Thursday, August 13, 2009

The Manor-Haus of the Inclined Land

The Thief stalks through the shadows, his eyes narrowed. His target: a rich baron's manor, currently away on holiday. He's sure to have left traps and guards - but then, would it be any challenge otherwise?

The Thief's scoped the joint beforehand, of course. It's a big place, four stories, very modern. Entrances on the fourth, third, and first floor; the former two are big, fancy, visible, but the first floor entrance is in the back, through the garden. (Ugly thing, that. Barren, dead. The Baron apparently isn't much for horticulture.) The first floor entrance, then, will be where the Thief makes his entrance.

There's a guard there, unsuprisingly, but he's neglecting his duties with the Baron away - bottle at his side, leaning slowly back and forth as he stares into the distance. It's a moment's work to creep up behind him, give him a sharp blow from the blackjack, and then lift the keys from his belt as he falls. With that, the Thief is in.

The first floor holds the servants' quarters; the Thief passes through them unnoticed, stalking his way through the shadows. Nothing there to take, but the second floor is more profitable; the Baron's sons share a room there, and, picking the lock, the Thief finds a wide selection of loot ready for the taking. Golden bracelets, gilded daggers... the fence will give an excellent price for them. Taken and done.

Little else on the second floor, saving a few expensive sets of game pieces, and the third floor is quiet, a lounging area, empty with the Baron's family gone. The Thief becomes impatient, careless; and as he climbs the stairs to the fourth floor, he bumps straight into a guard.

The guard staggers back, startled. His eyes focus. "STOP!" he bellows, going for the weapon at his belt. "THIEF!"

The Thief has no intent of obeying. Quickly, he draws a bow from his back, nocking and firing a rope arrow into the wooden ceiling (even as he backpedals away from the enraged guardsman.) Suddenly, he reverses course, smashing past the guardsman and catching hold of the rope arrow, shimmying upwards and swinging forwards. Through the door he goes, and off, running, even as the two bewildered guards at the door watch. "STOP HIM!" the first guardsman shouts, charging outside - but it is too late. The Thief is gone.

READERS: Rate this story! Is it the
best prose ever, or the
most excellent prose ever?

YOU decide!

Vote today!

1 comment:

Calvacadeofcats said...

what a savage beast ful of hot young blood