A whisper and a mutter rumours of Sixty Thieves searching for muscle. Perhaps they have caused enough damage to need protection.
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I've witnessed when passing by with others you openly discuss robbing escorts, mugging individuals and basically admitting to pursuing crime in heavily guarded areas which lacks realism
at the moment you working as a closed social circle.
21/05/2018 19:04Posted by ObliteriseJust take note of what I've said, if nothing is changed you'll continue to do your reputation as a guild more harm than good which could lead to a disband in worse case scenario, just a friendly word of advice.
I believe you all fail to take lore into perspective...-
IC: I've witnessed when passing by with others you openly discuss robbing escorts, mugging individuals and basically admitting to pursuing crime in heavily guarded areas which lacks realism.
21/05/2018 19:04Posted by ObliteriseOOC: I've both seen and heard stories about several others go to you with the same if not similar criticism and each time they have, you have only responded with "Lol okay then"
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The streets grew quieter in the fall of the night, which had come accompanied with heavy, tropic rain, something the Vale was infamous for. The many ships at anchor rose and fell in the passing waves, their masts creaking gently as they swayed, few souls now remaining to wander their decks in patrol. Torches and lanterns flickered at street-corners and entrances, the sole source of light in the notorious, pirate-infested town of Booty Bay, while thick clouds shrouded the moon and stars.
A hooded, cloaked figure made his way in the dimly-lit walkways, bound for the lower decks, passing aptly named brothels and taverns, which were always cramped on nights like these. Violins, fiddles, squeezeboxes and other instruments filled them with joyful music and atmosphere, of which the soaked streets were only given an echo of, muffled and lost in the rain that drummed loudly against the wooden structures. The figure passed a handful of tired, sulky bruisers, who walked their nightly patrols sniffling and shivering from the cold, doubtlessly daydreaming of the comfort of a warm, dry bed. Descending further down the decks, the patrollers became fewer, as he entered the part of town where unrest was ever-present, riddled with the scum of the world. By the door of one of the huts there, a worn sign was hung from a rusty nail, rocking faintly in the light wind, reading 24 Gambler’s Wharf. It was here that the figure stopped, and entered.
Indoors, the drumming rain sounded almost soothing. Lowering his hood, Thalindor walked along the dimly-lit room, old floorboards creaking under his steps. He pulled aside his cloak, revealing the bottle he had carried under his armpit, and proceeded to yank off its cork without delay, helping himself to a generous swig. The freshly stitched wound on his cheek was throbbing painfully, which he sought to numb promptly with the contents of the bottle. Most of his comrades lay asleep in hammocks scattered around the interior, and the few still awake, seemed to pay him little mind as he passed, sending but short glances his way before going back to minding their own business. At the end of the room, Thalindor slumped to sit beside a chest, and a small puddle of water started forming beneath him, dripping from the clothes that were soaked in the rain.
Huddled in the corner, his callous eyes were drawn to the strongbox. That damned box. The lock long since picked, Thalindor proceeded to open its lid with a sigh, and light from nearby lanterns were reflected from its ill-gotten contents, casting a yellow hue upon his tired, frayed features. His gloved hand reached inside to pick up a monstrous, fist-sized jade, which he proceeded to scrutinize with a half-interested gaze. Distracted by a quickly invading line of thoughts, he kept on stroking and staring upon the glimmering gem, occasionally changing hands, and pausing only to pour more liquor into his system.
“Cha sure et be worth et? Et be only gold, mon.” He had heard Tusk say to Dice just moments before the job, weary of his condition, and that was one of the last lives she had likely saved. Indeed, the young troll’s loyalty was unconditional, and she would often put her own survival on the line to ensure the safety of her fellow thieves. Furthermore, she had done various favours for Thalindor, personally. In times of doubt and paranoia, she would stand guard by his home, to keep his family safe. She would run errands for him, as well as have his back when confronting old friends and rivals alike. She had offered the kind of security that was a luxury in the backstabbing, unforgiving underworld.
Until this night. For years, she had twisted and escaped her fate; living as an unlikely person in an unlikely environment. That a creaking floorboard would turn out to be the end of her, reminded Thalindor of the labile, unpredictable nature of their illicit work. A tiny misstep here, or an untimely turn there – they make all the difference. It could’ve been any of them. It could’ve been him.
Are you sure it’s worth it? It’s only gold.
Little did he know then, that those words would come to haunt him. With furrowed brows, Thalindor helped himself to another hefty swig, a grimace rising onto his features as he kept staring at the shining stone, which failed to offer him solace. It had been a grim exchange. He won the gems and coin, but he had lost a friend.
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14/06/2018 07:36Posted by KhalilaAs former partner in crime of Admus Crane, and a former Sixty Thief waaaay back when; I always smile when I see you guys around. Im sure the guild has grown and developed quite a bit since mine ad Cranes days; but I still cheer your way!
Keep it up you thieving bastards!
X
Freak