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((16 Solace, 9:35; Late night, Market District; Linette Botten ))
The King was wed and – hopefully by now – relieved of his purported virginity. Minstrels in some of the seedier taverns of the Market District were immortalizing that particular event in any number of bawdy songs.
Entertaining enough for a bit, but the lure of drunken rich people had been a far stronger draw, so Celeste had abandoned the Musty Mug and the Plastered Bastard to head toward the Gnawed Noble and the other upscale taverns near the Palace District.
The pickings had been every bit as good as she had hoped for: the celebrants who were still out and about were deep in their cups. She could have robbed more than a few of them both blind and pantless, but she followed her standard custom of only lifting a bit from each pouch that she dipped into … except for one asshole that she watched swiping the tips off of tables as he left the tavern. It was almost too easy to slip up beside him and tip the Mickey Finn into the mug he carried, then slide an arm around his waist to help him to the ground when his knees started to buckle. She left him leaning against a wall, snoring peacefully, with the contents of his belt pouch replaced with a healthy deposit from a pile of horse shit that some noble steed had thoughtfully left behind.
Back in the tavern, she reversed the process, slipping coins into pockets and apron pouches until she had replaced what he had stolen from the servers several times over, still leaving a tidy sum for her.
Back out into the night, her purse nicely weighty (and tucked away in her vest to keep any unscrupulous souls from further transference of ownership), she judged it time to switch from petty larceny to grand hilarity. The pockets of her vest were stocked with the full range of pranking products, from itching and sneezing powder to fart potion, and some of these prigs, even drunk, could do with a bit of taking down.
Movement from the corner of her eye and sounds that did not match the setting caught her attention: coarse laughter and muffled cries coming from the direction of three well dressed youths dragging a petite form toward the shadows of an alley.
From all reports, King Alistair would not look kindly on such actions, particularly at his wedding celebration. As he was busy right now, Celeste would deal with it; he could write her a thank you note later. Slipping into the shadows – a feat made easier by the fact that most of the folk around her were already halfway to blind – she moved swiftly toward the mouth of the alley, fingers dipping into her pocket to close around one of Dax's smoke grenades.
The King was wed and – hopefully by now – relieved of his purported virginity. Minstrels in some of the seedier taverns of the Market District were immortalizing that particular event in any number of bawdy songs.
Entertaining enough for a bit, but the lure of drunken rich people had been a far stronger draw, so Celeste had abandoned the Musty Mug and the Plastered Bastard to head toward the Gnawed Noble and the other upscale taverns near the Palace District.
The pickings had been every bit as good as she had hoped for: the celebrants who were still out and about were deep in their cups. She could have robbed more than a few of them both blind and pantless, but she followed her standard custom of only lifting a bit from each pouch that she dipped into … except for one asshole that she watched swiping the tips off of tables as he left the tavern. It was almost too easy to slip up beside him and tip the Mickey Finn into the mug he carried, then slide an arm around his waist to help him to the ground when his knees started to buckle. She left him leaning against a wall, snoring peacefully, with the contents of his belt pouch replaced with a healthy deposit from a pile of horse shit that some noble steed had thoughtfully left behind.
Back in the tavern, she reversed the process, slipping coins into pockets and apron pouches until she had replaced what he had stolen from the servers several times over, still leaving a tidy sum for her.
Back out into the night, her purse nicely weighty (and tucked away in her vest to keep any unscrupulous souls from further transference of ownership), she judged it time to switch from petty larceny to grand hilarity. The pockets of her vest were stocked with the full range of pranking products, from itching and sneezing powder to fart potion, and some of these prigs, even drunk, could do with a bit of taking down.
Movement from the corner of her eye and sounds that did not match the setting caught her attention: coarse laughter and muffled cries coming from the direction of three well dressed youths dragging a petite form toward the shadows of an alley.
From all reports, King Alistair would not look kindly on such actions, particularly at his wedding celebration. As he was busy right now, Celeste would deal with it; he could write her a thank you note later. Slipping into the shadows – a feat made easier by the fact that most of the folk around her were already halfway to blind – she moved swiftly toward the mouth of the alley, fingers dipping into her pocket to close around one of Dax's smoke grenades.
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