The Plucky Paws Guild Issue #3
Emlynn Jones
Sylvan Fastfingers sat quietly in the corner of The Dancing Ferret, concealed by the shadows created by the blazing hearth. She watched as the bard picked his sad song, deftly handling an unruly member of the audience. The offended raccoon not only had bad tastes in music, he was also a poor card player. Mystie, his slight raccoon opponent, was robbing him blind. She was getting more and more brazen in her cheating, and it was shocking her victim had not caught her yet. Sylvan would have to reprimand the young thief later. The guild approved of Mystie swindling those foolish enough to play cards in random Inns, but they did not approve of their members getting caught, and the card shark was flirting with just that. If she continued in this vein, a future mark would spot the cheating, and Mystie would be lucky to escape with her fur intact.
But that was a problem for another time; now was a time for triumph! Sylvan savored her impending victory. True, Melodus had not requested her for his new endeavor, but she knew he would accept her as a replacement. She had intercepted the letter meant for the retired cat thief, Whisper Tatterfur. Yes, Whisper had been a world-class thief in her day, but she had been retired for over a decade. Undoubtedly, her skills would be rusty by now, and she would be in poor form compared to her glory days. Sylvan, on the other hand, was at her prime. She knew she was a match for Tatterfur in her prime!
She deftly danced a coin across her knuckles, her quick paws making the coin disappear and then reappear in her other hand, only to repeat its join in reverse across her hand. She did it without thinking, the coin an old and dull thing that would not reflect the light of the fire and give away the silent watcher. It was an old affectation taught to her by her master years ago. She smiled as she thought of the elder ferret, Quilwick the Nimble. Now, there was a thief that had never retired and rusted away in a life of pointless leisure. A shame he had been caught, but that was part of the game he had always taught his young racoon pupil.
“If there weren’t real stakes at risk, young fastfingers,” he winked at Sylvan, “where would the fun be?” She did miss the old rascal!
Still, despite her youthful confidence, she had known her claims to be better than the venerable thief Tatterfur would need proof. And so she had embarked on a daring heist to prove without a doubt to the bard that she had the mettle needed to join his quest. She had no idea the exact nature of this adventure, but if Melodus thought it would lure the elder thief from retirement, then it was clearly worthy of Sylvan’s time!
And so, with only a week to prepare and carry out her plan, she had boldly embarked on her own daring adventure! And she had come off triumphant! The risks had just made her victory that much greater! When the woodlands heard of this heist! Tatterfur who? There was a new thief to reckon with! The proof sat comfortably in her inner pouch, the leather bag kept safe under the cowl of her hood. She again imagined the shock and surprise of the minstrel when he saw what Sylvan had done. A warm feeling of satisfaction radiated from her heart as she savoured the coming moment.
She watched as Melodus finished his lament with a dramatic flourish, greeting the large raccoon who had just entered the Inn. Keeping to the shadows, she quietly pawed over, remaining unseen but within range to hear the conversation. To a casual observer, she would appear out of earshot. But then, no casual person observed Sylvan Fastfingers; no one ever noticed her unless she wanted them to. Her surprisingly sensitive ears picked up the conversation just fine, and she listened with curiosity as Melodus greeted his guest.
So this was Reginald the Brightblade, eh? The denizens of the Crooked Hallow slums had heard of him. The young urchins would call out his name as they played hero. He certainly was large enough to justify the legend. And he certainly ate enough! Sylvan looked on in disgust as the hearty warrior polished off more food than most poor creatures in the slums would get in a week. It appeared hero work had its merits!
She shrank back a little in the shadows when the priest arrived. Not that Sylvan resented the priest; she’d known good priests, and she’d known her share of corrupt priests. She’d been around long enough to figure they were just like anyone else, some good and sincere in their faith, others trying to get a quick coin. This one here reeked of sincerity.
No, it was just the preaching she couldn’t stand. Good or bad, they would always lecture her on the error of her ways and how the path of thieving would only lead to sorrow. Even the charlatans who’d sell a foul concoction as a healing aid, stealing from the poor, would lecture her about her wicked ways. Hypocrites!
Mind you, this young priest looked like the “do as I do” kind, not the “do as I say” type. Still, who wanted to hear it either way? Thieving was what she was good at, and she was self-reflective enough to know it had served her well, saving her from much less desirable paths.
Her stomach growled in hunger, but she stifled the pangs, knowing that food would come later. For now, she needed to wait. If her scouting had been successful, there was one more member yet to arrive. She waited and listened to the raccoons’ casual banter.
Half an hour later, the door opened and a sweaty, out-of-breath raccoon rushed into the room. She blinked in surprise. His dress screamed wizard, but he appeared far too young. Almost a kid, several years Sylvan’s junior. He looked like a child playing at sorcery, almost tripping over his staff in his haste to get to the table. Well, if this was the caliber Melodus was looking for, she may have gone over the top with her theft.
As the young would-be wizard introduced himself, Sylvan crept up like a whisper, crouching behind the bard waiting for the right moment.
“But we are not yet complete, there is one other who must arrive! Then we shall begin!” the suave raccoon was saying.
“But I am already here,” she emerged from the shadow as if by magic. The result was very satisfying. The bard lept at least a foot from his chair, striking a terrible note on his lute. The young mage proved he was not just a pretender by beginning an encantation of some sort. Sylvan could feel the magical energies coalescing around him before he stopped the spell with a look of chagrin. The giant warrior stood with a start, his chair falling behind him, his sword half drawn from his scabbard before he caught himself. Only the priest showed no reaction. Was that a smile on his face? Had he spotted her? Impossible!
“Who the sour fur are you!” he bellowed, distracting the thief from her line of thought. Sylvan smiled, well used to such language, having grown up in the slums of Crooked Hollow after all.
“Me?” she asked in mock surprise. “The great bard Melodus Wyndsong does not know it yet, but I am the fifth member of your party. May I introduce myself? I am Sylvan Fastfingers.” She gave a sarcastic bow, mocking the bow the wizard had performed just moments before.
“Sylvan what?” Melodus seemed completely perplexed by the turn of events. Well, that was quite satisfying; just wait till he saw her “resume”. “I’m sorry, noble rogue, but you are quite wrong. I did not invite you to tonight’s meeting.”
“Oh yes,” Fastfingers returned, her face a mask of calm that perhaps her stomach did not quite share. “You sent for the great rogue, Whisper Tatterfur. I’m afraid she is not coming. It seems the message never quite reached her. But worry not, I assure you I am a better candidate for your quest.”
Melodus's usual smooth charm was quite forgotten by now. Exasperated, he asked, “And why do you think your services would be better than the legendary Tatterfur? What daring deeds have you done to eclipse her fame? Why should I listen to you for a second longer? One word from me, and Celdric will have you ejected from this establishment!”
“Oh, that would be a shame,” Sylvan replied with mock concern, her paw reaching into the bag beneath her cowl. “Then I’d never have the chance to return this to you!” With a flourish, she pulled the small object from her bag, raising it in the air for all to see.
“Well, sing me off-key,” Melodus cursed.