They were hanging them in the courtyard.
Legs dangling, blue faces, eyes popping out of their head.
One managed to bite his tongue off, the screams were hindered by the rope.
As the blood dripped to the ground, the onlookers looked thirsty for more.
Justice at a price.
Their humanities mingling with the dust, Connor fathomless of the surreal nature of the situation from his viewpoint, stood mute witness.
No elation; no pearly light, no saviour for the condemned.
Mad with theoretical grief, his stomach twisted another aorta of respect for those dancing their last jig.
Connor was picking pockets at a hanging, again.
The departed not having more than shoe strings made a hard-living for the grave robbers, the audience to the show however were nobles mostly and prime examples of what a lack of attention can get you.
A few unpruned roses littered the streets, thorns for those without footwear, as if to curb the rogue’s fascinations they were mottled brown and white.
What innocence could depart from this scene untarnished?
He looked to and fro and saw children pestering their parents for sweets.
As if vindication wasn’t sweet enough, one man’s crime was larceny; this scry didn’t leave Connor’s ears wanting.
This was a friend.
A fellow thief, a rogue at heart.

Max had always been a pragmatic prisoner, even before his incarceration.
A prisoner of the societal oligarchy that always kept him a few steps behind getting somewhere with his life.
Max was a smart man, blind in one eye and the unsavoury sort of man that quite literally stole his shoes from a corpse.
The nobles that caught him stretching his toes in their grandfather’s loafers were appalled.
Max saw the pragmatic side of things, the old geezer wasn’t walking anywhere anytime soon.
The guards had been less taciturn and caught him after his absconding, a brief athletic performance for the tired rogue’s legs.
His tattered shoes walked him up to the make-shift gallows, the rope already crusted with old blood.
They slipped it over his jaw and Connor watched his eyes go up to the skies.
Now, at this stage, he might have forgiven those that had come to watch him hang, but Connor had other thoughts on the matter.
His eyes were wild with panic, frustration evident on his brow.
This one execution had been delayed again if the wait hadn’t killed the man; it certainly wasn’t the king.
Now Connor thought this was strange, candidly waiting for a failed mission from the Agents Of Avarice, the name just never came up.
Sure he was imprisoned, his Grimoire even under restraint, but Connor couldn’t help but feel the strings being pulled here were worth Yul.
Was Connor pulling these strings?

The prison wasn’t lavish, concrete maybe; bricks glued into position, the mortar dry and weak.
Connor assessed the shadowy interior of the place, casting glean to give him glimmers of information from there with which to ascertain the situation.
Brief blinks of clarity as he closed his eyes for a moment, dodging the guards by wearing his black cloak.
The foreign armour was ethereal in the shadows, a hood and mask over his ash white hair.
Smiling to himself, the jailer was whispering over his shoulder.
Only really corporeal things could have inhibited him right now, the metaphysical aspect of greed hanging above his head was negotiable.
Rather than gripping him on the shoulder, certain respect was held for an agent of avarice, as Connor knew.
He wasn’t exactly the biggest fish, but he was a Lieutenant and an Eclipse Raven.
On the other hand, Connor had written a very nice letter to the jailer.
Crooked as the key he had given Connor, it was certainly an informal gesture but an invitation nonetheless.
Being an ordinary citizen was wearing thin, the disguise just didn’t work like it once did.

The elusive leader of the ravens had not mentioned Max had ties with the upper echelon of rogue society.
He was, after all, here.
No small amount of intimidation would work on this man, forsaken as the region he lived in.
Yul was the currency of the land and was he not flattered   by gold or silver, Connor was at his wit's end when he offered a personal favour.
A donation was dispensed, probably going to take it from his theoretical paycheck anyhow, rogues paid taxes of their own.
Bribery of an official was inexpensive but was a rigmarole that was easier than any old jailbreak.
The warden was chatty, elusive and enigmatic when he dubiously distracted the guards.
Max was whistling a haunting rendition of the tune of Auld Lang Syne.
The other deadmen joined in with faint whispers, Connor skulked the halls unapologetically a free man.
Picking a lock as he went, criminals quietly thankful for the smiling ghost's blank visage.
Many hands make light work.
Connor jammed a bobby pin into the last lock, Max’s facial expression was one of wonder.
A few gentle adjustments to the right, and a click changed the man’s emotional response to gladness.
To be able to relate to the old man, one would have to be very tired indeed, as Connor was.
Being a visitor here was an experience entirely reserved for someone who loved cuddling up to heavenly sacks for warmth.
Connor did not relate, he was just as bad as these people yet did not relent in his prejudices leaning toward freedom.
It would not be correct if he weren’t free, he figured just as much for Max.
Max gathered his meagre belongings, which consisted of a twisted spoon, a dirty shirt and a single coin that looked like his Raven token.

