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Money in the Rift changed hands as often as the leaves were gold, which was to say, a perpetual flow of currency ran like rivers through the hold. Riften was the cornerstone, the foundation of trade in the autumnal region, caravans and merchants from all across Skyrim - and some, brave or foolish, from beyond - traveling the floors of the long-armed realm, stretching over mountains and valleys and lakes. Of course, the Black-Briar family played more than a small role in the shifting tides of commerce, but who was Brynjolf to object when so much of this coin fell into his pockets?
He was an enigma, a shadow when the light was already gone, a gadfly which dodged the guards and their suspicions, the hand of the Jarl's justice falling short of him, with a price and some whispered words of the ever-prominent family. Both his hair and the leaves of his home were fire-bright, his eyes were the depth of Lake Honrich, and his grin dug fine trenches into his face. And he stood, peddling his wares like any innocent merchant, with voice echoing above crowds while prospectives for his Guild and the occasional independent thief worked the pockets of the unsuspecting audience. For all the heists in the world, this, he found more pleasure in. Distraction, diversion. The guards never suspected a thing. Perhaps they did, he could muse, and they'd just given up caring.
The newest recruit did a fine job getting the ring, but was soon caught. Brynjolf had managed to pilfer it off him before the poor bastard was hauled away, knowing that once it made it to the evidence chest, it might as well have been gone for good. After all, guards had a habit of taking the nicer things for themselves, and he'd never know which one had pocketed the prize.
He tossed the little trinket up and down in his palm as he looked it over, grumbles filling the air near him. Mercer worked at his desk, finalizing details of some heist or other he planned to send Vex and Rune on, cursing to himself as his hands planted the map to the wooden surface. The Ratway, a home to many, was more than enough for Brynjolf. He did not need a little room in an inn or a house on the lake. He liked this place, reclining in his chair as the ring glinted in the light, his hands cherishing the heft of it. Solid and bearing a bright green gem. This was the work of a skilled craftsman, but it had Cyrod detailing all over it, from the wind of the vine-like engravings to the climb of the leaves up to the gem itself. Every turn of it would catch some detail or another, and while he knew he would have to soon depart with it, he would like to think that one day, he'd have a ring like this in his own personal collection.
He almost scoffed at the thought. Personal collections of trinkets such as this one were not a thing for members of the Thieves Guild. Items were sold to fences, who would then sell them elsewhere, taking the little jewelry pieces such as this one far away, floating on the tide of hands and coins. Statues were harder to smuggle, but if done right, any large item could be taken all the way to Alinor without so much as a murmur of interruption. He'd seen it done before. He'd even done some of the smuggling himself, back when he was a newer member. More expendable. Now, he was a well-oiled cog in the machine that was his guild, his family, as far as he was concerned. Mercer made him feel so, with his words honey-gilded when he was in one of his more agreeable moods.
Well, if one called "you did well, that was excellent work" a sentiment to lose oneself in, but it was the best compliment one could ask for from the, Brynjolf thought it over, curmudgeonly man. After all, he'd been around when Gallus was alive, and with the tales Mercer told of the long-gone thief, to hear that Brynjolf had done well from a man who'd known such a legendary member was enough to satisfy him.
He looked around him, at the few people who still called this section of the Ratway a home of sorts. Oily black smoke buffeted the walls, puffs from the torches that illuminated the cistern, the stench of the lake's contents something he'd gone nose-blind to years ago. There weren't many people around. There never had been, in his days. The guild had always been small, and very tight-knit, and prone to losing new recruits to the guards or to their own folly on a job. Mercer gave saccharine accounts of the guild's glory days, leading to a chorus of jabs at his age. He'd sneer about it, but nothing resulted of any of the jokes. Just reminders that the guild was on the decline, and getting worse.
This was the dire state of affairs he knew his family had fallen into, whether through lack of luck or lack of skill. He'd watched it fall further in the years he'd been here, and there had formed an idea in his mind, as thick and solid as amber, that he had to do something about it. He would have to find a new batch of recruits, or the guild would suffer. He had been trying for years, with little success, but by the gods, he was determined. Merchants of the shadier type seldom (if ever) visited. Jobs in other cities dried up. They couldn't expend their resources so far as Haafingar or Markarth, anymore. The furthest any of the guild's business could go was Whiterun, and even that could be dodgy. Maybe Falkreath, on a good year, but north of that, things grew more difficult. And Morthal wasn't exactly worth robbing.
Brynjolf rose from the table, tossing the ring up in the air one last time before catching it in his gloved palm. He then snatched Mercer's attention, and when the older man looked up, he tossed it over. The master thief grabbed it, examining it in the light, furrowing his brow.
"Hm," Mercer hummed as he rubbed at his chin. He made a comment about the quality of the ring, before his words trailed off into a hush. Then, pinching his temples between the crux of his thumb, he sighed. "You're not about to go on one of your little recruitment jobs, are you?"
"Why not?" Brynjolf smirked.
"Brynjolf, the last one is rotting in the jail. I told you-"
"Mercer, I told you that if our work dries up, it's because we've become too complacent. I promise you, I won't let you down."
Brynjolf was the only member of the guild who could speak to Mercer like this, to object to his word without the older man snarling like a wolf in a corner. He had proven himself time and time again, and he knew his own judgment was worth more than the weight of the coins in the chests behind a locked door. Mercer had trained him personally, after Brynjolf had been vetted by a member long-gone. He had reason to believe in him, and his keen eye and swift hands. So, through a long, exaggerated sigh and a sweep of his hand through the air, Mercer defeatedly allowed the other to go out on this errand. Brynjolf gave a grin, and another comment about not letting Mercer down, and headed out again into the gilded sun of the noon.
The daylight always gave his eyes a bit of a sting, if he spent too much time in the Ratway. Going from the dim of the guild's base to the light of the world around him was a bit of a transition, but he soon adjusted, and walked the streets of Riften, chatting with vendors and those that owed their due to his guild. This was the way he worked, friendly words in his own, warm voice, deals made and rehashed, and duties tended.
And when the golden sun fumbled over a new figure in town, Brynjolf's instincts kicked in. This time, it would be different. This time, the guild would prosper from his determination, and he would make damned sure of that.