Odd One Out Ch. 01

The role of a sneak-thief is one not often populated by the elderly, on account of the fact that those thieves who don't strike it big and retire early tend to wind up incarcerated, or worse: dead. Turns out, most folks don't take kindly to strangers helping themselves to their hard-earned belongings, and in a world where a burglar can find themselves vaporized with a single word or cleaved in two with the casual swing of a broadsword, experienced thieves are rare.

At the ripe old age of 26, Keiran Harper was a very good thief. Or, perhaps a very bad one, depending on one's perspective. An argument could be made that after so many failures and misfortunes, Keiran should perhaps consider himself lucky to be alive and seek a better, more honest profession before his current line of work killed him.

And, considering the room full of furious women glaring down at him, more than one of which was capable of ending his life in the blink of an eye, a change in career was beginning to sound more and more enticing to the lifelong criminal.

--

It was supposed to be an easy mark. He'd spotted them in the local tavern, grabbing a drink and any leads on nearby employment. Adventuring is expensive work, after all, and it never hurts to top up one's coin purse.

Anyone with eyes could see the four women were outsiders. Elves and satyrs alone were a rarity around these parts, but not unheard of. A towering half minotaur and serpentine lamia, on the other hand... Either one of them would've been the first of their species Keiran had ever seen in person. For both to be seen together? It screamed "Band of Adventurers" loud enough to make him wince.

Most notably, however, was that they appeared to be traveling without a seedier companion. For as reprehensible as they may be, it was often worthwhile for roaming adventurers to keep a sneaking, pilfering type amongst their retinue, someone who knew the tricks of the trade and thus, how to guard against them.

It also meant those without one were often vulnerable.

Keiran covertly trailed them for some time just to be sure, he hadn't made it to 26 in his line of work by being careless, but in time his confidence grew as his intel improved.

The brunette barbarian was obviously the brawn of the group. She looked mostly human, save for her impressive figure and built-in bovine accoutrements. Seven feet tall and no doubt several hundred pounds, she drew the eye as her curved horns scraped the ceiling of any human-sized establishments she visited. She was often seen wearing fur and leather armor that did more to preserve the illusion of modesty than it offered in actual protection, though, if Keiran had chiseled arms as thick as tree trunks and thunderous thighs that each weighed as much as he did, he wouldn't be afraid to show some skin either.

He had yet to see her without her weapon, a conspicuous armament just as bold and attention-grabbing as its wielder. Perpetually strapped to her back was a massive steel battleaxe with razor-sharp blades as large as wagon wheels, its surfaces decorated with intricate geometric designs carved into the metal. It was a fine weapon that was probably worth quite a bit, but Keiran knew it would be foolish to try and steal it. Though the cow-woman handled the axe with what seemed like little effort, he knew a mere human like him couldn't even lift the hilt without magical or mechanical assistance.

For as formidable as she was, however, Keiran was not worried about the bovine behemoth. She was strong, but slow, and his observations of her had proven that extended to her mental faculties as well. Crass, abrasive, and completely without manners, she seemed to be the type who preferred solving all her problems with only the finesse she could provide with her battleaxe. A fearsome adversary to face head-on, certainly, but Keiran had no intention of meeting her on an even playing field. Ideally, he wouldn't be meeting her at all.

Of far greater concern, was the one who looked to be the brains of their operation.

A satyr. Of the deer variety, if the white spots on her brown-furred thighs and branch-like antlers were any indication. Fair skin, red, chin-length hair, and a freckled complexion all lended themselves to her mischievous character, though none of her features were so damning as her eyes.

Keiran had gotten a good look at her when she'd performed at the tavern one night, obviously aiming to leverage her golden voice and skill with the lyre to earn some extra coin. She'd met his gaze when he went to toss a silver piece into her instrument case, and he'd been struck by the sly intelligence he saw within her captivating green eyes. Behind her playful smirk and revealing clothing, no doubt another ploy to maximize profit, was a cunning woman who was not to be underestimated.

In his later observations, Keiran had noticed that the satyr seemed to do most of the talking for the party, whether it be haggling with shopkeepers for supplies, or prying gossip from the locals. The others in the group often seemed to look to her for guidance, further cementing Keiran's hypothesis that she was their leader.

He would need to be careful with her.

The biggest unknown was the lamia.

