Wanted
The Thief known as "the Squirrel"
Tall, dark hair, bears a scar on the left side of his jaw. Known to wear a Hood and Cloak, black in Color.
Crimes: Petty thievery, Breaking and Entering, Pickpocketing, Fraud, Passing False Coin, Bribery, Criminal Trespass, Extortion, Breaking Curfew, Intimidation, Public Intoxication, Public Humiliation of the Sergeant-at-arms' daughter
Any persons giving Information leading to the Arrest and Capture of this Individual will be handsomely rewarded.

The hooded man who stood in front of the notice board's mouth turned up slightly at the last charge. Public Humiliation of the Sergeant-at-arms' daughter my foot, he thought to himself. It wasn't his fault that she frequented taverns and, while inebriated, was convinced to sing a slightly questionable song about the Steward of Gondor. It also wasn't his fault that her voice was akin to that of a bull during mating season. Furthermore, it wasn't his fault that she was subsequently laughed out of the tavern by every single one of its customers.

And "the Squirrel?" Who came up with that? Certainly not him. He would much prefer a name like "the hawk", or "the wolf", or something similarly sinister. I suppose I'll have to work on that one, he thought with a grimace.

He quickly tore the notice down and unceremoniously stuffed it into the bag at his side. At least this one didn't have a poorly drawn picture of him on it. The last one of those he had seen made him look like a cross between an orc and some sort of deformed infant. And he knew for a fact he didn't look that bad.

His worn boots landed silently on the pavestones, warning no-one of his passage. It was late; Far too late for decent folk to be about. The guards would be suspicious instantly if they saw him... But they wouldn't see him. He knew their patrols by heart, and they seldom strayed from their assigned posts.

The light of the full moon splashed down its watery white-silver glow onto the city, illuminating the white-washed walls and streets. Cair Sirion was a beautiful city, Dalen thought as he took a moment to admire the scenery. Situated on the northern border of Gondor, it was the main hub of commerce between Rohan, Gondor, and the far-northern realms of Dale and Erebor. Pine-speckled forest covered the land to the north, and the mighty waters of the Anduin brought tales of the mystical elven realms to the north with them. To the east lay the foothills of Emyn Muil, and further yet the notorious Dead Marshes. Dalen had heard tales of that mire, where the dead were said to never fade away. To the west, the Entwash wound its way to meet its bigger sister, and part of it even flowed through the center of the city proper. South was the rest of Gondor, and somewhere in the distance, Minas Tirith stood proud guard over the realm. Dalen had been there once, long ago. He had never seen a city more majestic.

Unfortunately, he was wanted there too.

It seemed that the list of places he could go without fearing for his life was growing shorter and shorter. Here, at least, he could remain hidden. Being that Cair Sirion was a trading city, there was a large underworld element as well as legitimate traders. There were safe places for all manner of unsavory individuals here.

It was one of these fine establishments that Dalen found himself in front of that night. The sign swinging over the door read "The Blue Bull" and was decorated with a stylized bull rearing on its hind legs over the name. At first glance, it was little more than one of many taverns in the city. But for those who knew it was an excellent place to find work that one might deem dishonest.

Dalen put a hand on the door, casting a furtive glance down the street to make sure he wasn't being watched. When he knew it was safe he pushed it open and was immediately assailed by the strong smell of alcohol and sweat. The bar was packed with customers, but his customary corner table was currently unoccupied. Two burly men dressed in stonemasons' garb gave him a disapproving glance as he made his way over to it, then resumed what seemed to be a heated discussion.

With a sigh of relief, Dalen collapsed into his seat. He had been on his feet all day, and it was a liberating feeling to finally be off them. As he propped his feet up on the chair opposite him, he cast a reproachful glance at his boots. They were caked with mud and the ends of them were worn almost entirely through. He wiggled his toe and watched it move under what remained. New boots were a luxury that he couldn't afford... At least, not right now. Work was scarce. The work he wanted anyway. There seemed to be a demand for armed thugs, but alas, an armed thug he was not. He had some standards, after all.

He was so lost in thought that he almost didn't notice the strange man pull up a chair and take a seat at his table. He snapped out of his trance, raising an eyebrow at the newcomer.

