It Takes a Thief

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It Takes a Thief

The thief moved slowly through the long stone hallway, not making a sound. He virtually clung to the grey walls, just another shadow in the dark. He paused for a moment, stretching every inch of his six foot frame, eyes and ears straining in the blackness. There it was again, the sound of sandaled feet echoing through the hall. Dropping down and touching the floor, he felt vibrations reverberating through the stone. And they were coming closer! He swore softly, and looked around quickly. Spotting a door, he hurriedly said a prayer to whatever god was willing to listen, and he stepped through it. He noted that he was in a large, empty candlelit room, but that was all he looked at for a moment. Breathing a sigh of relief, he wiped his brow and pushed back his shoulder length black hair, revealing a large, pointed ear.

"You're getting to old for this Thronn," he whispered in the silence. Two hundred years. He was two hundred years old. That was really nothing but a pinch of salt in the life of an elf, but the constant pressures of his profession was starting to wear on him. Being a thief added a lot of stress to one's life. This job especially. Usually, he came out ahead, but not this time. His mouth quirked up in a cynical grin at the though of the mere two hundred gold that he was getting for this job. Raiding the castle of Lord Paraxel was not his idea of sane, not even his idea of insanity. But, he had needed the money at the time. He shook his head angrily and looked up. A lapse like that could easily cost him.

Finally, his head clear, he scanned the room. It was bigger than he had originally thought and, he smiled, it was the very room he was looking for: the armory. Cabinets were in numerous places along the floor, and numerous weapons were hanging along the walls. Reaching into his belt pouch, he drew out a scroll that his employer had given him. He'd been told that when he was finished reading it, the weapon that glowed would be the one to take. He looked at the scroll with revulsion. He never had liked magic very much, even though he'd always had a way with it.

Suddenly, with a flick of his wrist, a dagger appeared in his right hand.

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