Whiterun bustled under a torrid, gleaming midday sun that left backs sweaty, brows furrowed, and tongues parched, all in a day's work. The Bannered Mare soon became a brimming host to dozens of patrons seeking to either escape the heat or their problems with a cool ale and a warm bed. Windows had been lifted and doors propped open in an attempt to circulate the rather stuffy breeze and bring in cooler air. One of the many days Whiterun wished it had snow, rain, or at least a few trees.
For those with imminent business and pressing journeys ahead, shelter nor mead was an option, so the Marketplace provided an excellent and convenient stop for common-folk, mercenaries, and travelers alike to restock and get going back on their way. Merchants bellowed their pitches, fingers twitching and brows sweating, hoping to attract business or at least a little attention. To and fro bodies came and left, a gyrating chaos, thick of coin and bitter shoves, all in the heat and all in a hurry.
Such a chaos, one man, an Imperial fellow, tripped backwards by the heel of his own boot and landed plum on his rear, with a hard thud! and the usual oof! On impact, the man's rather plump coin purse bursted and sprayed the cobblestone with little golden chips. The Imperial man cursed to himself, out loud, not only at losing his coin (that was now being kicked about and swept up be every passerby) but also for ruining his fine velvet attire. It was a ruby-red tunic with gold trimmings, his trousers being a polar opposite of tortoise-green and sea-weed blue stockings with midnighter shoes.
Baroth peered over his shoulder at the commotion and brushed away a lock of his messy dirty blonde hair, watching as the crazed Imperial fumbled and crawled under the stampede of feet, scraping together what gold pieces he could grab. Baroth never could figure out why it seemed every Imperial had at least Ninety plus gold on their person at all times, and end up confused and frustrated when they actually get mugged or robbed.
Most would blame it on the Khajit outside and within the cities, likely suspects in such a crime, as society drove them to such a point. Now it was their habit, their dirty little secret, and they were damn good at it. But the truth was, anyone, given enough practice, could become a skilled thief. Gifted, even. Nord thieves were typically uncommon but existent; the infamous Thieves Guild being example A. And one had to have some good luck bargaining with them.
Either way, Baroth inwardly admitted, they could store their gold in less typical places, or just leave it at home altogether. Boy, do I miss the Imperial City.
With a reluctant sigh and a gesture of "goodbye" to the merchant, Baroth snaked his way through the crowd, wool brown cloak flapping tenderly behind him. Before he could reach the lad, however, his eye caught movement in his left peripheral: a figure's hand snatched a jewelry box off a merchant's stall and untied a coin purse from a curious Breton's wait, then vanished into the thick of the crowd.
In the few moments it took for him to turn and leave, Baroth had caught a glance of him; short braided hair, patchy beard, strong jawline, boisterous chin. A Nord? Maybe a Breton? Baroth scanned the crowd, trying to match memory to faces, but got nothing. If he'd stolen something like that, he'd be making for the gate... There! A few meters ahead of him, trotting towards the gate.
He groaned and yanked his cloak loose, tossing it down to the Imperial man, who caught it, bewildered.
"Hold this!" Baroth offered spontaneously, making to move before adding. "I'll be back in a second." And pushed through the crowds of varied faces and expressions.
It wasn't too long of a jaunt, and he was sure the thief hadn't heard or noticed him, but he wanted to see how far the man got or it this was for someone else. The man glanced back and Baroths eyes wondered elsewhere, to avoid detection. He spotted a guard and gave a warm wave, to which the guard nodded in return. He set his eyes forward again and spotted two other men ahead of him, on either side of the path, lying in wait. A group operation. Definitely a coincidence.
Amatuers.. An child would be more subtle..
And surely as if on cue, when the thief passed them and neared the gate, they pushed off and followed after him, one behind the other. Baroth was able to catch them just as they reached the main gate, calling them out.
"You know the saying, one man's trash is another man's treasure? Well, you taking another man's treasure makes all of you trash. Trash that belongs in Whiterun's dungeon."
They whirled around simultaneously, confusion and guilt getting the better of them. The guards on either side of the gate also took attention to the mater and rested their hands on the hilts of their swords. The thief even raised a brow, glancing between his brothers, criticizing them silently. Goddamn idiots, told them to look before they went all happy feet on me..
"Now, are we gonna to walk down there together or am I dragging you all on your asses over these hot-ass stones? Either way, you're sleeping on the floor tonight."
A pause. The Nord licked his lips and inclined his head, as if Baroth could hear his exact thoughts. Sonofabitch..
Unexpectedly, the two former brothers produced iron daggers from their robes and shanked the two guards in their ribs multiple times as the thief pressed back against the gate, heaving it open.
Once Baroth saw the glint of metal in their robes, he shot forward like an arrow, surprising even with his weight.
"NOOOO!!" He screamed, extending his arms outward in hooks to catch the brothers before they even raised their blades.
In a heap, four men flew out of Whiterun's main gate and rolled down the path a ways before they stopped. The guards nearly soiled themselves at the occurrence and watched as the men wrestled before one of them stood, bloody dagger in hand. They saw red, and as such, drew their blades concurrently, both singing the same tune.
Baroth stood not a moment later, head smashing into the Nordsman's chin, stunning him long enough to get ahold of his collar and swing him into his siblings. The guards instantly recognized him and moved to assist. He held up a hand to them, demanding they turn back.
"I got this! Hanson and Jorvir are badly injured, so help them to Dragonsreach! Go!"
They nodded, if lingering only for a moment, before sheathing their blades and turning back to do so. Baroth faced the men as they scram get up, and he let them, fists clenched as they charged him.
"Come on, then!"
In the span of a few seconds, the maniacs became good friends with the ground, one clenching his throat and gasping for breath, the other curled up in a ball, paralyzed with throbbing pain. In an attempt at what Baroth guessed was an escape, the braided thief threw the jewelry box right in Baroth's face and made a break for it down hill. He made it to the wall, near two other people, before he yelped and fell forward, dagger impaling his lower thigh, right below a butt-cheek.
A few moments later, a group of guards emerged from Whiterun, swords drawn, before they realized they didn't need them. Baroth gestured to the two men at his feet, and the third across the way.
"Put these psychos where they belong, please." He added, not forgetting his manners. They were late, but at least they were here, and that's all Baroth could ask for.
He took a step back and let them do them round up the lot, hoping they'd go away for a very long time. It still got him how they could just turn on the guards like that.. He turned and faced the high-risen sun, closing his eyes as the cool breeze and warm sunlight washed over him. A distinct feeling he always enjoyed basking in.
"Where's that day you promised, Baroth, with no bullpl*ps?.." He mumbled, more to himself than anything.