The coin plagued his mind.
What would it be like if there were more of them at the end of this perilous task?
Connor’s sticky fingers hadn’t found much to loot from a prison funnily enough.
Every possession he had was more lavish than the last scrap in each dungeon cell.
Some of the vagrants that inhabited this place had already abandoned their pride, hope was a morsel that they couldn’t stomach.
Max, on the other hand, was a lovely bag of bones in comparison.
His dark hair was matted and in need of a comb, something Connor proffered but it was politely refused.
As they walked past another handful of cells a man was hanging himself in his room.
Connor paused for a second and seriously considered the propensity for self-harm, speaking from a clear and level head he demanded of him to appraise an offered alternative, “Hell, man, where we’re going probably isn’t better, but you’re welcome to disagree.”
Looking around the drab, dimly lit interior of the damned place Connor couldn’t help but feel an odd resignation out of respect for the denizens of this place.
Many men did not require freedom to live; as they have and instead resolved to wait out their days.
The man replied civilly, “Where you’re going there’s a good chance you’ll get killed.”
The irony was not lost on the man, who definitively decided to take better chances than possibly getting killed at a good chance, the next chance he took, Connor did not turn away.
Connor’s quiet breathing exercises revolved around the space between his mask and his face, a lot of the carbon dioxide was filtered out by the filter of his armours material.
Paying his respects Connor flicked a coin that rebounded off the prison’s cell’s wall.
The sound was jarring in the silent clamour of the other prisoners listening to the man kicking the wall fervently.
Not every man enjoyed his freedom.
In the darker recesses of the kingdom of Clover, there were sad moments, that only some saw.
As he had before, Connor resisted the urge to linger for longer than was necessary.
The cognitive clockwork that clicked into place was obvious, the jailer was chatting with the guards, something Connor had forgotten in the morose aftermath that followed.

The present moment was dictated by a couple of things.
An elusive Elite; an eclipse raven, Connor himself had just willingly walked into a prison.
The mercy of the jailer was no pleasant reconciliation, but it was calculatedly wearing thin as cheap wool does when padding your eardrums lets the crickets in.
It failed to break the serendipity of the moment, the coins dropped; the clicking of metal, on wood.
Connor wished Max and he was the one who bumped into a table half a dozen solid times, in the dark, it was easy to assess the situation with tension being what it was.
Shhhhh
Maybe Connor was the man who wouldn’t last the week, Max did seem lucky.
The man; formally known as Max, presented himself as a symbol; in the flesh and blood, to the jailer.
The guards rotated their wrists and smiled widely, an illusion or a facade apparent to Connor that had worn thin.
” Well… fuck.”
He spun on his heel before speaking bluntly, his actions preceding his words.
That was intimidating… that was stressful.”
Max walked out of the prison a free man, an ordinary man; a ruthless constituent to the challengingly competitive nature of what it meant to be a Lieutenant, a complete asshole.
The jailer was quiet but Connor heard him, “Like fishing you see, use a small one to net yourself a big one.”
Live bait?
A challenge?
To concur Connor felt that this brilliantly exceeded his expectations to account for; in every regard, anything about any other particular instance of clear betrayal.
He did not however feel overwhelmed, monotonous in his preceding pertinence as he proceeded.
“ What did silver moonlight have that golden glittering day did not?”

---

“ By God, he remembered tasting dirt.
“Connor walked up to him, pocket full of shrapnel.”
“Three people, Four of them alive.
Connor had Max by the back of the neck, riding the very small invisible horse one rides when dragging another man.
The Man stammering out what he could to recollect what it was that he would say when they both talked to the agents of Avarice.
“That’s right.”
Connor replied, “Yeah.”
Civil considering Connor had broken three ribs, two of them not his own.
The jailer put up a pretty big fight but Midas knocked the salt out of him.
Bounced twice off the old geezer and while intimidation was not strictly the best solution, it was certainly a conceivable possibility once Connor mercifully didn’t slay him by driving his thumbs into the Jailer’s eyes.
The silver orbital sphere was mighty indeed, terrifyingly bludgeoning the jailer within an inch of his life.
Connor managed to evade the guards like he was immaterial, using a dawdling Max as a meat shield for a good portion of the stone-throwing that ensued after would.
He wasn’t entirely stoned to death, but the monumentally unofficial effort to execute him was appreciated. 
The agents of Avarice finally disclosed what sort of fate awaited Max that was better than hanging.
In their dubious way, they smiled and said, “Too good… Could not wait“
“And noble ends.”
Not interpreting the elongated ‘o’ as commoner’s some times do, Connor interjected.
The man panicked in their grasp, his Grimoire was not one of the last things Connor ever saw of Max.
His broken legs and disjointed fingers, those were definitely the last thing he could stomach.
Connor left the scene pleasantly satisfied with how the world worked.
They certainly wanted that man alive for some reason, loose ends and couldn’t wait.
Seemed personal but didn’t warrant enough to ask what for with the pay involved.
He felt bribed himself when he looked the other way, he was paid not to see the event transpire, just facilitate the passage of its eventual happening.

Dinner was short, potatoes and ham in mushy pea soup.
The bread being dry and stale was an understatement, this is how he liked his bread.
His pay check was in his cereal box, an auspicious number of times silly things like this happened out of nowhere.
This not only surprised Connor but thoroughly impressed him, he didn’t have cereal to begin with.
The agents of avarice delivered their end of the bargain, heftier work for a heftier salary, it was alright.
Lunch was larger but he insisted on not paying for it, minor theft was simply as polite as asking for it around here, he was known.
Connor didn’t have to tell the man or his boss he wasn’t paying for it, it was already in the trash as far as he was concerned.
He wasn’t happy with the circumstances that surrounded the kitchen anyhow, he told them to cook his steak medium rare, they had cooked it medium well.
Impressions were everything for the young rogue, and sitting on his behind was annoying, there were deeds that needed committing.
Inaction was paramount to diligence, he would have to be patient to see what the tally was for infamy after his last job.
He smoked a fat cigar to pass the time, it wasn’t lavish but from time to time he enjoyed the strong sensation that came with smoking one.
Ashes fell to the ground as he departed, another glass of water to add to the tally of things he had not paid for.
[exit]

Word Count: 2261

---

Mana Math:
Spells Cast:

Mana Used: 30/60
Mana Recharge: 50/60