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It was an art to steal, this much she knew. Your average joe simply didn’t have the necessary skills, know-how, and where-with-all to pull it off— no, to steal, and to steal in a way that actually meant something, was to partake in expression, in beauty, and in knowledge. To master such an art was— well, she didn’t want to brag (that was a lie. She always loved to brag), the very essence of it all, the whole point. There was no meaning behind merely doing something. But to command it; now there was something of worth.
Artemisia's first love was knowledge, and it had led her where these things tend to go for the over-ambitious; crime. Though she called herself a bard by trade, she’d much sooner find herself in the shadowy throes of the passing of illicit coin from one hand to another than in a tavern performing. She rarely performed at all these days, mostly stowing away her lyre for quiet moments when she was alone.
In any case, it turned out that among thieves, Art had a rare and coveted skillset; she knew things, things that the unresearched did not often come to know. Things that usually those in study halls dedicated their lives to, whiling away the time with their noses stuck between musty tomes, and yet. She never divulged her own past to her allies, much less her patrons; she was contented to quietly astound them with her expertise on subjects as common as the best substitute for boot polish and as myriad as the type of food the famed Waterdaven crimelord Xanathar fed his pet fish. She’d studied the rise and fall of the mage-elites of Thay, the ritual details for how one might (hypothetically) open a portal to each of the planes of existence, and just how to escape an ancient red dragon’s lair with its treasure trove and nary a cinder. And that wasn’t counting the sheer volume of myths, legends, histories, and ancient secrets she’d added steadily to her hoard of knowledge over the years.
Her favorite thing to steal, though, was no jewel or famed magical item. It was hardly a material thing at all, really. Artemisia’s favorite things to acquire, especially if it was frowned upon or forbidden, were stories.
That was why she’d agreed to this particular job, which wasn’t usually in her purview. She had considerable experience going out into the field in the traditional way, but the truth was that she usually didn’t want to. She preferred a method more akin to a spider, hunkering down in a corner and pulling strings for others to come and bring her spoils. This job, though, had the unquenchable lure of a story to it.
“There’s a mage in Waterdeep,” said her patron, a man cloaked half in a shadow and wholly in a cloak. She might have chuckled at his obvious attempt to hide his identity, as though she couldn’t figure it out if she wanted to, by asking the right people. He’d already divulged the frankly staggering amount of gold behind his offer, though, so she decided to bite her tongue for now. “He’s garnered quite the reputation as of late. Some are saying he’s gotten in good with the lady of Mysteries herself.”
“Poor chap,” Art muttered. “So what do you want me to do with him?”
“Nothing. I want you to steal from him.”
“What am I taking?”
“You’ll know it when you see it. It’s an incredibly powerful magical item— small, probably, easily disguised. The energy this thing gives off is unparalleled. I don’t know if you’d be familiar with the term—”
“Let me guess: Netherese in origin?”
The figure blinked, and she couldn’t resist the urge to smirk. Netherse energies regarding magical items was child’s play.
“Good to know,” Art said. “Right. So, looking for something with Netherse energy, small probably, easily disguised probably, and likely protected by an up-and-rising Waterdaven mage. Simple enough. I’ll be back in town by next tenday.”
“Wait.”
She’d turned to leave, but at his tone, she hesitated.
“He’s not going to be easy to fool.”
“They always say that.”
“No, really. He’s—” the figure hesitated, hands listing awkwardly at his sides. His voice, though they were already whispering, lowered further. “He’s been chosen.”
“Chosen.”
“You know. By her. ”
Bleeding blistering hells. But she’d dealt with worse. Although…
She crossed her arms, feigning a twinge of hesitation. “You’re kidding, right? I’m not going to mess with the chosen of a goddess. Do you think I’m mad?”
“I’ll compensate you—”
“Yes, you’d better. Gods of Celestia, if you think I’ll do that for anything less than double what you’re offering—”
“Done. Double. Whatever. Just— if you come back, don’t tell anyone about this job. We never met. Got it?”
“Par for the course. Now, are we done?”
“Yes.”
“Next tenday,” she reiterated, stalking back down the alley. “Don’t be late.”
Waterdeep was, funnily enough, one of Art’s favorite cities. Every city had its sparkling heights and seedy slums, but here, even ordinary cobblestones seemed to crackle with the inherent pull of magic.
Some might dismiss it as an annoying university town, Blackstaff being not too far away, and some might shirk away from the various factions which warred among one another like a more deadly version of children on a playground. But to Art, it was where things happened, where stories were both told and written.
She started her search where most such stories made their way; the local tavern, a notorious haunt called the Yawning Portal.
She questioned. She drank. She played games and made bets and even danced a bit. In a single evening, she’d learned some key details.
“You’re telling me that, out of all the people in the world, your worst customer is a human wizard with the mouth of a dictionary and a weakness for a good glass of wine?”
The bartender grunted. “Lad won’t ever order more than one glass, two if he’s really pressed, and he’ll usually just give it away to someone else. He doesn’t even stay long enough to see if the person will thank him for the drink or take it as an advance of some kind, he just… leaves. Like he’s got someone waiting on him, but he never brings anyone else around. Haven’t seen him in a while though…”
Given what Art already knew about the wizard, she could hazard a guess as to the ‘someone’ who was waiting on him, but in an effort to see if she could squeeze out any more information, she leaned in over the bar, letting her eyelids droop and she did her best imitation of a drunk trying-to-whisper-but-still-being loud tone. “Do you think the someone is already… indisposed?”
