1. A Metal Splinter

So long as I don't break my neck getting down, get mauled by a guard's hound, or find a steel blade through my chest, the coin from this should get us out of here on a cloud of silken pillows. Or I could just go, honestly. There are safer places to make coin. But it's not so simple to leave as this point considering I'm three stories up a crumbling building halfway across Aleryn. It's right there, right across the street. Why should I leave now? But really, isn't it wrong to steal from an artist? Though she is rich. She's part of the problem, right? I'm sure she has things she cares about that need the income. Children or something, I'm sure. That much though? She's loaded. She would be a qieth if not for her Fjorlosian ancestry; jewelers were almost royalty here. She could chalk this up to misplacing it and move on. I turned to face my approach and immediately rounded back to my task, spinning like an idiot on this dilapidated roof. Fading gods, I don't want to be doing this, but at least getting in will be the easy part. Across the street, my quarry stood in the frigid night. A singular gray brick building, unattached to the many that formed a thin alley around it. A rarity even for the Curtain, and it was about a level shorter than anything around it, as if it wore a cloak fashioned from the homes that surrounded it. Both floor's exteriors were laden with tells of wealth; the lower shop floor with brass filigree detailing the corners, window edges, and on the door and signage - all in the distinct, gold corded-rope aesthetic of Aleryn. The residential floor above boasted a balcony, adorned not in plants and life as their neighbors, but with two mythraleviatha gargoyles. They were horrid in design, with their articulated bodies, numerous arms, and their layered mandibles carved in a gnashing motion. But such was fjoran myth. Statues such as these functioned as wards or some such, keeping beasts like the scrisalin from invading their homes. My side of the street was a mirror of hers: an alley surrounding a building which I was probably north of, or maybe south considering how unfamiliar with this side of town I was. It was bizarre seeing buildings standing alone, and I honestly wasn't sure how I had planned to get in without breaking into an adjacent building first. Aleryn is so tight knit, especially where I'm used to, and now it wasn't an option. The road I needed to cross boasted a luxstone lamppost at its center, basking everything here in warbling, blue light cast though an iron cage; not great for hiding, though it is rather nice for counting the patrolling Ward and learning their routes. Two guards by the front door of the shop, two walking the street to and fro, and one more walking the alley, behind and around the shop. That one had a hound. "Step by step, Cas," I recalled Dalion's words, mouthing them silently. The first step was always inventory. I checked my belt for the familiar tools: grappling hook on my right, crowbar on a frog dangling from my lower back. I hadn't really known what to call the sheathe I had made it, and a sword's frog was the closest approximation, and so it was. I had scissors, a set of files, and other small pronged and hooked implements in pouches along my left side, all accounted for. I almost began hoping something major was missing and I'd have to go home to get it, so I might have more time to reconsider what I was doing. My leather satchel was tightened neatly against my right side and, reaching in, it had become cluttered since last I had worn it, filled with an additional cloak and other iron utensils. I tried to get some gauge for where things were in there, though I didn't really mind the mess considering I just needed it as a safe place for the mask to rest once I've taken it. I took my grappling hook out and looked it over. Rusty but solid, misshapen but nonetheless reliable. I tied a length of rope to the bottom and lodged the least bent of the three prongs under a brick at my feet. It was really starting now, I thought, as I forced myself to begin before the building nerves could convince me otherwise. My steps grew quicker as I descended, rope singeing my palms as I went. And as I carefully looked down to see the remainder of my descent, my descent became a hastened event. At least I had the luck of being only a long breath's height from the ground before the rope gave, my back and right side slamming into cold cobblestone as rope coiled over my wheezing chest. I rolled over but a heartbeat before I was nearly deafened from the brick shattering in my ear. The hook's abrasive iron clanging didn't help either, and now there wasn't really a least bent prong. I convulsed, heaving. I rolled over again and grabbed my hook as I struggled for air. My left cheek stung, and my heart sunk. A tinny, helmed voice began shouting across the way. In tandem with the voice was barking. I scrambled to my feet and ran down the alley on my side of the street, behind this lone building that appeared to be a bakery. I'm nothing if not opportunistic, or at least I like to think so, and despite the start of this whole operation going ass-up, I could