Sae’Shiir

Crimson drops fell to the floor, audible in the silence of the torchlit room. The fresh diagonal slices on Baeth Sae’Shiir’s cheeks stung, but the injury to his pride was far worse. He had been caught. 

After all these years going unnoticed, his luck had finally run out. As he stared at the blood on the floor, watching it spread across the wet stone, he went over the plan in his head. It was meticulous, from the first step into Blackhold manor to the carriage exchange on 17th and Wallend. Every action executed with precision, every moment calculated to perfection.

The guard that stood before Baeth spat on the floor. He didn’t care for the intricacies of a well-planned heist. He only cared for the knife in his hand, which had done its work. The cuts on Baeth’s face marked the tan-skinned elf as a thief. The guard’s voice filled the damp cell, “I can’t imagine you’ll be doin’ any work ‘round here anytime soon. Or ever again, fer that matter.” 

Baeth paid no attention to the guard. Instead, he was fixated on what had transpired that night. His movement through the manor was undetected. Had he been seen, the guards would have pounced immediately. He had always been more than fair to the carriage drivers, and they knew nothing about him. He never injured anyone, left any traces, or kept any items at his home. Most importantly, the fence knew Baeth would never rat her out. And yet, Baeth could not say the same of her. She was cold, almost unreadable—great for doing business, terrible for building trust.  And there it was, the only flaw that could lead back to the now-marked thief. The Fence. Baeth clenched his fists, his eyes fixed on that cold floor. 

The guard cocked his head as he cleaned his knife. “Would’a been better for the both of us if you just told me what I wanted to know, but I guess it can’t be helped. I’m sure the detective can get you to talk.” The guard sheathed the knife and tucked it back behind his amber cape. The cell door locked, and Baeth was alone.

He finally took in his surroundings. Moonlight poured in through the bars on the cell window and onto the floor. Stone floor, stone walls, reinforced wooden door, and oddly enough, a wood ceiling. Floorboards. Slices of firelight streamed through the cracks, occasionally interrupted by a passing shadow. Activity above. More guards. Even though his head had been covered with a burlap sack on the way here, he knew where he was—his captors had no real intention of hiding it. Still, he had never seen inside the Capital Prison before. He must be in a temporary holding cell, because this wasn’t the kind of place you’d put permanent residents.

Baeth lifted a hand to his cheek. The skin around the cuts was tender. The wounds would heal, but the scars would never disappear. He’d be marked not just as a thief but as a failed thief. Credibility in his line of work had a one-strike policy. He’d have to worry about that later. For now, he needed to figure his way out of this cell, this city, and this mess. 

The stairs Baeth had been thrown down upon his arrival groaned under heavy boots. He had precious little time to hide and only energy enough for one trick. He ran his thumbs through the blood on his cheeks and traced red lines across his forehead and the backs of his hands. He muttered words in a nearly inaudible whisper and crouched into the corner of the cell. By the time a massive, bald man approached, Baeth was silent. The man peered into the cell, furrowing his brow as he slowly unlocked the door. Baeth knew the trick took—he always felt a sickly cold when he used magic. It wasn’t perfect and gods knew it didn’t make him invisible. He was still there, unconcealed in the corner. 

The bald man entered the cell, leaving the door barely cracked behind him. He looked through the lingering moonlight into each corner except the one that Baeth was in. Aversion. A great boon to any master thief. Baeth crept silently from the corner. He could feel the cold settling deeper into his fingers and toes as he reached the door. The other man looked around, his eyes only landing where Baeth had just been.

Baeth slipped behind the man, finally reaching the edge of the open door before a meaty fist slammed it shut. Baeth nearly jumped at the stranger’s speed, but he was more surprised that the man’s piercing blue eyes were staring nearly straight down at him. “Baeth Sae’Shiir,” the man rasped, his eyes fixed on the wall to the right of the thief’s head. “Ash brown hair, tan skin, grey eyes,” he paused, his mouth slowly curling into a wicked grin, “and a scar on each cheek.” Baeth began to stand and face the brute, but another fist slammed square into his face. The cuts on his cheeks split further as he saw red and then black. The floor seemed to falter below him as he fell and lost consciousness.