Keiran knew very little about her species, save for that they were easy to follow amidst a crowd of humanoids. Long, pure white hair, sun-bronzed skin, pointed, elfin ears, and piercing yellow eyes with slit serpentine pupils were distinguishing enough, though her insubstantial attire further lended to her conspicuity. Resembling the garb of Eastern dancers, layered, airy white fabrics adorned with jewels and sequins clung tightly to her body, covering little and revealing much, composing a minimal and exotic outfit clearly originating from a land much hotter than the Northern Reach. It stood in stark contrast to the drab, natural tones and heavy wools of the northern locals.

Though, even absent those eye-catching characteristics, it would've been practically impossible to lose track of her on account of her scales.

Where the thighs of a humanoid would normally sit, the lamia's body instead transitioned to the form of a massive snake, as thick in diameter as a person and easily three, if not four times as long. Cream-colored ventral scales spanned her belly, while the remainder of her reptilian body was covered with a striking mosaic of whites, golds, yellows, and blacks, arranged in a symmetrical diamond pattern that repeated to the tip of her tail.

Were he a different kind of man, Keiran would've appreciated the lamia for the living work of art she was. Certainly, there was no shortage of bystanders whose open-mouthed stares followed her as she passed by.

As it was, however, Keiran was far more concerned about her staff.

Having stolen, fenced, smuggled, sold, and been on the receiving end of all kinds of weapons over the years, Keiran had gotten pretty good at identifying them, and the silver, spear-like staff the lamia carried with her was definitely of the combat variety - it likely even functioned as a bladed weapon if she ever ran low on mana. Paired with the lamia's form-fitting, mobility-optimized clothing and her athletic build, it was clear to even a non-magic user like Keiran that she was an offensive magic specialist.

Though to what extent, he did not know. She could've been an amateur mage, or a sorceress of incredible power; it was impossible to tell without seeing her in action. A fact that bothered Keiran greatly. Unknowns like that are what got people like him killed.

Nevertheless, the lamia was not Keiran's target, and with any luck, he wouldn't face her either.

No, he had his eyes set on the final member of their party: the elf.

With a tall, lithe build, wheat-blonde hair, and glimmering golden eyes, she was remarkably beautiful, as were most members of her species. And yet, she appeared to be the most reserved member of the group; Keiran had yet to see her directly initiate a conversation with anyone outside of her party.

Her flowing robes, white with golden trim, were timelessly elegant and surprisingly conservative, considering the shameless way the rest of her cohort dressed. If Keiran had to guess, she was likely a healer or priestess of some kind; she certainly didn't seem to be the aggressive type.

More importantly, the elf wore on her person the object of Keiran's interest. Around her neck was a sizable golden collar, at least three fingers wide and as thick as a coin. Set within the center was an iridescent mana crystal, cut into a downwards-pointing trillion roughly the size of a broadhead.

Keiran wanted it.

The gold of the neckband alone was worth a fortune, but such a large and finely polished mana crystal, a gemstone notoriously difficult to refine, would set him up for life if he could find the right buyer. Keiran did admittedly feel a little bad about depriving a small party of an artifact of such obvious value, but when he considered that pulling this off might mean he could finally leave this dangerous life behind for good, he decided he could live with the guilt.

He just needed to get his hands on it.

His plan was simple in theory, though the execution was anything but.

For the three days that Keiran had been trailing them, he had never once seen the elf remove her collar. Which meant the only possible time it ever came off was when she bathed, or when she slept. The bath houses were usually watched fairly closely, on account of drunken perverts who often liked to "accidentally" wander in, hoping to catch a peek. Trying to sneak in there was out of the question.

Which left sleep.

Due to his careful reconnaissance, Keiran had identified the inn the party was staying at. He knew asking the innkeep directly which room housed the group would arouse far too much suspicion, so instead, he'd enlisted the help of a young street rat. A silver piece was all it took to convince her to act as the satyr's biggest fan, following her home after a tavern performance one night in order to deliver some flowers. A paltry investment compared to what he stood to gain.

The good news: he had the room. The bad news: it was on the third floor.

It was fortunate then that Keiran had a good head for heights.

While he had every bit of confidence that the lock on the door would've presented no challenge were he to pick it, it was difficult to predict what kind of magical protections might be in place on the other side. The group may have been lacking a thief, but that didn't give Keiran grounds to be overconfident; that was a good way to wind up dead.

Not to mention, rusty hinges on old doors tended to make a lot of noise.

No, going in through the front was too risky, and too obvious. Instead, Keiran would use the window.