The bartender leveled a tired, blank stare at her, raising a singular eyebrow. “Indisposed?”
“Like, an affair? Do you think it’s an affair situation? Gods, that would really be something…”
“I have no idea. We’re not exactly chummy.”
“Chummy. Hah, that’s a funny word. You’re funny.”
“No interested. Look, is there anything else I can get you?”
Art laid off. She tapped her glass. “Another glass of this, if you would. Gods, I haven’t had an Arabellan dry this good in a while. You’ll have to tell me your secret.”
He gave her an annoyed but pleased sniff, and whisked her empty glass away.
She waited, scanning the room with a lazy but watchful eye. Most of the people here were your usual end-of-the-week crowd, dancing and drinking and what have you, generally making fools of themselves in the most delightful way that seems good in the moment but one might come to regret come morning. One group by the portal were taking bets on one of them sticking his toe in. The portal, for which the Yawning Portal got its name, was a giant ring in the dead center of the room, its edges glowing faintly despite the blackest-of-black void which, well, yawned at you from the moment you walked in. There were many theories as to where the portal led, but Art’s favorite was that it would land you back in bed the next morning with the king of worst hangovers in the world.
“Here’s that Arabellan dry,” said the bartender. The glass plinked down on the table. Art took her time to pick it up, but when she did, her fingers grazed over something else.
It was a paper.
She glanced down, her fingers meeting the piece of paper which had obviously been ripped off something else. I newsletter, maybe? She could just see the edges of something, maybe a word or a phrase— didn’t matter. Art looked to the words scribed in hurried pen across the small blank spot on the paper.
It was an address, and a date of the last time the wizard had been seen out in public. That was nearly two months ago.
And, well, it was a long-shot, and probably stupid to trust the words of a mystery stranger, but… well. She was curious. And the story unfolding for her had just gotten interesting.
The address was a tower. Getting in was the easy part— between scaling the walls and juggling her lock-pick and her counter-charm skills, she managed to squeeze in with delicacy.
When she touched down in from a window, she found herself in a study of sorts. Books piled along the floors, obviously overflow from the packed bookcases. Candles dripped from every corner, shedding buttery light over trinkets and scrying orbs and papers—gods, the papers everywhere . Art had to wonder what manner of wizard this was, with seemingly so many papers with information on so many things. A stereotypical one, she supposed, but still.
She couldn’t help herself; what started as a mere cursory search to see if anything caught her eye as distinctly netherese quickly morphed into her stuck in place, soaking up written word like a dry sponge. She found several academic papers in progress, mostly about netherese artifacts and their use in soothing wild magic surges, but also about some highly philosophical viewpoints on the channeling of raw Weave synergies. Her eyes skimmed his sources, because surely such wild claims had to come out of nowhere, she’d never heard of such nonsense, but… his sources were there, mostly older-than-dirt tomes written by deader-than-dead arcane masters. A few were written by Elminster himself, and Art had to marvel, however reluctantly, as to how in the world this wizard had gotten his hands on such rare writings to even study and include them to begin with.
Then, she heard a sound— a faint, sharp intake of breath.
Art whirled around, and there in the gloom between candle flames slumbered the very wizard himself. Robed in purple study clothes, seated at a desk, his fingers still holding a quill. He’d fallen asleep mid-session.
It was then that Art felt it— the distinct tug of the arcane in the even more distinct flavor of netherese. She crept closer, not daring to breathe. What could possibly…
He’d been writing something. She tilted her head, unable to stifle her curiosity, and saw that he’d addressed the letter to his mother.
I’m afraid I won’t be home for Midwinter Feast this year, as I am currently held up by matters most urgent…
She saw a glow, felt a faint hum. Purple light emanate from him, somewhere around his collarbone. Probably a trinket. Her eyes caught on the set of earrings he wore, glinting in the candlelight and the strange purple glow. And—there. She could swear it, that was where she was feeling the netherese pull. It was something on his person, and if she had to hazard a guess based on what she knew of him as a chosen of Mystra, it was there.
The earrings were silver, polished and pristine, patterned after the goddess’s crest, like a compass with multiple needles or a fracturing star. She could only get a good view of one of the earrings, as the other was squished between his head, arm, and the table. The other, however…
Nimble as grasshopper, Art closed the distance between them and careful, oh so carefully reached to slip the earring off his lobe. He stirred only once, and Art had to freeze and hold her breath and pray to gods she was half sure wouldn’t really approve of what she was doing, but somehow she did it. She pocketed the earring.
The wizard stirred again, faintly. Time to go.
The last glimpse she caught of him was just as he had been, deep in a drifting sleep with the quill fluttering to the ground beside him. He looked… peaceful.
She stole away into the night.
Gale awoke with one less earring, the other one having vanished. He figured he must have lost it, somehow. He scoured his tower, but to no avail. Oh well. It was sure to turn up eventually, and even if not, he still had the other.
The orb, new and raw, pulsed in his chest, and Gale knew that he was running out of time. Tara hadn’t been back in a few days, and his odds were getting slimmer.
But there was still hope. He had to believe that. Wasn’t there?