The Throne of the Gods

Orien

Orien was a thief. Oh, he had heard all the romanticisms; cat-burglar, rogue, highwayman, pick pocket, but they all lacked the nicety of the truth. He was a thief; he took that which did not belong to him. He liked the term, and he liked his occupation. He would pit his wits against those of his mark. He had yet to find a mark who was his better. He looked around Lassitor's camp and sneered at the lack wits that bandit had hired. Most of these bully-boys barely knew which end of the sword was the dangerous one.

Orien could smell a change on the wind and he would be getting out soon. This band of butchers was about to meet its end. He was all too certain that he would go with them if he was not gone when that end came. Off to the north was that town that Lassitor had set his sights on, Oak-something or other, Orien didn't care, he was going somewhere else, and with Lassitor's money. He had been casing Lassitor's “headquarters” for some time; it wasn't much of a test of his skills.

Lassitor fancied himself a noble and set up his camp as if it was a court. He had an old inn that he used as his throne room. The common room had been cleared and an ornate chair he had pilfered from somewhere sat upon a low table covered in bear furs. He had a bully boy he called a “Chancellor”, who called everyone in to hear his announcements, and an old effete bookkeeper he called his “Sage”, whose job appeared to be the giving of cryptic advice. Lassitor's most trusted men stayed in rooms in the inn while the rest of the rabble stayed outside, in tents if they were lucky. Orien was smart; he had a nice safe spot in the stable's hayloft that no one knew about.

Lassitor's money was in the best room the inn had to offer, in a large strongbox at the end of his bed. It had the best lock that money could buy. Orien should know, he had bought it on a trip to that town, Oak-whatever. Of course, he had been thoroughly searched upon returning to make sure he didn't have a spare key, like they would have found it. Bully-boys have no idea what thieves can do. He had swallowed the key. He spent a few days going through his own waste but now he had a key and no one was the wiser. Lassitor wouldn't even remember the man who bought the lock. He was just one person in a gang of over two hundred. Lassitor had no idea that he was even a mark.

Orien knew the watch schedule. He knew when Lassitor and his cronies, the Chancellor and the Sage, would be occupied. Everything was set in motion, and nothing could stop him now. It was just a matter of moving the right pieces on the board at the right times. He smiled to himself; it was going to be a very good, and very profitable game.