Elements Unbound: Frozen Moon, Chapter 1

Fops were easy, which is why they were her victim of choice. Nothing pleased Rowan more than depriving the powdered, perfumed, stocking-wearing, wig-crowned dandies of what mattered most: their lives, their smugness, their superiority. Especially, ridding the streets of their cruelty. She was, in the truest sense, a Gavanese patriot - a champion for the starved and disease ridden families. A hero to the orphaned children who clamored for food in the back alleys of her city. Each fop that fell, each notch on her belt was a testament of her fierce loyalty to those tormented souls - a physical promise that she would even out this chessboard of class distinction. One piece at a time.
Sounded better than being a thief, at any rate.
Rowan was one of a class of people that oft found themselves persecuted by the legalities that often ruled the cities. By ‘legalities,’ she meant greased palms and men in power whispering in the ears of men with greater power still. Such intolerance was commonplace, and even sweet tempered and loving Gava had fallen under the hectic fanaticism of removing the ‘undesirables.’ Laws were passed, edicts pounded into tavern doors, and guards with hawkish eyes scanning for anything sordid.
But such moral fervor at the squelching of such ‘undesirables’ only fuels only undesirable motivations, and nothing says defiance like organizing. The Guild was not public knowledge, nor readily divulged information, but the citizens (and as likely, guards) knew it must exist. The members of the Den Bretheren wore the rather unoriginal and rather obvious cloaks of unadorned black.
Rowan merely favored the color - it complimented her dark locks and skin of alabaster.
Pit it did nothing to conceal her diminutive stature, she often lamented, for it was shameful to be towered over by little boys that passed her on the city streets.
However, the lack of size did come with its advantages, such as when she was snugging her way through the soot crusted bricks of the ornamental chimney decorating this dandy’s manor home. Just how many hearths did one truly need?
She pressed down a bit, trying not to notice the familiar ailment of rapid heartbeat that accompanied her chimney crawls. Her breath always came a bit too fast, a touch shallow, and never satisfying her lungs. Cold sweats pricked at her forhead, sopping up the raw silk of her shirt - never mind the thick layer of snow that blanketed the ground. Come to think of it - it had for ages.
No time for that - the pre-laid fire had been transformed by her mind’s eye into a roaring blaze. Just the hint of smoke curled into her nostrils. She kept twisting her head to peek down (and to protect it from the hail of stones), cursing her irrationality with each panicked glance.
Finally, her body took control to end this battle in her mind, and she slid out of the frustrating dark column with greater speed than reasonable caution would have allowed others. Only when she emerged - filthy and ashen - from the fireplace, did her breath come easily again.
With a deep breath, she surveyed the cascading expanse of the room, her nose wrinkling at such grotesque excess. Vases painted with curious little gold filagree blossoms seemed popular with the home’s owner, for they covered every available table, sideboard and shelf. Orate tapestries, sewn with gilt threads and seed pearls, draped across the walls. By the Thirteenth Gate, there were people starving out in the alleys while these people hoarded wealth like some fictional dragons.
Frowning, she moved to one of the tapestries, thumbing the intricate texture of the stitches. The artistry was amazing and of the highest quality, but such work would likely be simple to identify. That diminished the chance of a good fence, she thought as she lifted a corner. It was bloody heavy. Too heavy to secure a safe escape.
For, Guild or no, any Gavanese thief caught with ‘borrowed’ goods in their hands promptly lost them. As Rowan was rather fond of her hands, she left it be in favor of moving up the sweeping staircase that led to the bedchambers on the upper floors. That was where the greatest loot could be found, and it would be far more discreet to transport and fence.
Most thieves would not be so bold as to enter a sleeping chamber while the owners were within, but Rowan was better than most. Perhaps the best in Gava. Or, at least, she fancied herself in such a way. She had been fortunate that her father recognized her talents young, and forthwith had sent her to the not so secret, secret Guild.
Such early training, combined with her desire to excel and please her father, had given her a higher level of skill than some of the most practived and accomplished members of the Bretheren.
Of course, the only reason she had studied and practived so passionately was that she wished to be a Mage like her father. It was forbidden to her, but that did not stop her fantasy that her hard work and quiet obedience to her father’s wishes would grant her entrance to the Mage’s academy. Then she could become a champion for Gaca that need not hide her profession. Given the chance, she would never steal again if it meant she could practice Magixk.
Without a sound, she wung the door of the bedchamber inward, revealing her victims and their most prized possesions. Prize-worthy indeed. The moonlight dappled through a half-drawn shitter, illuminated the ropes of raided gold, pearls and precious stones that spilled from an ornately carved jewelry box that was laughably inadequate of size. Rinds with diamonds the size of her thumb lay scattered atop. To finish this glorious scene of wealth, bags bloated and dimpled with coin were strewn in various nooks about the room.
A mischievous smile warmed Rowan’s face.
Then again, this manner of patriotism was much more fun.