Post by Arikarka on Jan 21, 2019 22:23:11 GMT
A slow, low pitched cooing whistle echoed across the cobblestone alley of Waterdeep's expansive and always active Market. The hour was late, sun far set behind the horizon, and only the late-night snack vendors, a few tradesmen (no doubt a fence hidden among the honest traders) and those who were desperate enough for a sale to maintain late night hours were populating the stalls and stands. Mingling throughout were couples strolling for a late night walk, bundled up in their furs and finery - as the finer folk tended to do, being so close to the Castle and Sea Ward both.
Torches and lamppost lighting the way through the stalls and open oval of a square space dimmed ever so subtly, near where the Cynosure building was on the Market's west side. The stone building, a fantastical creation of stone mastery and woodworking skills, was draped in silk banners heralding the Masked Lords as well as signifying this was a place where money could be exchanged for different values. It was a safe place for merchants to perhaps rent a space to store more valuable goods they sold. A place to do safe trading. And why was that?
There were always guards here.
A simple shift for many, just stand there and keep the peace. Laws were important in Waterdeep. Posted everywhere, in the common tongue, were the Code Legal. Justice was swift and brokered no exchange. You do wrongdoings? You were punished accordingly. A very lawful neutral place - as any good large city like Waterdeep was.
It was too bad Citrine hadn't bothered to do much besides pass a skimming eye over the Code Legal.
Pleased at the lessening of light, her whistle could command fire - like acknowledging like, the fire in her reaching to the fire there - the vibrant bird woman shifted in her crouched position a ways away from the posted guard.
It was another personal goal of hers, just like drinking in every inn, tavern, or festhall, this game. A feather in a hat… or, if there was no hat, simply sneaking it onto the possession of her target. Belt. Back pocket. Backpack. Heck, even the fold of a boot was good enough. Just a little copper feather… could have come from any source. Griffins were always flying ahead, molting their feathers and growing new. A copper feather was a copper feather - of course it came from one of the griffins!
Not a firebird. Never.
There were nights where sleep just wasn't coming. Tossing and turning, memories assaulting her now that she was living the leisure life of an adventurer, keeping her awake far past when she need to sleep. On a ship it wasn't so bad. She would exhaust herself from the daily work that was needed. But here? In the city now? She grew bored.
And a bored Citrine was a childish Citrine. A seven year old Citrine.
Keeping her wings tight around her like a cloak, her deep ruby red Captain's jacket curtained her feet as she crouched - tail feathers curled as best she could like a cat would underneath. Her target was in sight. Dagver.
Dagver the guard had done nothing in particular to warrant the attention of the phoenix. In fact, he was great at his job - standing guard at the Cynosure with precision and dedication that was enough to make Citrine both gag and respect him. A man of his devotion would do well up top the Crow's Nest of a ship. But he never seemed to move either. Citrine wanted to change that. It was a friendly thing, really, sneaking a little feather in his person. A reminder to him to not just be a guard, but be on his guard. Not to stay so stiff and still. To move with the area around him.
At least, that was her goal… if she had to explain herself that is. In the best world? She'd slip the feather no problem and be on her way before the hour was up.
Moving in the magically dimmed light the firebird crept closer, keeping her eyes and ears out for anything amiss. She was about 80 feet away from the steps of the building, and had to move from the edge of the stall row she was in to the standalone stall that was just south of the target. Cooing the lights here dimmer to a brightness that looked as if the wind had nearly snuffed them out, aiding her stealth, Citrine let her eyes adjust to the darkness, as if coming out from the lower decks of a ship to step onto the open deck up top.
She would have to get closer to mage hand the feather into his helmet.