He waited until long after the sun set and the crickets stopped chirping, past midnight until well into the early morning. In his experience, even night owls tended to be inactive then. When the clouds obscured the moon, Keiran threw on his dark cowl and sprang into action, grateful that the jumbled, tightly-packed layout of the town allowed even a man of his diminutive stature easy rooftop access and traversal.

In no time at all, he was on the roof of the inn, crouched above the room housing the hopefully slumbering adventures like an oversized raven. While he waited for the cover of the clouds once more, Keiran took the opportunity to check his gear one final time.

Lightweight boots made of dark brown leather, folded over and tightly secured just below the knees: sturdy, flexible, and most importantly, quiet.

Skintight leggings of his own design, made mostly of hardy black leather, afforded moderate defense against glancing blows, while black, quilted fabric along the inner thighs added flexibility and airflow.

A dark linen shirt with leather reinforcement along the collar and laces, also form-fitting so as to reduce rustling, with leather pads sewn into the shoulders and elbows to provide impact protection without impeding mobility.

Fingerless black leather gloves to preserve dexterity, with attached leather bracers that offered enough protection to stop a weak sword strike or the bite of a guard hound.

Lastly, a thick, charcoal-colored woolen cloak with a deep cowl and an integrated mask that served double duty; keeping the cold at bay while simultaneously concealing the wearer's identity.

After ensuring all laces and belts were adequately fastened, and that his black, chin-length hair was in no danger of escaping the ribbon that tied it back and out of his eyes, Keiran secured his mask over his nose and his hood over his head and waited. It was dead quiet, no surprise considering the hour, which provided ample opportunity to confirm that there were no sounds of activity coming from the room below him.

When the moon finally vanished once more, and after a quick confirmation that the street was deserted, Keiran carefully lowered himself over the edge of the roof with the agility of a practiced acrobat, having to stretch to his limit in order to brace his toes against the bottom corners of the chest-high window frame before he could get a proper handhold against the top.

Then came the tricky part.

No thicker than his thumb, the wooden trim around the window didn't offer much in the way of purchase. Years of experience performing this manner of work had left Keiran a proficient climber, but he couldn't hold such a perch forever.

Which meant he needed to work quickly. Not to mention, he was terribly suspicious, gripping the outside of the window like the world's strangest looking spider. Any passerby on the street who saw him in such an unusual position would surely alert the guards.

Fortunately, the security on the window was laughable. Most folks, such as the builders of the inn, didn't see an exposed third-story window as a potential point of ingress, an oversight Keiran had gotten quite good at exploiting. It was a traditional hinged design, split down the middle with panes that opened outwards. A simple metal hook and loop held it shut on the inside.

With one hand precariously gripping the top of the window frame, Keiran carefully fished a slim lockpick out of a small leather pouch looped onto his belt, sliding it between the window panes and deftly flipping open the interior latch with a soft click. A shift to the side gave him all the room he needed to swing the window open, and he was in.

Or at least, he would've been, were it not for the barrier.

He almost missed it. It was only the restraint built upon decades of experience that stopped him from vaulting through the open window as soon as he'd been presented the opportunity. On the other side of the glass, was a barely perceivable distortion in the air, like a distant mirage on a hot summer's day.

A magical barrier, cast by someone who apparently wasn't as naive as Keiran had initially thought. It was hard to say what would happen to him if he touched it; best case scenario, it was a simple physical barrier that acted as nothing more than a secondary wall. Worst case, it could shock or paralyze him, and he'd fall and probably break his spine on the road below. Or perhaps it would emit a loud screech that would wake everyone in the vicinity.

In any case, Keiran had no intention of finding out. He'd be a poor excuse for a thief if something as simple as a barrier prevented him from reaching his goal.

With his grip strength fading by the second, Keiran reached into his waist-pouch and pulled out another tool through feel alone, This one, a small golden needle, with a much rougher mana crystal the size of his smallest fingernail embedded where the eye would sit. Using the subtle vibrations of the crystal to guide him, he located a spot where the barrier felt thin and gently pushed.

That was the thing about barriers. They were quite powerful in the right circumstances; a properly cast barrier with room to distribute the load could stop attacks that would otherwise level mountains. But, they were also brittle, and when they failed, they did so catastrophically, shattering into innumerable pieces like shards of tempered glass.

All one needed was to make a hole - even a needle-prick would do.

It took but a few seconds of focused pressure before the resistance pushing back against Keiran's needle vanished, the subtle distortion in the air dissolving into a thousand tiny ribbons of golden light.

Barrier, no more.