use this as an impromptu decoy. Silence was difficult to achieve with breaths as labored as mine were, but the dog's barking worked to my advantage. With the metallic plating rusting away on the walls, there was a great resonance with every howl that gave a dull ringing in the alley I had slunk behind. I picked some of the shards of clay brick out of my cheek and hair before continuing around to the south side of this building. Street doused in blue lux, I came up to the corner of the bakery, surveying the road. I could read the sign across the way: "Alisara's Crystalcraft Emporium" in big, swirling calligraphy. Two large, grated windows of green-glass flanked a glass and porcelain double-door entrance, detailed with floral curves and an arched top. Not the aesthetic I expected. At this angle, I could see a candle lit through a window on the second story - but Faded, that fall hurt. The pain was catching up to me from my crash and I had to take a moment to check in on what exactly I had injured. I looked down in the faint blue light from the street's velkan - or maybe it was velkazar - lampposts, and saw my left hand was dark and wet from cleaning my face of shattered building material. I could feel the wetness on that side of my face drying as it mixed with dust. This took me by surprise. It stung, sure, but it felt like there was a lot of blood for just a few splinters of clay brick. My back and right shoulder were killing me, and my entire right side was probably bruised black. Certainly felt like it. Was getting in really the easy part? Both guards at the front door had made their way across the street to find out what the sound of me almost cracking my skull open was, and that barking let me know how much time I had left before the third would return to his route around the alley behind Alisara's. The two from the door were talking over where I had fallen, and I couldn’t make out much of what they were saying, but I heard enough to worry. Through the metallic reverb of a helmet spoke the same gravelly voice that called out just a moment before. "…Just a loose brick?" An unmasked, feminine voice said "Curtain's just falling apart these days, huh?" "I guess, but that sounded like more than a brick. I thought there was something metal." "I would- wait, wait." She said, quieting. "What?" They hushed their voices and I felt a vice tightening on my heart's beating. I could feel each thump of blood in my aching neck and forearms. I wanted nothing more than to move, to flee, but I couldn't. I needed this coin. She needed me. Before I knew it, I was letting the Veil decide my fate, like some Unspoken zealot. Just as I made a move, I froze. I had completely forgotten the street patrol, and both armor clad guardsmen thundered past to catch up with the investigation, seemingly glancing directly over my shadowed form. Bracing for a swift flight, I put the light of the lamppost behind me and crossed the street, passing the entrance in favor of the alley on the left. As sapphire light fell from my shoulders, shadow again basked me. I pressed myself against the brick walls of Alisara's shop, holding my still-woozy breath. I thought that the quick prayer I sent to the Unspoken had perhaps found ears willing to listen. Alerean Ward, these guards. Well trained and executive in their actions, I heard them disperse from my landing place. I chanced a glance around the corner, in hopes the street's patrol would continue their path up the street. I saw no-one, though I heard their conversation with more clarity. Distant and muffled by their helm, a gruff voice spoke in tandem with another, and a third feminine voice interrupted. Words were still lost on me before the feminine pitch cut through with a single word that captured the other Ward's attention. The first voice spoke again, louder "What do you mean blood?" Had I been leading a trail? It was too dark to check. Was I still bleeding? I couldn’t even tell, and it was my blood. I should go. I need to go. It's really not too late, there's probably a way behind the building to get out. Someone's window I could break open quick enough to duck through and run before they caught wind. Fuck! I reeled from a surge of pain in my side, my back hitting brick, my boot brushing metal. A grate? I squatted and felt around, feeling the edges for- Bassyric fucking Pitch! Rivets. I felt the metal bars, gaps just barely wide enough to allow for my slender fingers to fit. Squeezing them through to the other side, it seemed my prayer really was answered: a bolt against a latch, and hinges on the opposite side. The bolt, however, had been too tight to turn. I pulled my hand back, and began digging through my satchel, damned by my preparedness with too many options to feel through the dark well my tools sulked in. Wrong, no, wrong. Why did I even bring that? Where. The. Fuck. Is It? The sting of metallic voices crept closer to the corner with every passing second. The barking started again. It had a scent, it had to. My blood was leading them right to me. If I took my crowbar now, I could still make an escape, but that hound has my scent no matter where I end up. Every shriek was