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What has it got in its pocketses?

Tags: Thomas,  Brev

Short Summary: Just who's the thief and who's the victim tonight? Opinions differ ...
Date (real-life): 2010-10-14
Scene Location: Breeguard Headquarters
Date (in-game): March 3051
Time of Day: Night
Main Room

An old and battered desk sits facing the door. There is a wooden chair behind it, and two in front - all as aged as the desk. Two windows face the street, letting in both light and air (when the shutters are open), and a long rough bench runs along the wall to the left. At some point in the distant past, the walls had been white-washed cleanly, but now they are dingy and faded. Scarred wooden planks make up the floor and the ceiling is tall, and high enough to be out of range of people's heads. Torches hang in metal brackets, no doubt made by the town's metalsmiths. At the back of the room, just to the side of the desk (guarded by it, one might think, by its proximity) is a heavy wooden door.

Obvious exits:
Street and Door to the Hallway

================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Thu Oct 14 14:32:37 2010
Bree time: Nighttime <00:37:51> on Trewsday of Spring - March 6,1451
Moon Phase: First Quarter Moon

Breelands Weather                               
The nighttime spring air is cool but pleasant around you. A misty rain comes down from the night sky.

Ah, nighttime, and the village of Bree sleeps soundly, secure in the knowledge that criminals, bandits and general roustabouts are locked up, courtesy of the ever-vigilant Breeguard. That is, rather, the cells of the guard headquarters are empty, and its main room devoid of either Ernie--no doubt off to get a nip of some food and ale--or trainee Thomas, who is ....somewhere. Perhaps. Wherever 14 year old boys go on a sudden whim on a spring night in March.

The southerner Brev has, to all intents and purposes, been cooperating with the Breeguard. Sometimes. Work on the barn has continued apace, except for that incident of the spat over beam strengths ... when the town carpenter, once consulted, grudgingly assented with the southerner. Who knew it, the foreigner would be good for something other than local layabout after all. Evenings, after mucking out the stables, he has dutifully returned to the tiny, sparse cell where he is to sleep. Mostly.

Tonight, apparently, was not mostly. Keeping to the shadows - years of habit die hard - Brev sidles up to the door of the Breeguard Headquarters and lays a careful hand to the latch.

Crickets might as well chirp, though it be the wrong season. Nothing. Noone. Not even a fly is buzzing in the place, most likely having drowned in the remnants of Ernie's cold "remedies." Still no sign of Thomas.

Brev lifts an eyebrow as the door swings wide; clearly he'd been half-expecting the place to be locked up. He steps inside, pauses and looks around.

A second brow arches up to join the first as he notes the place's seeming emptiness. Not a sign of life, unless one counts the fly lying with its legs upended in the near-empty glass sitting on the battered wooden desk. Brev's focus sharpens on that desk, and he lets out a thoughtful 'hmm'. Nonchalantly he strolls over to it, stopping to glance into the cells on his way.

Outside...way outside...someone is approaching. It's Thomas, but he's not close enough to be heard yet.

Brev is no longer limping, much. Time is healing the hitherto unexplained injury to his leg, but he still wears the bandages and walks a little stiffly. A loosening of the belt and a quick wriggle and that is partly explained, for he draws out a long, slender dagger that had been tucked into the bandaging. This in hand, he approaches the desk and gently, with an ease that speaks of practise, inserts the tip of said dagger in the keyhole of the topmost drawer.

As he works, his gaze keeps flicking round the room, scanning each shadow, for he's the naturally cautious type. Of course, he cannot see outside, and the thick walls of the Breeguard building do not transmit sound well.

In walks Thomas, fussing with the belt that holds his trousers, if that is any clue to where he has been off to. "Brev," he says casually--after all, the man has been sleeping in the cell here. Then he tilts his head, curious, even suspicious. "Brev?"

Damn. A scowl of annoyance flits across Brev's features as, just as he has finally heard the soft click of the desk-drawer's lock, in walks Thomas and he is caught red-handed as it were.

"Hmm?" he manages in return, sounding disgruntled. "Got any water? This glass is empty." He thrusts Ernie's used glass out toward the boy, wrinkling his nose and adding drily, "Sides, I suspect it wouldn't have been water in it anyway. Stinks." He conceals his dagger-holding hand beneath the level of the desk.

Not to be deterred--with Ernie not around, the boy shows a bit more good sense...sometimes...Thomas points to Brev, points to the desk. "What are you doing there? And what are you hiding?"

"Looking for a drink?" Brev suggests flippantly, still holding out the glass. And decides to take the other question literally. "Oh, I'm hiding lots of things, lad. None of which you want to know - what? You think I've murdered yon wee rabbit-sized fellow they call Nob again and buried his corpse?" He chuckles.

"Not supposed to be in here," Thomas snorts, defiant. "Supposed to be in ya cell. If you want water, go get yourself some, but not with Ernie's glass. And you were by that desk there. Doing -something-" he sticks to his story.