After returning the needle to his pouch, Keiran carefully lowered himself into the room, senses on high alert for any signs of alarm. Not a moment too soon, as it was, for his fingers had nearly given out. He stretched his hands to get the blood flowing while he silently surveyed his surroundings.

It was a fairly small room, with two beds, and four occupants. The elf and the satyr shared the bed furthest from him, while the lamia sprawled on the bed nearest the window, her serpentine coils requiring an entire mattress to herself. While he could not see her from his vantage point, Keiran surmised from the rumbling snores coming from between the two beds that the warrior was sleeping on the floor. Evidently, human beds could not support her weight.

It seemed fate was smiling upon Keiran, as all four women were sound asleep. Of course, his enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by the fact that the elf was on the complete opposite side of the room, with three of her very scary compatriots between.

"This would've been much easier if she'd claimed the bed next to the window," Keiran complained to himself.

After carefully and quietly sneaking past the others, Keiran's heart fell further when he finally approached the elf, only to realize that even in slumber, she had not removed her collar.

Had silence not been of such utmost importance, he would've let out a frustrated sigh. It wouldn't be the first time he'd stolen jewelry right off the skin of its wearer, but it complicated things considerably. It would've been far easier to swipe it from a dresser or end table before disappearing into the night.

Kneeling beside the sleeping elf with exasperation in his eyes, Keiran reached for another leather pouch, this one affixed to his left thigh, carefully removing a small glass ampule wrapped in thick cloth. He then triple-checked that his mask was in place - to accidentally dose himself would be disastrous.

The heavy fabric around the glass tube helped to muffle the sound as Keiran crushed the fragile ampule in the palm of his hand, though still the soft crunch made him cringe. The potency faded quickly though, which meant he had no time to second guess. He held his hand in front of the elf's nose, letting her breathe in the tranquilizing fumes while Keiran painstakingly counted every second for a minute.

It was probably overkill. Sleeping salts such as this could usually render someone unconscious with only a few whiffs, but Keiran wasn't taking any chances. Satisfied that the elf wouldn't be waking up anytime soon, he returned the now-spent salts to his pouch, before finally turning his attention to the object of his desire: the collar.

It glinted softly in the moonlight, gleaming against the pale neck of its elfin wearer, rising and falling with the gentle flow of her breath. It was beautiful, and so, so close. One last step, and then he'd be home free.

With his hands trembling from equal parts nervousness and excitement, Keiran slid his fingers under the back of the elf's head, carefully angling her face to the side in order to expose the rear of the collar. It had a clasp, meaning it wasn't permanently affixed to her neck after all.

"Holy shit, I might actually pull this off..." he thought in disbelief.

Until his exposed finger-tips brushed against the bare metal, and an excruciating pain ripped through Keiran's nervous system in a single, horrible moment, instantly rendering every muscle in his body rigid with a paralyzing agony so intense, he could not cry out even had he wanted to.

It was hard to know if the collar itself let out some kind of magical impulse, or if it was merely an involuntary muscle spasm resulting from the powerful electric shock, but the effect was the same; Keiran was violently launched from his position on the floor, catapulting through the air before his back slammed against the nearby wall with a mighty thud that rattled the furniture and knocked the wind from the would-be thief.

Keiran's ears rang. His heart pounded painfully in his chest. The room spun nauseatingly behind his blurry vision, and his lungs refused to draw in air. Despite his disorientation, however, Keiran could still make out the panicked and angry voices of the three women his carelessness had just woken up.

"Was the collar trapped?" he thought deliriously. It wasn't unheard of for mages to imbue valuable possessions with trapped enchantments that made them unsafe to use or touch until disbanded, but in all Keiran's years, he'd only ever encountered such magic on artifacts that were kept locked behind glass display cases, items that were never intended to be worn or wielded anyway. He'd never once heard of someone actively wearing an item with a trapped enchantment, he didn't even know such things were possible.

Not that it mattered. As Keiran's fuzzy vision slowly came into focus, the view that awaited him wasn't exactly encouraging. Three women towered over him, one brandishing a massive battleaxe, another a combat staff, while the red-haired satyr crouched in front of him, her tousled hair and silky white nightgown doing little to dampen the bone-chilling look of cold fury on her face.

"Hi ladies," Keiran slurred. "Would you believe me if I said it's not what it looks like?"

The satyr punched him in the stomach, an undercut delivered with surprising force that left him gasping for breath once more.

"Yea, I deserved that," he wheezed.