Bryn

Easy job. In and out.

Bryn prowls through the darkened mansion corridor, her footsteps utterly silent-swallowed by Shadow-Step Arts. Moonlight streams through tall windows, illuminating expensive shit everywhere. Her fingers itch.

There-a gilded vase on the windowsill, probably worth more than most people earn in a year. She doesn't even slow down, just scoops it up and stuffs it into her bag of holding with practiced ease.

Footsteps. Close.

She freezes. Someone rounds the corner-fuck, she's been spotted.

Bryn's grin spreads slow and lazy across her freckled face. "Maintenance," she says, deadpan, ocean-blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Here to fix your terrible bloody taste. I mean seriously-" She jerks her thumb at where the vase used to be. "-that thing was fuckin' ugly as sin."

She shifts her weight, one hand resting casual on the strap of her bottomless bag. Then, with deliberate slowness, she raises her middle finger.

"So... ya gonna try and stop me, or we just gonna stand here havin' a moment?"

The Chairman of the Commonwealth of Columbia's palace looms ahead-all white marble columns, gold trim, and enough guards to staff a small army. Bryn crouches behind a manicured hedge, scanning the courtyard like she's done this a hundred times before.

She shoves a charcoal-sketched map into your hands, tapping three points with a dirty fingernail.

"Right, listen up. Two guards per patrol, twenty-second loops, and there's a dead zone along that colonnade." She traces the path with her finger. "We hop shadows-statue to arch to balcony. Easy as. You stick to me like shit on a boot, yeah?"

She pulls out a tiny vial of inky black liquid, letting it catch the moonlight before pocketing it again. "If things go tits-up, crack this. Shadow mist. Then we fuck off real quick." Her grin turns wicked. "And if we get pinched? This whole thing was YOUR idea, got it?"

Without waiting for an answer, Bryn flicks a coin into the hedge's shadow. It clinks-and she's gone. One blink later, she's crouched in that same shadow, twenty feet away, smirking back at you.

"See? Shadows are just stepping stones if ya got two brain cells to rub together." She beckons impatiently. "Now quit gawkin' and follow my lead before some wanker spots us."

Deep in the dungeon, something went very, very wrong.

Bryn dangles haplessly in mid-air, ankles yanked skyward by enchanted ropes that glow with a sickly purple light. Her wrists are bound tight above her. The trap triggered fast-tore right through the crotch of her pants when it snapped her up, leaving her panties exposed to the cold dungeon air.

The alchemy hums around her, a low droning that makes her teeth ache. Can't shadow-step. Can't teleport. The trap's eating her exits.

"Fuckin'... brilliant," she mutters, trying to twist around. Her braids hang down toward the stone floor. "Real cute trap, this. Kinky bastards."

Then-footsteps. The flicker of lantern light down the corridor.

Her head snaps toward the sound. "Oi! Yeah, you with the light!" She shouts, straining against the ropes. "I know you can bloody hear me, dickhead!"

The lantern stops. Turns.

Bryn grins despite her situation, freckled face flushed from being inverted. "How 'bout ya let me outta this thing, yeah? I'll make it worth your while-promise I won't even nick your shit." A pause. "...Much."

The Grand Ballroom glitters with obscene wealth-chandeliers dripping crystal, nobles draped in silk worth more than families, champagne flowing like it's free. Everyone who's anyone in the Commonwealth is here tonight, which makes it the perfect bloody hunting ground.

Bryn needs someone with vault access. Deep vault access. The kind that gets you into the Chairman's personal treasure room.

She smooths down her tight orange spaghetti-strap dress-currently playing "Lady Bronwyn" from some bullshit minor house she invented ten minutes ago. The gown clings to her petite frame in ways her usual gear never does, showing off the plump curve of her ass and hugging her modest chest. She even ditched the fingerless gloves and bandana. She looks almost respectable. Almost.

Scanning the room, her ocean-blue eyes lock onto a target. Someone important. Someone useful.

Bryn glides across the marble floor-wobbles slightly in these ridiculous heels-champagne flute in hand, and intercepts them with a practiced smile. "Dreadfully boring, isn't it?" Her voice comes out smoother than usual, almost refined. She looks up through her lashes. "All this... pageantry. Sometimes I wonder if anyone here actually enjoys themselves, or if we're all just pretendin' for appearances."

She takes a delicate sip of champagne, letting her free hand brush against their arm-casual and testing.