a reminder of its fangs, spiking my heartrate - bark by dutiful bark. I thought getting in would be the easy part. The Curtain is so far above me, why'd I even think this was a good tip to- there. I nearly dropped the glass as I unstopped the bottle and poured the oily concoction on my fingers, jamming them through the grate with ease now, rubbing as much as remained over the stuck bolt. It twist off in a single spin, unlatching the grate as I slipped though, my entire right side flaming with pain as I lowered myself with what grace I could onto a wooden crate. I had a moment to breathe, but only after I reattached the grate. The oil had actually worked! I owed Vaegath a strong pour for that, or moreover Kelia, though only if I could wipe enough of it off; my right hand was coated, and I couldn't grab a thing without dropping it. Left hand only for the moment. Not the worst price to pay for escape, or rather, putting myself in an even more dangerous situation. As I got my bearings, I ducked under the crate by my entrance and hid as the guard's footsteps and voices filled the chamber. There were two pairs of voices now - indistinct chatter to me as I held my breath and sat. I had time to calm down and regather, to focus. This is doable. I already have an escape route; I just need something pricey - it doesn't even have to be the mask Edowen talked about. This was fjoran craftsmanship, after all. Anything I pulled from here would be so valuable I'd need it appraised by professionals in multiple areas of expertise. But greed isn't my focus. Just enough to get us out of the Wharf and on our way to Drostollor. Their steps and voices moved past, and it seemed to be a cold case for them, so I stood up and looked around in what low-light vision I could muster. I bumped into crate after crate in the darkness before I was sure I could strike a candle up without being seen through the grate. The crates were labeled in a dark red paint. Fjoran glyphs; three-lined knots whose twists and bends spelt meaning to fjoran eyes. And hands, as they weren't just in writing, but grooved into the surface of the wood that they might be felt by a fjoran's three-fingered claws. Just a couple words on each one, which I couldn't read, but I scribbled down the markings in my journal nonetheless, smearing oil on the parchment as I wrote with my right hand. I didn't want to risk writing with my left and scuffing the details up. The candle illuminated my hands, the left with a thin layer of dried blood, while my right was glistening with Kelia's oil. I turned to the rusty metal door behind me on the wall opposite the grate, and a wooden table adjacent to it. It had all manner of implements for jewelcraft strewn about, and many dusted remains of minerals in small bowls. Calipers and whetstones littered the place, but a metallic safe built into the wall beside the table caught my eye as the light of my candle began to dance with pale turquoise. I stiffened, keen of my surroundings. I held my candle up, looking through its light and moving it to where the cyan danced in the flame most abundantly. The edges of the safe were lined with a different material than the rest - something Kelia had overheard some of the Fjorlosian representatives boasting about at the last Forum. Purple-black metal flecked with glinting cyan. Mythraline - I knew it by sight if only for Kelia's raving over it in the last year. That and the way it gave my candle's fire licks of flame in shades unnatural. It had that sarrish assault on the senses as well; too close and the feeling of a dull, stinging tang washes over the flesh. She said it's safe to touch, and that you won't get the curse despite it being alloyed with the crystal, but I didn't trust it. I have seen what that crystal does to people. Kelia said that mythraline is a catalyst for sar, that it could be powered like the velkazar lamps and contraptions to do more peculiar things than a velkazar alone would be capable of. This safe, I supposed, was protected by such a contraption. I never quite understood her after this point as she turned to conjecture and fantasy, but what I did understand was the possibility of a rock I could steal and sell. I knew those crystals enough. One was here, somewhere, but I wouldn't risk touching the safe in case that mythraline was part of some defense mechanism. I looked around the cellar with no luck. I didn't even know where to begin looking. Sartorcraft was not my area of expertise and I needed to be moving. If those guards had any idea where I had gone and were making their way in, I was as good as caught. I tried the handle on the door out of here - locked, but openable from this side by a small hook-latch over the handle. Quiet as the grating metal could be, I snuffed the candle and opened the door. Warmth washed over me. It was suddenly apparent how cold it was tonight, and how the cold season snuck upon us this year, slowly and dreadfully. I always hated winter, and the blanket of warmth I walked into made me yearn to bask in the sun of a midsummer afternoon. Practicality came to me, however. Someone was keeping the house warm. There was a hearth in the residence