"...Can I help you?" Dalen asked, letting a tone of disinterest seep into his voice. In reality, he was quite curious. The man was overweight and dressed in the garb of a nobleman of some sort. A dark, well-groomed mustache framed his upper lip, and a small patch of hair the same color sat just under his mouth. Laugh lines framed small, inquisitive brown eyes that reminded Dalen of a mouse... Or maybe a rat. Either way, he decided that he did not like the man.

"You are 'the squirrel', yes?" The man said. His accent was unusual, but his grasp of the Common Tongue was such that Dalen could understand him easily. He gave the man an agonized expression.

"Could you perhaps not call me that?" He said, voice thick with disapproval.

The large man laughed, his belly shaking with the effort. "Ah, then what should I call you? Dalen?"

Dalen frowned. "How do you know my name?"

"That is not important! But since I know it, I shall tell you mine. I am called Bashir. I am a merchant of... Illegally acquired goods."

"A fence," Dalen replied, pretending to study his dirty fingernails. "Why should I care? There are dozens of others who offer the same service."

The fat man leaned forward as far as his considerable girth would allow. "Ah, but I have a very specific item that I need. One that would require a man fleet of foot and nimble of hand. A job for the most renowned thief in Gondor."

Dalen perked up at this. Perhaps he would find work after all. And he didn't mind the compliment, either. Not at all.

He too leaned forward, lowering his voice as he gave a cautionary glance around. Nobody seemed to be paying attention. "And what, pray tell, would this item be?"

"A trinket really. Nothing more than an heirloom. But one that a certain buyer of mine would pay a pretty penny for."

"What's stopping me from cutting out the middleman and selling it to this buyer of yours directly?" Dalen asked.

"Well for one, you do not know him. Further, he lives far, far away, and travel expenses would make it not worth your time. Trust me, a deal with me is your best offer." The man smiled triumphantly, leaning back in his chair slightly.

"How much will this job fetch me?" Dalen inquired skeptically. The more he talked to this man, the more he began to get the uneasy feeling that he was being tricked somehow. And that was one thing he wouldn't settle for.

"How do a thousand gold pieces sound to you, hmm? Could buy yourself a new blade... Perhaps some new boots." He snorted derisively and nodded to Dalen's feet, the sickening smile still on his face.

Dalen immediately took his feet off the table, vainly attempting to hide the disheveled nature of his attire. "Ahem, well, I'd say that sounds... Reasonable. Depending on who it is you want me to steal from, of course." In reality, he'd probably do it even if it were the Steward of Gondor himself. A thousand gold pieces was nothing to laugh at. But he didn't want to sound too eager. To a seasoned thief, a job was a job, nothing more.

"The heirloom belongs to a wealthy merchant by the name of Belor. He lives in the more... Influential part of town. There will be guards, of course, but he has no personal security of his own. Just the town watch."

Dalen shrugged. "Easy enough. What's the heirloom exactly?"

Bashir produced a worn parchment from the folds of his robe, placing it solidly on the table. Dalen carefully unfolded it, revealing a drawing of what appeared to be a simple circlet of some sort, unadorned save a large stone in the center.

"What's it made of?" Dalen asked, studying the drawing carefully.

"Mostly silver. The stone is a ruby, a quite valuable one. My buyer was meant to inherit the circlet but it was stolen and ended up being sold to our dear Belor. He's ignorant of its worth, but he's taken a fancy to it and decided to keep it for himself." After giving Dalen a moment more to observe the parchment Bashir snatched it up and put it back in the voluminous folds of his robe. "So. Will you do it?"

Dalen gave the fat man a roguish grin. "Aye. Meet me here tomorrow morning. The circlet will be yours."

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Two hours later

Intelligent eyes peered through the window, catlike and observant. Dalen clung to the side of the house like a spider, a thin rope the only thing preventing him from falling to a messy, inglorious death. A thin rope that, if truth be told, he trusted more than any person. It had been a constant companion throughout the years, and without it, he likely would have been caught by authorities much sooner. Entering a house through a door or a first-floor window was a dangerous, risky proposition; but to enter through one of the upper floors was entirely unexpected.

Distant voices caused him to press himself against the wall, melting into the inky black shadows. Two guards rounded a corner below him, deep in conversation.

"...never seen one myself."

"Nasty creatures they are. Big ole fangs the size of yer knife, and tempers to boot."

"Fortunately they'd never attack a Gondorian city."