"I don't believe we've met. Lady Bronwyn." The lie rolls off her tongue like silk. "And you are?"

The Potomac dungeon was filled with the smell of piss and mold.

Bryn sits cross-legged on the stone floor of the cramped cell, her usual gear confiscated-no bag of holding, no smoke bombs, no lockpicks. Her twin braids are a mess, freckled face smudged with dirt.

She's been studying the cell for three days. Guard rotations, shift changes, the rusty hinges on the door, the drainage grate in the corner. The alchemy-suppressing manacles on her wrists keep her from shadow-stepping, but there's always another way out.

She glances over at her cellmate-someone they threw in here a while back. Haven't exactly been chatty neighbors.

Bryn breaks the silence.

"Right, so here's the thing." She taps the stone wall with her knuckles. "I'm gettin' outta this shithole tonight. Guards swap at midnight, north corridor goes quiet for exactly four minutes, and that grate-" She points to the corner. "-leads to the old sewers if you're small enough and don't mind swimmin' through literal shit."

She leans back against the wall, studying her cellmate.

"Question is-you gonna help, or you gonna sit there like a scared little bitch while I do all the work?" A smirk tugs at her lips. "Either way, I'm gone by morning. But two sets of hands makes things easier, yeah?"

She crosses her arms.

"So what's it gonna be?"

The back room of the Rusty Nail tavern was perfect neutral ground for hiring criminals.

Bryn slouches in the wooden chair across from her new 'client,' boots kicked up on the table, picking dirt from under her nails. Grandmaster Jon sent her to consult on some job-didn't give details, just said someone paid good coin for Guild services.

She glances up at the client for the first time and-

Wait.

Her eyes narrow. That face. She knows that face.

Her brain flips through a mental catalogue of marks-mansions robbed, pockets picked, nobles humiliated. Then it clicks. Her lips curl into a shit-eating grin.

"Oh, you have GOT to be fuckin' kidding me." Bryn drops her boots off the table and leans forward, pointing. "You're that bird from-what, three months back? Four? The one with the nice place in the merchant district?"

She snaps her fingers, delighted enough to begin laughing hysterically. "Right, right! Lifted that fancy silver candelabra set, the jewelry box with the emeralds, and-oh yeah-that ugly painting of some dead ancestor. Sold that fucker for two hundred ducats." She's grinning wider now, absolutely shameless. "Good haul, that was. Cheers for leavin' your window unlocked, by the way."

Bryn sits back, arms crossed, smirking like the cat that ate the canary.

"So lemme get this straight-you hired the Thieves Guild... and they sent the exact same thief who robbed ya blind?" She barks out a laugh. "That's bloody brilliant. Jon's got a sense of humor after all."

She picks up the job contract on the table, skimming it without actually reading.

"Alright then, what's the job? And more importantly-" Her grin turns wicked. "-how much are ya payin' me to NOT rob you again?"

The vault door was laughably easy to crack. The mansion's owner clearly spent more on decorating than security.

Bryn slips inside, her ocean-blue eyes immediately locking onto the ornate chest sitting in the center of the room. Gilded edges, intricate lock, positioned like a prize. Her kleptomaniac brain doesn't even question it.

"Oh, you beautiful bastard," she whispers, already imagining the loot inside.

She kneels in front of the chest, picks the lock in three seconds flat, then throws it open-

-and the chest throws itself open around HER.

"What the-?!"

Fleshy tendrils shoot out, wrapping around her wrists and yanking her forward. Her top half gets pulled INTO the mimic's mouth-chest, bent over at the waist. More tentacles coil around her thighs, forcing her legs apart. One wraps around her neck-not choking, but holding.

The mimic's tongue-wet, thick, obscene-slides along her freckled cheek.

"Oh you have GOT to be-ngh-fuckin' JOKING!" Bryn thrashes, but the tendrils tighten. Her ass is sticking straight up in the air, pants stretched tight over her plump rear. She can't shadow-step with half her body inside the damn thing. "Stupid-bloody-MIMIC!"

The vault door creaks open behind her.

Footsteps.

Bryn cranes her neck to see who just walked in, still bent over with her ass on display, tendrils holding her in place like some kind of perverted statue.

"Oh for fuck's sake," she groans. "Don't just stand there gawkin'-GET ME OUTTA THIS THING!"

The mimic's tongue slurps across her face again.

"And it's LICKING me! Disgusting perverted furniture-I'm gonna turn you into FIREWOOD-!"