upstairs, and no doubt someone tending it. Silence sang from my footsteps as the cloak of darkness enveloped me once again. Blue light crept in through the green-glass windows, unaltered by the tint. It always disturbed me how mythral reacted with things, even the light it sheds couldn’t behave normally. I could see to my left the checkered tile flooring and painted brick walls leading to a wooden spiral staircase. To my right, facing the light, the relatively well-lit shop floor itself. A glance in from the windows and I'd be spotted immediately, but the guards were paid to watch what's coming from without, not within. I could chance it. With my bumbling fall and apparent blood trail, they should be more than busy securing the perimeter. Display cases atop podiums housed trinkets, rings and bejeweled bracelets meant to tempt the likes of the Decennial Council, but were now tempting me. I admired the craftsmanship, or craftsfjoranship as it were. Craftsfjorship? I paced the room as if I were a customer - here to choose something to be worn at only a select few aristocratic events, rings tarnished by skin but annually. A pair of bracelets piqued my interest. They looked perfectly shaped for my lithe wrists, embedded with delicate purplish sapphires shaped like stars falling over an embossed mountain range. At the center of the room, against the back wall across from the front door, a metallic sheen took me out of my stupor. The cash register, its silver sheen opulent in its own right, sat defenseless. I stalked over, drawing my lockpicks from my sleeves, dropping one as the slickening oil coated it. Right. The lock was far less complex than I anticipated, though I should have expected this considering the size of the mechanism. And it's not as if they're expecting thieves with security like that outside. They're more of a deterrent than anything else. I put both tools in with my left hand, pressing hard on the tension wrench with my right hand. I had to do the actual picking with my left which I was not accustomed to, though lockpicking is certainly more about knowledge than finesse. Opening the coin tray, I was mildly disappointed. The coin had mostly been emptied, save two silver racks - enough to feed us very well for a few weeks in its own right - as well as a small silver key with three teeth. No doubt for some of the cases in this room, and so I began trying. I entered that mythral light proper, approaching the display case on my left. A thin, long case that housed a multitude of chains and necklaces of precious materials. Golds, coppers and pewters dazzled under sapphire illumination, all atop velvet cushions. The fjoran designs were beautiful with their angular geometry and use of depth, and they seemed to move and flow despite their harsh shapes. I had thought a necklace should be a free-moving finery, but fjorans seemed to think differently. Nevertheless, the weight of the five necklaces I took gave a satisfying heft to my right thigh-pouch, if I ignored the leg's soreness. The key had worked, though not for the next case. Or the next. I crept through the room slowly, trying case after case with the key. Some it fit in and didn't unlock; others were entirely too small for it. I glanced regularly out into the street to make sure that the patrol wouldn't glace through to see their quarry, and that hound's next chew toy. Just as I had thought, they paid little heed as they passed by, chattering between themselves, oblivious to my interloping. I had surveyed over half of the chamber before my eyes were captured. A solid silver mask lay still in one of the single display podiums, bedazzled with emeralds in articulate geometric designs. The engravings were stupendous, and I began to second guess what I had thought earlier: that Alisara could just replace this and forget. This looked like it took months to make - and I know fjorans live far longer than us mere humans - but they aren't shaelarae. She had to care about the time this took. But some land in the Southern Drostol, a couple of horses? Easily, if I could fence this. I could probably even afford the makings of a simple workshop of my own, to start making this stuff myself someday. Or make something. The lock was much too small for that key I'd found though, and with haste I drew my tools, careful not to drop them. The lock faced the front door. The first pin was set almost immediately, and I was filled with some hope that Alisara had skipped securing a treasure like this with a custom lock. Looking over my shoulder, I saw shadows moving in the blue hues and knew I had only a moment before a watchman would have me in his line of sight. Ducking behind the display podium, I left my lockpicks where they were, protruding from the mouth of the lock - begging for a good look from a guard, pleading to reveal me. In my moment of wait, I noticed the distinct release of pressure from my hand. I couldn't tell in the blue light, but I would wager my knuckles were cast in white as I worked this lock. The guard passed, and I crept around, admiring the silver filigree along the edges of the case as I did so. I pressed hard into iron as the second