"Aye. Most of em's hidden up in the mountains far to the north, they are."

"All we got to deal with here is sneak thieves."

"Like that squirrel!" At this Dalen rolled his eyes. Couldn't they have found something better to call him?

"'E's just a petty thug, 'e is. Captain o' the guards just got nothin' better ta do."

"Wastes all his time with inspections. 'Clean your boots!' 'Make your bed neater! I'll be cursed before I..."

The voices faded off in the distance as the light from the torches they had been carrying disappeared. After a moment, Dalen returned to the window and resumed his scouting.

When he was certain nobody was inside, he reached into his bag and selected two delicate tools. After using them to fiddle with the lock for a moment it gave a satisfying click, and he was in.

Without a sound, he dropped from the windowsill to the floor, every one of his senses on the highest alert. One wrong move and he risked waking the occupants.

He crept forward, eyes roving to and fro. He had broken into enough homes to know that the valuables were rarely left in common rooms. The circlet was likely in the basement... Or perhaps the master bedroom. If it was the latter, he would have to be even more careful.

Oftentimes, he would steal things during the middle of the day, when nobody was home. It was usually safer, though he had less time to search in the day. The guards were more active then, and more people were outside, increasing the likelihood of someone interrupting his illegal activities. At night, though the occupants were likely home, he had the cover of darkness.

He came to the stairway and stopped for a moment, listening carefully. Dead silence.

He carefully set a foot on the first step, testing it to see if it creaked. Fortunately for him, it didn't make a sound. He slowly descended the stairs, head tilted slightly as he listened.

Creaaaaak!

His heart leapt to his throat and he quickly lifted his foot from the stair he had just stepped on. Sauron, he cursed inwardly. He stopped again and listened. Nothing.

With careful poise, he climbed onto the handrail and slid down it slowly, careful not to make the characteristic squeaking noise that rails often did when one slid a hand on them. When he reached the bottom he gave an exhale of relief. He had been holding his breath the entire time, and didn't realize it until now.

Click.

"Stop right there," A shaky voice said. Dalen whirled to face it, eyes wide with fear. A woman stood at the top of the stairs, a small crossbow in her hand. Dalen slowly raised his hands and took a step backward.

"Why don't you just put that down," he pleaded, taking another step back. He couldn't see it but he distinctly remembered that the door was behind him somewhere. He had to get to it... But this woman was on the edge. Any sudden moves and she'd almost certainly shoot him.

"I'll shoot! Don't take another step!" She exclaimed, louder this time.

"Look, this is all a misunderstanding," Dalen said, continuing to inch backward. It was risky, he knew, but it was his only chance of getting out of this.

Suddenly a door opened to his right and an older man emerged, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. "What is happening?" He yawned, clearly not entirely grasping the situation.

Dalen saw his opportunity, and took it. In the momentary distraction he executed a quick roll, placing himself behind the man. Drawing a dagger, he brought it to the man's neck, pushing the man between him and the frightened woman.

"Put down the crossbow or I slit his throat," Dalen growled menacingly. He didn't mean it... He had never killed in his life, and never planned to. But he needed her to believe it or else he was a dead man.

But instead of listening to him, the worst possible outcome happened.

She panicked.

Dalen didn't know how it happened, but he heard the release of the crossbow go off. A second later, the man jerked back and his full weight fell against Dalen. The woman let out a piercing scream and dropped the crossbow, hands covering her face in horror. Dalen leapt back instinctively at the sound of the crossbow, and looked down to see fresh blood staining his tunic.

He shook his head and staggered back in confusion. He didn't feel any pain... Where had he been hit?

It took him several slow, heart-pounding seconds before it registered. It wasn't his blood.

The older man fell to his knees, blood seeping through his white undershirt. Dalen could now see the tip of the crossbow bolt protruding out of his back.

What happened after was a blur. At some point, the woman came to her senses and ran out the door. Dalen staggered out after her, his head spinning at what had just taken place. Guards converged on him out of seemingly nowhere and pinned his arms to his side. The woman was screaming something and pointing at Dalen, but it took him a moment for his head to clear enough to understand what she was saying:

Murderer.

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Hey everyone! I wasn't going to publish this until I finished DOME PT II, but I haven't written in a while and you guys deserve an update, so here you go! Enjoy!