, to be careful. But my breaths comes fast and my heart pounds. The cylinder seems to turn of its own accord, dragging me along with it! I freeze, the pin is touching a sting, threatening to ruin everything, my hands don't shake though.

Thank whatever quirk of fate made that the case for me. Fast but careful, I can do this, I've done this before damn it. Speed practice, for fun even! Sure the stakes were lower but I can do it.

My fingers glide. The soft sound of the pin scratching against the cylinder, the ominous tick, tick, ticking that portents my doom with ominous indifference. I fall into the space between thought and action where to do is to think is to be. Click. The second tumbler. Click. The third.

Clunk.

I stop dead, the forth tumbler depressed.

The clock is no longer ticking. I hadn't even noticed. But did it stop because I ran out of time or because… I don't even want to think about the possibility I might have succeeded. I wouldn't… can't survive being wrong about this. Best to assume the worst.

I press my cheek harder against the cold metal and wait. Then I wait some more. I hear no stomping feet, no alarms, no yells of warning. I wait a little longer.

Nothing… happens.

With agonising slowness I withdraw a packet from my pocket, I peel back the fabric that it's wrapped in and stare at the cube of metal attacked to a ring. It's strange, I thought it was strange the moment I saw it, months ago when I pickpocketed a stranger and found myself holding this. I can't help but stare at it as memories try and flood me, finding out what it even was, where it was from, why it mattered. Resolving to take the opportunity, the panicked evening I spent finding the man I stole from that morning so that I could reverse pickpocket him, making sure the lock wasn't changed. I have put months of effort into this, not just me either, I remember. With agonised anticipation I bring the cube up to the small square recess in the metal of the safe door. I push it in, roll my shoulders and twist.

----------------------------------------

I don't suppose I have yet explained to you why exactly I had just leaped across a street, three to two stories up. The obsidian sands bank was huge, multicontinental in reach, ingeniously managed and downright paranoid about their security. The trade town of Destra was ancient but the fact it was city sized was new and in no large part funded by a bank which had bought out big chunks of land and local enterprise, managing their entrepreneurial outpost from a loosely connected campus of buildings, compete with garden and ringed by a fence that practically glittered with magic. All around the eves and borders of the many buildings perched gargoyle creatures with chunks of metal held, set, mounted or otherwise displayed. I'm not an enchanter or an artifact engineer and even if I was, security design is understandably very secretive. So I can't tell you exactly how the whole thing works but the general principle is that there is a bubble barrier that domes over the area and anything magical in the area will create a ripple that the control centre can pick up. Anyone actively casting spells or firing of artifacts would set off an alarm, anyone sufficiently magical would be picked up and the security system would get a read on their location, but people with little or no magic would be dismissed, thus no boots of leaping for me, I had to find the only jump I could make manually, set things up and then practice until my feet blistered for two months. What can I say, I may have just the tiniest sliver of an obsessive streak.

Perhaps that's a good thing though I mean two months of practicing that specific jump and I still almost fell short. Poor form really, in my best practice jump I hit at chest height.