and third pins locked into place, and two remained before I heard footsteps. Scraping boots on wood from down the hallway. It had to be the staircase at the end of the hall, as I had only seen tiles on this floor. Step after thunderous step, I froze. I was submerged in uncertainty as I locked into the uncomfortable position I had been opening the case from. My muscles ached from the fall, and it became apparent that my escape options were none. Behind me was the front door, at least three Alerean Ward, a hound, and my certain capture. Ahead of me, into the shop and house, was someone with a voice that could call the former to me. I recalled where my crowbar was, if it came to that. It's a rather diverse tool. My hands were still glued to the lockpicks, and I couldn't think further than what I was here to do: steal. To be who I was forced to be for so many years now. To sulk in shadow, hide from well-intentioned people, and tiptoe softly into a life at the precipice of hunger and prison. The thought flashed through my mind, and I felt a sudden sting in my right index finger. My sharp inhale was a death knell. As if the tip of a sword had glanced the pad of my finger, I flinched and recoiled my hand as a droplet of crimson leaked from my hand. Panic fogged my mind. The voice erupted again. Hushed, though every whispered word cut like a knife through the silence of the shop. It took me a long breath to realize that the press of my hand had sheered a splinter of metal from the lockpick directly into my finger. "Dverek ilm?" The voice, a whisper, rasped in that distinct, multitoned fjoran timbre. I honestly couldn't place a gender. If it were Alisara, I'd have no clue, but it was tentative and soft. Perhaps something young, or perhaps they were just afraid. Not as if it mattered now. Their steps were slow, deliberate, and heavy. Dense creatures, fjorans, and I could tell there was an attempt at stealth, though whatever passed for bare feet on this creature was quite abrasive; it sounded as if they ended in talons rather than squishy flesh. They wheeled around the shop floor, behind the register, and closer to me with every breath. The scrape of their feet placed no further than I could spit, my movement was forced. Back burning as I lurched from my squatted position at the lock, I moved back and left, behind a long display case that took up a fair portion of the room's center. In a swift motion, the steps careened forward on the tile, as if to make some sudden approach at where they believed I rested. So much for afraid. If they were so brave as to seek me out, they may well be armed. "Eh?" An airy breath of confusion from the creature was all I heard before the steps turned and worked their way toward the center display where I had been working. Where my lockpicks remained. From the sound of it, they were one of the bird-kin types. I knew they didn't appreciate the comparison, but I could only hope the discovery of my picks wouldn't result in squawking. Luckily, no such wail occurred as they surely walked past my tools, and past the fortune I stood to steal. I had to have been over halfway done, though I could have been nearly finished for all I knew. They stood between me and the rest of my life, and standing they were for far too long. Delicate crooning emitted from the center of the chamber, and blue light illuminated my mistake for them to see. My betraying iron utensils. What if they've found them already? What if they're just ruminating on what to do? Whether they should call the Ward or to thrust a dagger through me in defense of their family. They'd be justified to do so. Fjorans were a protective people, especially when it came to their kin. What if Kelia had no idea I'd been imprisoned? Or worse? How could I know what kind of nobility this house counts as? I abandoned my tools. I'm nothing if not opportunistic, or at least I like to think so, and despite this whole operation going ass-up, I could use this as an impromptu decoy. I prowled toward the hallway I had entered from, and where this prying set of ears and eyes would no doubt return to. I was deft, focused on even steps and clinging to what shadows I could before I entered the pitch of the hallway proper. I slowed as I approached the door to the storage room, pondering my options thereafter. I'd have to escape back through the grate. Not my first choice considering my entrance, and if I got stuck on the exit, I'd be in shackles before I could curse my misfortune. Upstairs. I'd go upstairs and figure it out. I moved as if the pain of the fall wasn't still racking every breath with a stinging wheeze. Up the spiraling wooden slats that made the stairs, my ascent brought me to a warmer floor, and firelight trickled from a doorway to my immediate left. The firelight danced with cyan glitter, cutting the image of mythral ribbons. The hallway continued forward to another door at the corner dead ahead, the hallway itself continuing left. Steadily, I crept to the portal revealing the radiance of a warming hearth, just to my left. A long rug padded my footsteps, and I glanced down as I moved to see its rigid Fjorlosian designs. Bright oranges