The first thing Netray had learned when she'dtr taken an apprenticeship in thieving was patience. At first it seems like an obvious attatchment to a job such as sneaking and stealth, but there is as much running and speed to be had as well. To assume when someone would be returning for their things, to antipate when they might just reasure themselves that they had their pouches on them, was as much patience as it was beating even their speed of thought. It was learning in an instant every thing people take years to learn of each other.

Subtle gestures. Maybe a tugging on the hair, a tensing of the fingers. Those targets sent out warnings.

Relaxed shoulders, tired eyes, those were signs of an easy steal.

Sure, both could go horribly wrong, and it was as far from being a science. But Netray had yet to have her hands died or severed, so they had thankfully served her well.


But the other side of that? The patience? Tracking a particularly wealthy man to a compromising alley, picking a lock carefully lest the tools being used shattered. Patience and speed. There were a number of people lacking in just one, never mind perfecting both.

Were Netray the bragging type, she might find it fitting to boast to her most closest comrades. But of course such trivial, childish tasks were behind her.

Ironic, then, that she'd take time from her busy schedule to wait for a 'friend'. Well... friend was a stretch, but there was no need to delve into that. Netray could have just as easily caused a problem. And, anyway, she wasn't here on that fiasco either. It was better for her to go into this with a fresh mind, her working mind.

She has amnesia. She reminded herself. She could recall the information she'd overheard between people regarding Ms. Troile, even more than that she could remember the information she'd gathered just by asking around.

Now? Now she was here. Waiting in this dark, dark room.

It had been easy getting in. She'd asked the man at the front desk where she could find her friend, and after a truly warm smile he'd reluctantly given her the number. He may have muttered about her not having a key, but Netray dismissed the words from his mouth as soon as he said them. Less chance of becoming suspicious, of a sly twinkle hitting her eyes. Surprisingly bright eyes, given to expressing her emotions no matter what she did.

Ah well. Not like years of training and practice hadn't helped. Just like patience.

She let her glance slip to the window. It was not out of boredom but calculation; should she need a quick escape route, that would serve well. The door would not, as it lead down the stairs to the rather boisterous bar below. Down the hall the windows might help there as well, but she was more vulnerable and exposed in the lit hallways.

Night. It's dark out, but not so dark there isn't any blue. It will be getting late soon though, surely she will return soon.

Troile would not doubt follow the same route Netray had taken as well. The long hallway to this door; previously locked but Netray had found a way of swiftly unlocking it. Now it was unlocked, but at least it was shut and there was the possibility that those who wandered by wouldn't notice anything wrong.

Netray's eyes, long since adjusted to the dark, didn't suffer from this darkness either. It was almost soothing to be in the dark now, and she could clearly make out the drawer and desk, and a single bed. It didn't seem like the most expensive room, but it was far from the cockroach infested rooms she'd seen more closer to the stairs.

A creak from outside the door, and all the hairs on the back of Netray's neck stood on end. Her heart sped up, and she could hear the frantic noise in her ears. She wasn't frightened, infact she had to carefully conceal her excitement. Like a drug addict she was addicted to the exhilirating rush accompanying such build ups and anticipation. Her green eyes sparkled with interest, and...

And the groan of the wood signalled the figure moving on. When the steps faded to the left she realized they had probably just paused there for one reason or another, and then continued along their way.

But it wasn't Troile, and she mentally cursed herself for having not known it instantly. She should have been able to hear the difference in weight, a difference not only in body's weight but also by the stance a person held. Supressing a sigh she shifted vagurely on the seat she'd taken; a plain wooden chair. Her green cloak was folded over the arm of the chair, and she wondered if this had perhaps been a mistake. Perhaps Troile had changed, in which fact waiting around here could be as much a waste of time as lurking around where she'd first met the other.

...Yes. Perhaps fifteen more minutes, then she'd silently slip off. She could pick up the lead somewhere else.

(Altering my character's names again, are we, Netray? Her name is Troile, from Arden Troile. Not Troille. The E is silent. Troil. Troilus.)

Hard work was Troile's specialty, and that extended into her leisure hours when her professional day ended.

This time she was called to a residential home not far outside of Lomedor. This place belonged to a Mr. Peres Scourmont. The home stretched four stories high, and over two thousand feet across. That was quite a feat when the average human dwelling was only one story high. The carved cornices and elaborate pediments made the place seem more like a temple than a home. The curvilinear forms of the deity statues were nothing less than breathtaking. There was nothing quite like these hand hewn buildings to demonstrate the work ethic of humankind. They can raise buildings of stone that last until their very purpose is forgotten by time. A hand-crafted home like Scourmont's is a true work of art.

