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Water laps at the worn boots of a young Imperial sitting at the lake's edge. Her dusky auburn hair is half pulled out of her face, a few free pieces falling to either side, framing her blue eyes, light and clear as crystal. They're trained on a scrap of metal and a long, complex looking tool grasped in her hands. She fiddles with the tool, subtle clicks coming from the lock as she frowns at it.
Lyvia Summanus has lived in the Imperial City for three months now, and while it's not the first time she's not had a bed for the night, this is the first time she's gone three days in a row without finding a roof to sleep under. It's been harder and harder for her to find work; even households and businesses she had been able to count on in the early weeks have started turning her away. She continues to shake and jiggle the lock in her hands, jerking on the handle of her tool until the mechanism inside gives and the metal springs open. Nodding at it once, she twists it closed and starts again.
For not the first time, she thinks that maybe she should give it up and head back home. Lyvia knows that her parents would not turn her away if she did, but they had fought last she'd seen them, and unfortunately it's not an argument she's willing to lose, even for a secure place to sleep. Not yet, anyway. So far the worst that's happened sleeping rough was getting a little wet in the rain, but she never really gets rest when she has to. And this will be the third night without proper sleep.
The lock clicks open again, and without missing a beat, she clicks it shut again.
If she sleeps too close to the guard's barracks, she may very well end up arrested for some made up charge, probably at the behest of a rich and comfortable resident who can't stand the sight of someone poor near their doorstep. But if Lyvia were to find somewhere just close enough, she could avoid other criminals, more desperate or depraved than she, trying to take what few belongings she had. Or worse. The lock clicks again, and she shuts it, barely paying attention now as she picks at it, staring out at the water. Her stomach growls, and she considers. She's no great fisher, but she has a dagger on her. If she could perhaps find a mud crab—
"You know," a voice says near her. "You're pretty good at that." She starts, almost dropping lock and pick both into the waves before regaining her composure, scrambling to her feet as she faces the speaker.
He's a Redguard man, hair pulled back from his face and dressed in practical leathers; though they're nothing fancy, they're nicer than most folks on the Waterfront would be wearing. His modest beard is combed and manicured into a point, and his brows seem drawn into a near permanent frown. Lyvia shoves her pick and lock in her pocket, setting her jaw and drawing herself up straight.
"Yeah? What of it?" She crosses her arms defensively. It wouldn't be the first time someone assumed that just because she enjoyed picking locks that she also enjoys picking locks that don't belong to her. What if this man is a guard? Has someone complained about her, even all the way out here? But his demeanor remains relaxed.
"I'm running a little competition for people with certain skillsets, tonight," he explains. "Watching you work that lock, it's clear you really are quite practiced. I wanted to extend an invitation." Lyvia works to keep the annoyance off her face.
"I'm flattered, really, but I don't have time for games. I need to find some actual work so I can pay for somewhere to stay tonight." She starts to turn away and leave, but he steps with her, and she gives him an exasperated look. What will it take for this guy to get the hint?
"Let me sweeten the deal then," he says. "I have my own place here in the Waterfront district. If you win the game tonight, you can stay there." She narrows her eyes. Lyvia isn't stupid, and she's reluctant to trust a strange man that approached her for her lockpicking skills. But at the same time, there is something to be said about, in the worst case scenario, only having to fend off one man, versus on the streets never knowing what she might be faced with.
"I'm not killing anyone, and I'm not sleeping with you," she finally says bluntly, and the man laughs.
"I would not ask you to," he assures, and holds out his hand. "Armand." She looks from his face to his hand and back again before taking it in hers, shaking it.
"Lyvia. A pleasure."
"The pleasure's all mine," he response politely. "Now tonight, at midnight, head to the Garden of Dareloth and I'll fill you in on the rules of the game." Lyvia narrows her eyes again.
"Why so late?" she lets the suspicion creep into her voice. "What kind of game is this?"
"I can't tell you that here, too many ears, but… Let's just say the guards don't take kindly to our antics. Don't worry, we won't let you go to jail for our mischief." His stance is still relaxed, casual. Lyvia isn't fooled; she's the daughter of merchants, and she's seen their manipulation tactics on more than one customer. But on the other hand, it is better than sleeping out in the open, and if this competition has anything to do with picking locks, winning that place to sleep would be trivial.
"…Alright," she relents. "Midnight, then."