contrasted by dark slate and granite shades depicting their volcanic mountainhome's grand entrance that I'd heard so much about from Kelia. The hard edges of the rug's weaving patterns, its knots and mountains, clashed violently with the swirling design of the Alearean building's doorway trim. Its articulated, carved wooden layers each passed for their own aesthetic insult as the cultural artistries fought. Turning into what was most certainly a family room, the blanket of warmth I was already under became tenfold, its smokey scent and hissing snaps likewise intensified as I entered. The tumultuous cyan of mythral-glittered firelight twirled in the room, as if a cloud of fluttering butterflies had imbued the walls and furniture with animated color. A glistening stone shone above the dark granite fireplace; mounted on the wall, the beacon was impossible to miss. It decorated the room spectacularly as I took account of the place. It wasn't so much as that the mythral crystal had actually beamed with light so much as it infected existing light with itself, twisting its form to its will. Trinkets and baubles littered the coffee table, and all manner of bits and bobs cluttered the numerous curio cabinets, filling several display cases over the wide room which itself was almost the size of the shop. Two wingback armchairs bearing gilded accents and red-velvet upholstery flanked a loveseat of similar design at the center of the room, where laid a diminutive shape swaddled up in a thickly woven quilt: a fjoran child. I couldn't make out many features, but their plumage was distinctly vibrant. Rich vermillion and cobalt feathers played with the aquamarine-bathed, intense golds of the hearth. A stocky onyx beak stuck out, and its wide eyes rested peacefully, basking in the heat. They crooned a pleasant tone in their slumber. Placing one foot from the hallway rug to that of the living room, I assured my exits. I noted the way I had entered from, and another portal on the opposite end. I could surmise the hallway had extended all the way around the family room in a large horseshoe shape as I entered fully. Stepping so delicately I couldn't hear my own footsteps, I moved quickly with new my purpose: to steal the velkazar that painted this room. A sarran power source as Kelia explained it, slowly releasing energy captured directly from the Veil. Energy rippled within its crystalline facets, like a piece of fabric captured in water and thrashed about wildly. The spectacle would have been quite fascinating to behold were it not for the circumstance, though I intended for circumstances to change. A dozen well placed and well cushioned footfalls brought me to the mouth of the inferno, its pops and low hum making for an easy approach. The crystal was mounted above the mantel shelf by about a full arm's length, making for a stretch as I reached upward. Kelia had also said that velkazar were safe to touch, safe from the curse, but I nonetheless winced as my fingers graced near its sheer edges. Not from pain or discomfort per se, but from the oddity of its caress. Indeed, it felt as if the crystal reached back, so that it might touch me. I hesitated. I could take any of the oddities in this room and scram; some porcelain heirloom, perhaps a gem encrusted brooch, just anything that wouldn't curse my flesh to tighten into glass and crystal. Reeling in my arms slightly, I looked down at what laid at my chest, upon the mantel. Dozens of tiny things. There were several small fjoran figurines in descending sizes fashioned from cloudy jades, there was a hemisphere of some kind amethyst geode resting atop a gold tripod, and there were footsteps. Talons on wood, rather. My pursuant had barely slipped my mind before they filled that space again, soon to reach the top of the stairs. My hesitations were burnt away in an instant, and I reached again for the crystal. Just the instant before contact was all it took for the strangeness of the experience to bring my ambivalence back. I winced as I loosed the small, hinged iron braces at its edges and freed the stone from its prison. Tumbling out and onto my palm, it thrummed in my hands, almost slipping to the floor from the oil. To my pleasant surprise, it didn't weld to me as I had feared it would. It wasn't raw mythral, I reminded myself, and the trust I put in Kelia had been tenable. Before I could so much as pocket the gem, it moved thrice on its own accord, bouncing in my grasp this way and that, though I did not have the time to give it care or thought. The scraping talons had stopped at the door. I barely glanced at what had caught me, standing in the threshold I had come from. They were just shorter than me, likewise wrapped in a quilt, and more than likely returning to the vacancy on the loveseat where rested their young. I couldn't gather more than the wide, circular eyes they possessed, like that of an astounded owl. There was a croaking gasp, and I ran. My rushing steps bound me across the chamber, waking the child and forcing a word from the fjoran adult. The fjoran accent was heavy, but a raspy "Stealer thief!" cawed from their beak. Distinctly Akathian, if barely