The imposing facade pressed the importance of Peres Scourmont, merchant of fine wines, deep into the visitors to his home. A self made millionaire, Peres was quick on his feet, witty, and insufferably condescending. As she made her way past the landscaped yard onto his front porch, Peres' butler called a greeting and quickly ushered her into the "august gentleman's presence." Before they delved into the purpose of her visit, Scourmont insisted that he give her a tour of the mansion. With a terribly attractice grin, he showed her the grand spiraling staircase, the master bedroom with a bathroom the size of Troile's suite at the Wilwarin Inn, along with the rest of the house. Peres stopped at the grand dining room with its adjacent ballroom, whose 48' ceiling rose in a massive dome with oculus.

"Here, my friend, is where we first saw the interloper," Peres said, puffing on his cigar. "He came snarling into my private party about a month ago, frightening my guests and overturning my candelabras. He started a large fire that my staff thankfully managed to subdue. His main goal was my grand chandelier. Why he gave up and left before that too was toppled, I have no idea."

Like a good detective, Troile scoured the scene for any supernatural debris, although she knew that any artifacts left over would have already decayed. Ghostly objects did not last long in the mortal coil. When she turned her sight beyond the Shroud, there were decaying remains of candlesticks that collaborated Scourmont's story.

The body shocked her.

After insisting Peres leave the scene so she could "analyze the room's energies uninterrupted," Troile made her way over to the inert form. For a spirit, this was highly unusual. Some part of this unfortunate must still be alive. She picked up the body, and came up with an armful of drapery enclosing a woman's cold form.

"Her name is Eustacia," came a voice in the lifeless tongue. "He sent her here three weeks ago, but it was an incomplete death."

Troile whirled around to face the speaker, cradling Eustacia's body. "Who did this?" she demanded, her eyes matching those of the wraith.

"Who do you think?" the wraith replied, smirking. "There is only one man of the house."

"Scourmont," Troile hissed.

The wraith waved a ghastly hand, drifting dangerously close to her. "If you say so," he said. "But it does not matter. He's beyond my reach. Is Eustacia beyond yours?"

"I don't know. Most likely."

The wraith vanished suddenly, leaving Troile alone with the dead girl. Her hair was jet black, and her eyes a bright green color. Her dead skin was the color of milk, her lips only a shade darker. Lifting one of the girl's hands, Troile saw blood caked beneath her fingernails, and bruises on her arms. Evidence of a struggle.

"I will be back for you," Troile whispered, and laid the girl back on the floor. She wished there was something in her repertoire of spells to protect the girl from other wraiths, but it seemed the bitter wraith she just met was doing just that.

With that, Troile broke the connection to the Shadowlands, and returned from the Shroud.

She immediately sought out Scourmont, but gave him no questions. This will take more than one day to unravel. My best bet is to appear ignorant.

"So?" Scourmont asked her, with an eyebrow raised. "Did you discover anything useful in my absence?" He cocked his head to the side, a small smile lighting up his features.

"Yes," Troile responded. "The room confirms your story. Lead me on to the next point of interest."

"Thank you, thank you! We will head to the next room right away, Madam. My wine cellar, the most marvelous of all places! I have thousands of award winning vintages stored away in cedar panels. My own wine, of course. But I will confess to having a few of my competitor's wines stored away as well, including some of the most expensive vintages ever made. Would you care for a sample?"

Troile declined, citing her work to be done. In truth, she already had enough notes for an evening of study. But she allowed Peres to explain the functionality and history of the room, all of which Troile found irrelevant.

In the midst of all this, from beyond the Shroud, Troile heard one name called loud and clear by a wraith: Pierek!

Troile turned, startled, but Scourmont continued on nonplussed. He must not have heard it!

"And so, my dear. Do you think it's about time to call it a day?"

"Absolutely," Troile replied, realizing this was her cue to depart. He's doing something tonight. Perhaps the wraith I met earlier can tell me what, exactly, when I return. "I'll be back here tomorrow at 5:00 pm. Does that interfere with your plans, Mr. Scourmont?"

"No, no, not at all. I have an engagement elsewhere, so you will have the run of the house. My butler is under instructions to let you in whenever you deem necessary, Troile. Just remember that my full staff will stil be present." He said this last part with a smirk, almost as if he wanted her to abuse the facilities.

"Thank you. Goodnight, Mr. Scourmont."

"Wildeve!" Scourmont shouted. "Get over here, Wildeve!"

The butler appeared from a nearby room, and bowed before Scourmont. "Yes, sir?"
"Escort this young lady to the door."
"Yes, sir!" Wildeve said, and motioned to Troile.

"Right this way, miss."

And with that, Troile found herself returning to her room at the Inn. She climbed the stairway to her room, passing through narrow corridors and scandalous conversation from the room across from hers.

Her hand clasped the doorknob as she inserted the key, only to find it ... unlocked. My supplies! Has there been a robbery?

Troile let her hand fall harmlessly off the doorknob. Her other hand reached downward to her boot, where she withdrew a thin blade, covered in harmful agents. This Troile hid behind her back. She waited two moments, gathering her strength for an assault.

With a shriek loud enough for everyone to hear, she kicked in the door, her free hand grasping for the intruder's neck. Knave!