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They had done a good deal of work for the Cyrodilic Thieves Guild over the years. It wasn't worth it.
He looked out into the darkening street, their hands shoved into the pockets of cheap trousers. The chill thickened along their shoulders, and the young Altmer huddled down into their cloak, shivering. They'd tied their hair up in a scarlet ribbon to keep it out of their face, but wished the warmth of it were on their neck right now. Frostfall was heavy upon them, and soon it'd be Sun's Dusk, and the snow would blanket much of the counties in Cyrodiil.
Maybe Athenath preferred to work alone. Guidance was an unnecessary burden on their shoulders, and when they thought about the hassle of having to sit by and listen to someone drone on and on about the importance of certain objects and not getting caught and all the shit they'd learned on their own ages ago, they wanted to gag. Plus, it didn't exactly pay him well. Something about the old ways of their guild must have been long, long forgotten. Fair share was a laughable suggestion. And teamwork was debatable, or downright nonexistent, depending on the person.
The road lead them through town and into a small inn, and when he'd paid with the meager septims in their pocket, they made a slow march up to their room and locked the door. Already, they began to plot out how long they'd spend in the inn, who would make an easy target to pickpocket, who would be more likely notice, all the little details they'd figured out how to utilize over the years they'd been working as a thief. Sometimes, it was easier to stay in a town for a few days, gain some trust, and see who would allow them a little too close. Others, it was easy to slip in and out of a settlement, unnoticed and unseen.
The minutes crawled by at a snail's pace, the Altmer sprawled out on the tiny bed in their room, eyes closed, listening to the sounds below them. People's indistinguishable voices and laughter, calls for more mead or ale, a couple jokes shouted over the crowd that made both the crowd and the elf guffaw with what he could hear beneath the floorboards, but all of it faded away when the door croaked open, and a tambourine began to rattle out above the inn. A voice, soft as liquid silver, began to recite one of the more popular Cyrodilic poems, something about the Hero of Kvatch, a celebratory sound with some people hushing others. The words were muffled from their room, but they knew it by sound alone. Slowly, the Altmer rose, pushing themself off the bed and toeing to the door, making their way down the stairs until they could peer down at the bard whose hands brought the rhythm of word to life, palm and fingers tapping against the instrument they held until the hand holding the item could shake it.
Their eyes looked to be on the bard, but if one studied them closely, their gaze was solely upon the tambourine.
It was a beautiful instrument - hide which had been bleached and stretched until perfectly taut across a wooden shell, with two layers of thin, metal jingles producing the most pleasant rattling sounds he'd ever heard. The bard wielding it was an expert in playing the round, polished item, with every sound meaning something to the rhythms he created. The songs which fell out of the bard's mouth carried on the air, songs of Martin Septim and the Oblivion Crisis, songs of the Hero of Kvatch, of Saint Alessia and of Morihaus-Breath-of-Kyne, some shortened for the purpose of making them more palatable for the crowd which the bard entertained.
When the people of the inn began to appear bored with the flowery language, the bard shifted into drinking songs, and conversation thrilled the air again. Some sang along, some danced here and there, but much of it faded soon, and the bard was merely an ornament behind the sounds of speech. Athenath kept their eyes locked on the figure, a Breton with thick, coiffed curls and sharp ears. When he finally sat down to take a break and accept water from the innkeeper, Athenath darted over, curiosity taking over them before they could think of their actions.
"Do you travel a lot?" They asked, standing before the bard, whose brow rose high, digging a thick line in his forehead.
"Yes, I do. My job, as you probably guessed, is to spread song and poetry throughout all of Tamriel. Though, right now, well, I'm here." He gestured with a freckled palm to the room around the pair. He watched Athenath carefully, looking them up and down. "You have any requests?"
"No, I'm just curious," they said, seating themself next to the figure slowly. "I've seen dozens of bards, but never one who just- y'know, entirely turned a room quiet like that."
The bard winked. "Lots and lots of work, my friend. Lots. So, what's your name, then? You're not from around here, I take it?"
The pair shared introductions and drinks, although Athenath lied about their name, a practice he'd grown used to. Faelsen, a name for when he didn't want to be caught far away from here. They lied of their city, too, and their job, guise of an aspiring student of the Synod easy to don when most people expected magical pursuits of elves. And when the bard asked of their life before this, they answered of being a weary traveler on his way to Kvatch, to spend time with their family. "My grandfather's fallen ill, and I'm on my way to tend to him," they said, staring off into the room, swirling their glass of watered down wine.
"I'm terribly sorry to hear that," he returned, "especially so young. Losing family is hard at any age, but..." He trailed off. The concern in his eyes looked kind enough, and maybe they would feel bad about deceiving him later, but the Altmer would let him think that they were more upset than they truly were and fret over them as he would some pitiable, wayward child, not the young man he could see before him. Athenath shrugged.
"It's alright, I'm not too worried. Long life, and all that."
The bard raised his own goblet. "Here, here."
The bard would go up to his room late in the night. Athenath would wait in their own for a while, toe out into the hall and listen to his door, hear the sounds of sleep-talking and snores, and grin. He pressed a lockpick into place, bundled cloak in their arm, and when the lock gave way, made slow, cautious steps into the room. They shut the door with twisted knob to quiet the sound, and set to work.
They couldn't steal just the tambourine. This had to look like a proper robbery. So, they quietly dug around in the bard's belongings. A rudimentary songbook fell into the bundled fabric, as did a pouch of gold, an expensive brooch, and several little rings he'd set on the nightstand. Then, their eyes met the instrument, and the world stopped. Their breath hitched. As if the entirety of their life were set out before them, if they could only get it.
Their fingertips brushed the surface. A smooth sound, quieter than a whisper, slipped as skin met hide. They waited, gaze flicking to the sleeping bard, whose arm draped over the bed, fingertips brushing the wooden floor. The Altmer watched him, the rise and fall of his chest, before untying their hair. They threaded the ribbon slowly through the tambourine's jingles. It may not silence it entirely, gods knew it wasn't thick enough, but they could worry about this later.
The bard stirred, sharp intake of breath and half-mutters. Athenath gasped, choking on the noise, nearly dropping the cloak, jewelry and gold rattling around in the fabric. They snatched the tambourine, uncaring of the noise, and before the bard could pop his eyes open, they were already out of the room, door flung wide.
A couple of shouts, and calls for guards. Athenath had already buried the items deep into their knapsack. There was a chest at the foot of their bed, and they used the stiff, thick quilts to cover up their belongings, before they blew the candle out. They pulled blankets over their form, and feigned sleep as guards entered the inn. When questioned minutes later, they'd mussed their hair and acted as if they'd not been awake when the robbery occurred. They'd given their best lies, and the bard - whether through pity for the situation they'd told him of, or for some unknown reason - vouched for them. A pang of sympathy rattled his chest, and while guilt would slip through their mind like a door cracked open, it would fade not long after.
The next day, he was on the road to the Imperial City. He located the guild fences in the Elven Gardens District and handed over some of the jewelry, but kept the tambourine for himself.