intelligible. Escaping the hearthroom in less than a breath, I fled through the door opposite my entrance. Indeed, the hallway had formed a horseshoe where laid two additional doorways, one of which was open. A groaning stirred from within. It was deeper than the last screech and more clearly a fjoran female. I couldn't think about it before I saw my escape: a single window at the end of the hall. I rushed to it, pressing my hands to its surface. It didn't budge, my right hand glancing right off, and my left shot to the top slat, to the sash lock that bound it closed. It felt odd, crusted, and most certainly rusty, but most importantly and to my detriment: stuck. I unslung the crowbar from my lower back, jamming it under the sill and pressing all my weight into the lever, splintering the wood. Just as the wood buckled, I rent downward, breaking the lock and opening the window to the frigid Alerean air. My way out, my escape, my freedom. A stiff hand grappled my elbow. I turned just briefly at the surprise, to meet the ruffled, feathered face of a fjoran, beak studded with gems, owlish eyes a brilliant white, and none too pleased. Their nightrobes would place them as royalty as far as I could tell, and I was pilfering that very wealth. Fjoran words, surely curses, were cut short as my leg came down and forward, crashing into estranged, thin knees under the elegant gown. The grasp loosened at the snap of their twig-like knees, and I realized my mistake in an instant as their screech bellowed out the opened window. Ripping the window up, I threw myself with abandon through the opening. Those guards were on their way, and I would spare no breath of time making my escape, even if it required a second fall. My first fall, however, was at least on my back, and I wasn't panicked when it happened. This time, I fell forward in a race my life depended on. If I were caught in mythral larceny from a fjoran, I realized, I would not be just subject to Alerean law; I could be hauled to Fjorlosia and tried there. The Virosian Realms observed each other's laws when their victims were dual-citizens which, as a landowner, Alisara no doubt was. I fell for a short breath, and the bones of my forearm shattered against the alley's cobblestone. Every previously aching muscle screamed again in pain, but I had no time to process what I had just done. Armor was moving. I could hear the shop door opening to pursue Alisara's shouting, and I had breaths before I was found. I got up, lurching at the pain in the motion, picking up my limp right arm in my left. Bone jutted from my flesh, slicking my left hand with ichor. I ached, bending over and grabbing the prybar from the ground before my flight. My fall was much like my first in that my right side took the heft of it, forcing a limp as that thigh took the brunt. I ran limping - enflaming my injuries - to my only option out: the street. No alleys connected behind Alisara's. I had gathered this when I was scouting from the building across the street, but I had hoped one did behind her shop, or that if all else failed, I'd be able to crowbar a neighbor's window open. Every plan I had made failed, and I thanked whatever was listening for the miniscule luck I had enjoyed this evening, but I was not out. I heard the younger voice again, out the window. I glanced up to see the young form peering down at me and shouting in fjoran, pointing a feathered finger at me, cawing again for the guards. A more understandable "Ward! Running there!" clamored from the youth, and I saw the metallic back of the Ward at the shop's front door turn back with intense curiosity, their gaze a glowing brand pressing against my flesh. I strained every muscle in my body to move. My heart hammered, and every breath brought me closer to a life I couldn't imagine living. I sprinted down the street, turning sharply into the first alley I found. Another turn, and another. I heaved for air as I raised my crowbar to the nearest window I could find, using only my left hand to jam it under the affixed iron cage and leaning my body into the lever as bolts were pried from brick. Two came loose before the metal was bent enough that the entire thing clattered off, striking the ground with cacophony. Barking rang from down the alley. I thrust my crowbar again under the windowsill and jumped onto it, breaking the window ajar. I threw it open, dropped my crowbar, and ran straight down the alley, abandoning my tools again. I'm nothing if not opportunistic, and despite this entire operation being a complete failure, I would not leave Kelia alone in this world. Unpacking my cloak, I donned it. People would still be out at this hour, late as it was, and I had to hide my injuries. I supposed my neck was to be hidden as well as I walked the Curtain. It wasn't right for a lady to be out without a cairnbrace around her throat, or so the qieth and azhan would have me believe. The blanketing cloak felt nice, but as the cold seeped in, my eyes began to burn. Why had I done any of that? Why so I do this to myself? Turn after turn, I lost the light, and found myself in a secluded alley. I sat - my back against a hard brick wall - and cried.