She is cloaked in shadow, and her dark eyes take in the streets as the sun scrabbles in vain to keep its light fingers upon the stone. She breathes deeply, slowly, focused, her gaze darting. Grime coats her in a thin layer, and her dark hair is licked with it, moved by the gentlest breeze over her neck. She takes in every corner, makes note of every point which is unknown. There is a breath behind her, familiar, from one about to speak, and she raises a dusty hand to silence them. She crouches a fraction, and hunched, peers a little further. For a few moments, there is stillness.
She nods.
Bare feet patter across the stone; some slink, others crawl. They reach the door. She raises a hand and they bend to their knees; she turns and scans about her, and with renewed security, reaches into a pouch at her belt and grasps at the tools of her trade. In stilted silence, she works the lock, an innate tenderness in her treatment of it.
Clunk.
The door is opened, and they slip into the gloom. With vultures' eyes, they search, and with dirtied fingers, thin and rough, they claw at silks, coin, gold, the lustre stark against their imperfection.
Sight is subjective, for they do not claw at such in their own minds - She snatches at her next meal, the beer with which she'll slake her thirst, passage to the rivers to wash the grime temporarily from her skin and soothe the bites of bug and vermin. She snatches at hope, the blessings of Waukeen in her radiance... the finer points lack importance. She does not care for the origin of the things she takes, their makers and those behind their emblems, seeing only wealth.
Her gaze darts once again, and the pouches at her belt complain at their burden, as she counts the youthful faces before her.
One, two, three, four...
She blinks, speaking in a hushed, low voice.
"Where's Mouse?" Four youthful faces shake from side to side in unison, and she swears under her breath. She beckons one of them, a human boy with dusky skin and bright eyes, no older than fourteen, but looking younger in his smallness. She kneels, resting her hands on his shoulders.
"Crow, take Snake and Gnat home. I'll find Mouse and be right behind you."
Crow nods, and a thin, pale boy with sharp eyes, twelve years old, and a waif of a girl (pale, seven) follow him, pockets jingling lightly with fandars and tarans, barely audible, but comforting. She turns over her shoulder, adding,
"Be careful." Three nods later, she begins her search, quickly, quietly, scanning the deserted house for a whiff of the lad. There is no trace. A slightly pointed ear twitches, and she inhales sharply, holding the breath.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
There is movement on the stone outside, and she is seized with panic.
"Mouse?" She whispers, hoarse, the gloom becoming oppressive and far too near. There is a muffled sound. She cranes her neck.
"I'm here."
She breathes a sigh of relief and follows the sound, finds him. He is hunched, clinging a necklace, bright and beautiful, to his chest.
"Come on, we've got to get out, there's people near." Mouse stands, his eyes cold.
"Why should I? We found this place, finders-keepers. This is mine, and I won't share it with nobody." She glares at him, seeing herself in his eyes.
"No time to argue about this now, get moving. We've got to get back to Crow, Snake, Gnat, sort out who gets what."
"No. This is mine. I found it."
"Because we were together."
"I don't need you!" Mouse grits his teeth, whining like a child with a time-worn face. He is older, seventeen, and taut with the desire for independence on the cusp of manhood. "Any of you. Should be living for myself. If I share, I lose."
She opens her mouth to respond, and downstairs, the door opens. They freeze. After a long second, Mouse leaps forward, but she grabs him, defter, and snatches the trophy from his grasp. He scowls, daring to spend a few moments glaring icily, before darting to the window and escaping, swift, landing with little noise on the stone. She goes to follow in like manner, and he scurries into the shadows.
She clambers forward, and feels a hand tight about one arm, then the other. She grunts, kicks, and turns, meeting with a fiery gaze. It is a stern face, proud, noble, belonging to a man of some height, his ears holding rings of gold.
"I come home to find a rat, lining its pockets with the fruit of my labours." He holds her tighter, in a vice grip, and she winces. "Not worth sentencing." He throws her down and strikes her, hard. She is left reeling as he beats her, scrabbling to stand, failing. He grabs her neck and she gasps for breath, and he drives a thick pin into her ear, followed swiftly by a lump of ore, a little too large for the gap. She writhes, kicking as she grits her teeth against the pain. Ore, it is the greatest insult - criminal, filth, scum, it means. She shakes, sweating, as he stops. She stares at him.
"I-"
"Get out."
She nods, leaving quickly, dropping the necklace to the floor. Her heart races, her eyes are wide and fearful as she scrabbles through the now dark streets, follows the paths of guttering, scurries below. She finds her fellow guttersnipes, and her eyes gleam for the briefest of moments with the promise of tears, but this is frozen by a cool glare.
Mouse turns away, and she says nothing. This is a cruel world, and they are driven to a life of crime, living forever on the borders and fringes, outsiders looking into prosperity. She knows they will eat, thanks to what they have claimed. She keeps her fears to herself. She is marked with a warning. If caught again, there will be no room for such mercies.
She looks to her pitiful flock, expected to weather this life, and her heart aches a little.
"We won't go to that district again, not for a few months. Got to lie low. Be careful."
She watches the small faces that nod in the quiet, sees herself in their expressions and trembles involuntarily. She closes her eyes, sees that stern face.
Rat.