In the mystical realm of Rivenholm, where dark enchantments and treacherous intrigue rule, a young half-blood thief known as Mirk lives a life of cunning and survival on the shadowy streets. His nimble fingers have never failed him, and he's stolen...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Having endured the relentless demands of Theon, Mirk wrapped up his grueling tasks and set out for home. Feeling too exhausted to make a detour to visit the fae, he opted to skip it this time. As he ambled along, the youngest stable boy efficiently delivered Keldi, the horse, to him. It appeared that the mare was designated as his mode of transportation.
Mirk and the horse strolled back into the city. He ditched the tack, tearing off that fancy royal badge before selling it without much hassle. The saddle and bridle were in a great condition, but he didn't go all fancy with the price; just enough to make a quick deal.
So there he was, sitting on the horse bareback, getting the light hairs all over his clothes as the horse grudgingly stomped up the street, if Mirk didn't know any better, he'd think she was mad at him.
"Look, isn't it better without all the buckles and ropes? You get freedom, I get money. It's a win—shit!" Mirk cursed, leaning forward as Keldi slipped on the icy cobblestones. After regaining her balance with an annoyed snort, they proceeded up the late-night streets, the ground now transformed into narrow rivers of black ice.
"I might be responsible for your missing saddle, but I ain't be held accountable for your broken feet, come on, let's take the long way around then," the thief mumbled as he gracefully slid off the tall horse. He grabbed a fistful of her white mane and started guiding her around the buildings. Although reluctant, Keldi followed as he steered her around houses.
Most shops were shuttered, with the last candles being extinguished and counters cleaned. The streets, nearly deserted except for a few gentlemen seeking a tavern or discreet establishments, echoed with the sounds of their footsteps on the icy pavement.
"Come on, can you be any slower?" he huffed, trying to walk faster but the horse didn't even budge, keeping her own pace as she kept staring ahead. No matter how hard he tried to make her move quicker, the mare was adamant on a slow walk.
Frustrated, he let go of her mane and threw his hands in the air. "Useless cow!" he felt his cheeks heat at the raising frustration. "I'm gonna take you to the butcher, the stables are full of- ow!" he jumped away, massaging his shoulder that the mare had bit.
"Oh now you've done it. That's it! You little-"
"What do we have here?" a playful voice made him stop, the horse did as well, raising her head high and perking her ears up.
They were about to pass a busy tavern, with live music and giggling coming from the ajar door. A band of young aristocrats by the looks of it had stepped out for a cigar and fresh air. A band of seven men high on illegal smokes. They cut off Mirk's way, the horse next to him tensed as well.
"A dirty mongrel." One of them spat out, noting Mirk's half pointy ears that stuck out of his hair. He chuckled nervously, pressing his back against the mare to make sure he could see all of them.
