The nights were chilly in Connlaoth, and Rook's threadbare clothes and skinny body offered little protection. As soon as the sun dipped down over the horizon, she was shivering, and she shifted her focus from finding a meal to finding shelter. With hardly a coin to her name save what she'd pilfered, and what money she had going toward food that didn't come from a rubbish heap, she couldn't buy a room somewhere, and city streets were dangerous at night, some areas only marginally better than others. Her options were slim and generally involved sleeping with one eye open.
She paused between two buildings, sheltering against the chill breeze, rubbing her arms with hands that were ice inside their gloves to try to generate at least some heat. Where to go, where to go. It was either sleep on the streets again and hope she wasn't intruding on someone's space (thieves, as it turned out, could be quite territorial, which newbies like herself had to learn the hard way), or maybe...hmm. She peered around the corner, hand going up to keep her wide-brimmed hat on her head (a new find from a rubbish pile, freshly discarded and floppy from use and abuse). There was a tavern down the road; she could faintly hear the sounds of minstrel music and boisterous voices.
She wasn't really fond of taverns--too many unsavory, rowdy men--but they were warm, and usually open rather late, and noisy, with lots of distractions. Most of the time, no one paid her any mind so she could loiter until they closed, and sometimes she could even sneak a drink of someone's half-finished ale, or pick food from an unfinished plate.
And they were full of drunk people.
Drunk people were stupid. They dropped their coin, or left them unattended altogether, or just didn't notice when she bumped them and cut their purse strings. It was risky, but risk was sort of in her job description. Her life had been risky from birth.
Rook took a deep breath. Beggars couldn't be choosers, and maybe tonight she'd come away with more than just warm hands.
Pulling her hat down low to shadow her face, she headed for the tavern and slipped inside. It was a full house--excellent--and blissfully warm from the fire and body heat. The serving women had their hands full dodging the advances of drunken men while keeping their trays from tipping (true skill, right there), and the barkeep was equally occupied. No one really paid attention to a new young man entering, much less one as scrappy and bedraggled as she looked. Even her scar drew no more than a brief, sympathetic look from the few men that noticed her enter. With the war dragging on, there had been no shortage of scarred, bedraggled people.
Rook lingered near the door where it was easy to bolt, warming herself and watching and trying not to fidget. Being around so many people always made her stomach twist queasily and palms dampen, but she reminded herself that she was no one, and that no one would pay her any mind unless she drew attention in the first place. Everyone was caught up in their own problems, drowning it out with ale--and how many times had she done this already, without being caught? This was far lower risk than some of her previous endeavors.
You've got this. You've done this before. Taverns are nothing. What's some drunkard gonna do even if he does catch you? You're fast. He'll be slow and clumsy. It's fine. Look at that one over there! Face in his booze, back to you, purse hanging out there. Easy mark. Just do it, go, and find another shelter. Simple.
A deep breath in, a slow breath out. Steady nerves, steady hands. Her aching belly certainly helped motivate her. So after taking a moment to scope the place out, locate potential marks, steady her breathing, and plan her route, she made her move.
She squeezed between two full tables on her way to the bar, pretending to grab the table for balance while swiping a coin left there carelessly--probably to pay one of the barmaids. Sorry, but I need it more. She sneaked a piece of cheese from one man's plate when he wasn't looking and slipped it and the coin into her own measly purse, then paused at the bar and leaned her elbows onto it.
"What's your house brew gonna run me?" she asked, keeping her voice low and hoarse--which wasn't difficult to fake, because it had been a while since she had spoken.
The barkeep looked up from where he was tapping a fresh barrel and called his answer, but Rook was hardly paying attention to the price. It didn't matter. What mattered was the act.
She shook her head ruefully. "Ah, shame. Place down the road's got it much cheaper. Thanks anyway, mate," she said, and pushed off the counter, ignoring his affronted grumbling. Turning on her heel, she made to head for the door but took a different route, heading for the lone man with the exposed purse. With a quick, practiced flourish, she drew her small, plain knife from its sheath at her hip and with a quick snip, cut the strings as she passed and caught it as it fell.
Just keep walking, keep walking. Just a little further and she would be out the door and in the clear without anyone the wiser!