Lyvia spends the rest of her evening creeping along the lake shore, searching for easy food. If she's to win this competition, she needs to keep her energy up. She spots a few edible plants, slightly trampled but still good once she dunks them in some water later. She runs across a mud crab and struggles with the thing for some time before managing to drive her dagger through it. Cracking the shell and carefully pulling out the damaged meat, she can't help thinking that could have been done better. Lyvia drags her meager haul close to the wall separating the shacks of the waterfront from the docks and paved roads leading into the city proper, carefully building up a small fire. She has a modest pot with a small crack near the top she bartered for soon after arriving in the city, and has managed to keep from being thieved by others in the past couple of months, and she fills it with lake water; not her favorite thing, but an aggressive boil will work fine to get it clean.
Once she's fed (with an unfortunately bland meal, but it can't be helped, it's not like she can afford seasonings), there's little for Lyvia to do but wait. She leans herself against the wall, the embers of her cooking fire doing well enough to keep out the very slight chill in the evening air, and dozes. She dares not fall into a full slumber, but no one disturbs her as she tries to get just a little bit of rest. Before long, she finds herself blinking up at a half full moon almost directly overhead, and decides it must be close enough to time. Lyvia picks her way amongst the shacks until she finds herself in a small…well, to call it a garden was to give it too much credit, she thinks. The grass is green enough, but it's little more than a small fenced in square. Waiting there already are Armand, holding a torch, a wood elf woman that shoots her a sharp look, and an oddly familiar-looking argonian.
"Say," Lyvia starts as she takes her place in line. "You didn't happen to come from Leyawiin, did you?" The argonian blinks at her thoughtfully for a moment, then recognition slides into place.
"Ah, you're that shopkeep's daedrafucker daughter," his voice is so casual that it takes her a moment to recognize what he said.
"Excuse you?!" Lyvia bristles in fury; had she not been so used to the accusations by now, she may have drawn her dagger, and thinks this argonian should count himself lucky that she does not.
"Now now," Armand interjects. "We're not here to go picking fights with people that may end up being guildmates soon enough." The argonian opens his mouth to protest, only to shut it again as he appears to think better of it. She just has to beat him in this contest then. Show him that maybe he should think before he speaks on people he's only just met.
"Let's begin," Armand continues. "To start, the Thieves Guild is not a myth. We are followers of the Gray Fox, and I am his Doyen. It's unusual for us to have three potential recruits at the same time. Rather than the normal test of skill, I'm going to make this a contest." She remembers his presenting this as a game; if he'd not approached her, he would only have two recruits. Had he created this contest just to give her the chance? Why her? "Methredhel, you know the rules, but for Amusei and Lyvia, let me state them clearly. Whoever brings me the the diary of Amantius Allectus, without killing him, will be invited into the guild. It's somewhere in the Imperial City. The beggars will help you locate it, for a price, and you cannot kill each other during this trial. We may be thieves, but we're not murderers." His gaze hardens as he looks meaningfully to each of them, and she remembers her own misgivings earlier that day. As the other two mumble their understanding, she speaks up.
"I'd like to know more about this diary," she presses, and Armand tilts his head at her curiously.
"Allectus is losing nothing by us taking it, and many will benefit from the diary…hmmm, disappearing." He's not lying, she doesn't think. And no one is going to go hungry over a missing diary. She nods her assent, and he turns back to the others.
"Now, get out of here," he dismisses. "And don't come back without that diary."
She and the wood elf, Methredhel, scramble out of the garden while Amusei lags behind, seeming to be thinking. Lyvia already knows where this house is; she'd done a cleaning job there a couple of weeks ago. She thinks at first about appearing to not know where she's going, or going another direction to fool the competition, but Methredhel is running full tilt along the streets she knew would lead there, and so knows she can't waste time. Luckily, though, Lyvia knows of a shortcut, and takes a hard turn down an alley. The sound of her boots on the cobbles are like the ticking of a clock and she's so afraid she'll have wasted her time that she's convinced, when she skids to a halt at the door, that Methredhel has beaten her to it.
The door, however, is still locked.
Lyvia draws her lockpick from her pocket and mutters a quiet prayer as she slips it into the lock on the door. For this was no simple lockpick, and Amusei's accusation had not been wholly out of pocket. A few years before she'd left home, Lyvia had found her footsteps guided to the nearby shrine to Nocturnal, and that She had a request of her. And when she'd fulfilled that request (for what else was a young woman to do when asked for a favor by a daedra?) she'd found this lockpick, the Skeleton Key, in her pockets. Go my child, the prince had said, voice echoing in her mind. Let no chains ever hold you; the shadows shall always be a friend to you.