Brev snorts. "And how in Kiern's name am I supposed to get in /there/ if I don't come in /here/?" he retorts. "Turn myself into a bat and fly in through the window?" Whilst talking he leans against the desk and as unobrusively as he can slides the slender lock-pick dagger down into a boot; it can be returned to its other hiding place later. Alas, the other dagger sitting in Ernie's desk drawer will have to wait.

"Come to that, how come you weren't there to welcome me back?"

"A man's gotta take care of business!" Thomas says defensively, "an' Ernie took a late dinner...or something." He walks further into the room, taking his normal seat at his desk and still eyeing Brev. "Well...get going. Nothing for you to do out here. You're just here to sleep!"

Brev smirks at Thomas. "Really? And there I thought I was here to work. Thanks for sorting that out, guess I'll take a long lie tomorrow ..." Tipping the fly out of the near-empty glass and on to the desk, he meanders slowly toward the door - wouldn't do to spike a foot now, would it? Daggers are sharp.

"/Did/ you have any water, or shall I take a midnight stroll to the well?" he tosses back over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.

Ernie's desk looks untouched save for its tiny new (deceased!) occupant, but should Thomas try the top drawer he will find it open.

"I mean here. In the headquarters. You sleep here. You work out of here...Oh, never mind."

Disgusted, Thomas gets to his feet again to wander over to Ernie's desk, giving it a quick once-over as Brev meanders away. He's about to turn away when he tugs at teh desk drawer. It opens, and there is the dagger. "Hey!!"

Brev turns in mid-stride. "Hmm?" he enquires, blinking innocently at the zealous trainee.

"Hey!" Thomas repeats. He turns toward Brev, and there is a dagger in his hands. "You were after this, I bet!"

"That's /my/ dagger!" Brev protests at the sight of his coveted weapon in Thomas' hands, then smirks. "Oh, you're going to give it back? About time, too. Thanks." He limps back a couple of steps and holds out his hand - but there is a wariness in his eyes that was not there a few moments before, probably at the sight of a drawn weapon, and he's poised on the balls of his feet as though ready for fight or flight.

"You were trying to steal it!" Thomas says, quickly stepping back and away and still holding the dagger. "I'm not giving it back. It's...it's in custardy!"

Brev scowls, but does not try to grab. Perhaps he doesn't fancy getting his hand sliced open. "Lets get one thing straight," he says carefully. "There's only one person stealing here, and that's you. That dagger is my property, wrongfully impounded." He lets a note of challenge creep into his voice. "Kiern knows why. If I wanted to murder someone, could as easy split their head with an axe or hack them up with a saw. Fortunately for the town of Bree, I don't. So," there is an edge to his voice now, "Hand it back before you regret it."

"AND now you're threatening me!" Thomas says, gesturing with the knife as he speaks to emphasize his point. "This knife was...was in the custardy of the Breeguard," he repeats. "And I ain't releasing it until Ernie says so. Besides, at the least you gotta sign forms for it. You were arrested and now you're serving your sentence. You don't get no knife till it's over. Or Ernie says so."

Brev regards Thomas levelly. "Threatening? Really? /I'm/ not the one waving a drawn weapon at someone." He pauses a heartbeat or so to let that sink in. "How do you think that would look if one of your superiors walked in? I'd be sure to mention your earlier absence, too. That I've noticed you've not been very... reliable. They might decide to cut their losses and look for a steadier lad as 'prentice."

He shifts position irritably. "Fine, I'll sign your forms. Just give me back the damn knife. Breeguard's got plenty of things to stir their custard with."

"I'm supposed to have a weapon!" Thomas answers. "I'm a trainee! You...you're a prisoner. And I'm not given this here knife back til Ernie says I should and I fill out the paperwork. I'll start writing it up now, but you just get back on in your cell." He gestures with the knife. "You get on in that cell there and I'll write up the stuff." And then he gropes around on Ernie's desk, coming up with the cell keys, too and then gesturing with the knife again. "Go on!"

Brev snorts to that. "Trainees need to learn not to cut themselves before they play with their betters' toys. Put the knife down, laddie. I'm hardly that much of a threat." His tone is dry but there is ire in his amber eyes.

He lets his feet carry him toward the cells, but at the jangling of the keys his lips twitch. "I wouldn't bother with those keys if I were you. Lock seems to be stuck. Like to stay that way, too. If I wanted to leave, you'd not be able to hold me. Best you remember it. But ..." he shrugs, "happens I like patching things up."

"You do that, Brev," Thomas says in scornful retort. He sets the keys down, though, then heads back to his desk to start the tedious--and sleep-inducing--process of writing a report. The dagger, well that winds up in his own pocket.

Once inside the cell, Brev lowers himself onto the understuffed straw pallet and listens. At the scratching of the quill he grunts, and sets quickly about the business of putting his 'spare' dagger back into its hiding place, rubbing absently at a scratch along his shin. Nasty things, daggers.

Date added: 2010-10-18 16:25:48    Hits: 62
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