She certainly hopes Nocturnal is looking out of her as she hears the door's lock click and pushes it open to a dark, quiet room. Lyvia casts a glance around for the home's occupant when she sees movement out of the corner of her eye, coming around the corner outside and fast approaching the door. Methredhel has caught up. Jolting forward, throwing some caution to the wind, Lyvia rapidly approaches a nearby table with a book, and by some kind of luck it's very clearly a journal and not a bound tome. She clutches it to her chest, dodges Methredhel's attempt to block the doorway, and takes off at a full sprint back towards the waterfront.
Armand is delighted at her success, and keeps his word to let her stay at his home. It's a shack, like every other in the waterfront, but the door and windows are all quite well enforced, extra wood and locks treated in such a way as to not look conspicuous. Lyvia still doesn't trust him fully — she's plenty aware of how men might try to take advantage of her, and takes great care to not let that happen — and takes the slightly moth eaten blankets he offers her to make a pallet close to the door, wall at her back and his bed in her view. But despite her fears, he simply goes to sleep, and after a couple of hours of dozing, she drifts off fully, deep sleep claiming her.
She dreams of a dark place; shadows lap at her heels, but they hold no fear for her. How could they, when she's watched over by the Lady of the Night? The path she walks is worn, as if many people have walked it, and it's lined with massive glowing mushrooms taller than she is, bathing her in an almost eery blue-green glow. It's not the first time she's seen this place; in fact, it feels strangely like home. It always has, and while she can make no sense of it, dreams aren't meant to make sense, right? She sees buildings in the distance, but no matter how long she walks the path, she never seems to get any closer. As if something is keeping her back, saying not yet.
She wakes, late morning sun streaming in through the windows and falling directly into her eyes. The shack smells heavenly, and she sits up with a stretch, noting Armand in the little kitchenette, working over a pan. He glances over and shoots her a wry grin before going back to the food.
"Ah, finally decided to wake? Good, I was worried I'd have to eat this all myself," he teases. She tries to hide the embarrassment on her face by busying herself with folding up the borrowed blankets, setting them against the wall for now before taking a seat at his small dining table.
"So, Lyvia," he sits at the table, passing her a plate of potatoes, a small portion of meat, and a couple of pieces of bread. "First of all, congratulations again on your success."
"I'm still not sure I'm sold on this 'Thieves' Guild'," she admits. "I don't want to make people's lives worse by taking things they need."
"I think you misunderstand what we do here," he begins to pick at his own plate. "We don't take from people in need. In fact, it's kinda the opposite; that's what I wanted to talk to you about, really."
"What do you mean?"
"The guard has been collecting taxes from the Waterfront District," he explains as she takes a few bites of the breakfast. She chews thoughtfully.
"That's their job, isn't it?"
"Look around you, Lyvia. The taxes collected from these people would barely pay for the cost of the collection," Armand frowns. "Normally the guard doesn't bother, but their captain's a real by-the-book type." She taps her plate with her fork, leaning her cheek against her fist.
"So, you want me to…what?"
"Break into the guard captain's quarters. Get the taxes and the records of the collection. That way we can return the taxes to the people," Armand paused to reach for water, and Lyvia recognized it for what it was; he was giving her a moment to consider. Stealing from the guard was a daunting task, but…
She remembers her dream, the night before, the feeling of shadows and darkness like home. How she reached the diary first, the door clicking open after but a moment of picking. If Lyvia believes in Nocturnal's power, truly, she should trust that She will protect and guide her in such a quest, shouldn't she?
"Alright," she agrees, and Armand nods with a smile.
"Alright," he echoes. "Shadow hide you, then."
Lyvia spends the rest of the day wandering around the guard's barracks, doing her best to look as if she is just going about her business. She takes mental notes of how many guards are coming and going, how regularly patrols seem to swap out, and which directions they go. And all the time, she waits, watching for the barracks to be empty, for a prime opportunity to strike. With Nocturnal's blessing, surely this should be easy.
She watches as another patrol leaves as the sun is beginning to set. None have yet come back from this last wave of patrols. It's risky, since she's not sure exactly how many guards there are, but it could be her only chance. Lyvia slinks through the shadows until she reaches the door to the barracks. The room within is blessedly empty, not even a mouse as far as she can see. Hardly daring to breathe, she glances around…and realizes the guard captain's chambers must be through a door in the ceiling, up a ladder. She hates how exposed it leaves her, but if she's fast, it should be fine. She shimmies up the ladder, barely breathing, slipping her pick from where she's hidden it in her sleeve.
Once she's past the access hatch, she enters the room as quietly as she can, stepping carefully and propping the hatch open so she can get out as fast as possible. Lyvia creeps closer to the commanding desk against one wall of the room; it must be where the taxes are, as there's no visible vault or safe in the room. She quickly gets past the lock on the drawer and begins to rummage; she finds the tax records first, and shoves the paper in her pocket before continuing to dig for—
"You best have a good excuse for what you're doing in here," a harsh voice sounds from behind her, and her stomach drops. Fuck.
Lyvia whips around, standing up straight and opening her mouth to provide some excuse to who could only be the guard captain, his arms crossed and brow drawn into a deep frown. But what could she even say? What good excuse could there be for her to be in the captain's private quarters? As she flounders, the guard unfolds his arms and draws a set of shackles from his belt.
"Alright, you can think about your excuses from your cell," he snaps. Lyvia pulls away on instinct as he snatches her wrist; that was a mistake. He yanks her arm hard, twisting it behind her back and slamming her face down into the desk she'd just been digging through. She can't help her pained yelp as he twists both hands behind her and shackles them together, tightly. She feels him patting her arms before he pulls up her sleeve and takes her lockpick.
"Hey, that's mine!" she protests.
"As if I'm going to let a thief keep a pick," he huffs something adjacent to a laugh, continuing his patdown to her embarrassment, running hands over her torso, legs, and waist, though to his credit he did not linger. He relieves her of her dagger as well, then pulls her upright, dragging her over to the access hatch. For a moment, she thinks he's going to just throw her down with no way to catch herself, but then he calls for another guard and, between the two of them, they get her mostly unharmed to the base of the ladder. The captain takes her upper arm in a tight grip and drags her out of the barracks, her shoulders twisting to try in vain to take some of the pressure off. A few guards follow on their heels as he escorts her none-too-gently to the nearby prison.
"I have a would-be thief for you!" he announces to the guard behind the desk, shoving her forward; Lyvia stumbles, almost falls, but manages to get her feet under her just short of the desk. The man eyes her skeptically, then turns to his paperwork.
"Your name?"
"…Lyvia. Summanus." If anyone ever asks her knees were not shaking, thank you very much. As he's scribbling down what he needs, she glances over her shoulder to see the captain leaving. She feels…trepidacious. As upset as she is that she's been caught, he could have done much worse than taking her pick and dragging her to jail. She's not sure she can trust the guards left to be similarly decent.
"Alright, you'll be provided clothing, you are to leave your belongings here, where they will be returned to you upon your release," the guard behind the desk sounds bored, still scribbling at his paper. Hands take her wrists and she feels the chains removed from her shackles, though the cuffs remain. The one that freed her hands walks away for a moment, then returns with some simple fabric garments, a shirt and pair of pants. She takes them gingerly, but for a moment doesn't move.
"Could I get some privacy?" she asks, but the guard just folds his arm, his partner not-so-subtly resting his hand on the sword at his belt. Lyvia swallows hard; the only other people she'd ever changed clothes around were her parents, and even then, usually with a wall or folding screen between them. But she doesn't have much of a choice; she has a feeling that if she takes too long her clothing will be changed for her. So she changes as quickly as she can, and luckily no one is cruel enough to insist on her removing underwear too. She quickly folds her clothing, wrapping her few belongings she had on her in them before placing them on the jail guard's desk. The two guards behind her seize her by the arms, though they thankfully don't rebind her cuffs, and walk her down to the cells, choosing one at random and shoving her in. Lyvia catches herself against the rough stones along the wall as she hears the metal of the door clang shut.
The cell is dark, dingy, dirty. Lyvia wanders further in; there's a small cot to sleep on, a table with what seems to be a dusty water jug and cup, and a tiny wooden stool. Dangling from the ceiling is a set of four chains-and-cuffs, spaced just far enough that, if the guard wanted, a person could be suspended by just their wrists and ankles. She swallows hard at the thought, remembering the discomfort of her arm being twisted behind her and imagining how much worse this would be. She shies away from the chains, moving towards the cot.
"Oh, what do we have here? An Imperial in the Imperial prison!" a voice comes from across the hall, and Lyvia jumps, spinning around to see a dark elf leering at her from behind another set of bars. "What's it like to know your kinsmen think of you like human trash?"
"Shut up," she mumbles, turning back to her cot. He continues anyway.
"I bet the guards give you special treatment before the end!" he taunts, and despite her best efforts to block him out, she feels a sense of dread. The end? The wouldn't execute her for breaking and entering, surely? "Imperial criminals like you give the Empire a bad name, so it's better if you just disappear." His hisses the last word with pure malice, and she scurries to her cot, not wanting to listen anymore; he's clearly just trying to upset her (and she'll not be admitting that it worked). She sits on the thin mattress, pressing her back to the wall, and pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and resting her forehead on her knees, ignoring the mocking laughter from across the hall.
Surely, surely, she'll only be here a few days.