Wattys 2021 Bootcamp

Dene Plews - Queen of Thieves

With a curt nod, he thanked her before closing the door and locking her into the familiar tight space, teeming with bodies of those roaring laughter and idly chatting.

The Rook was the only pub she wasn't turned away from when she was sixteen. The only one that didn't ask for a name, not after she earned her keep in a bar brawl that should have ended in her demise or at least rendered her unconscious. Impressed and a little appreciative for the young woman, the owner bade her return, allowing her a seat at the bar and an offer to accept employment as one of his personal bodyguards. She almost laughed and denied what he posed as a generous proposition, but tonight he was less than thrilled to see her.

He stood behind the taproom bar as if he had anticipated her arrival. A scowl cut upon his aging face. A hand knuckled on his fat side, and the other pressed onto the gleaming countertop. "I told you not to come back," said the middle-aged man.

She ignored his welcome and continued sauntering by the many round tables littered with empty shot glasses and mugs of ale, noting all the eyes of those occupying the low-back seats and a few standing in crowds along the wall.

The rumors of who she was traveled far and wide; what they entailed, she hardly cared, though she found them amusing.

She never negated any of them—not that anyone approached her about it—and allowed the gossip to turn into a legend—if she could go so far.

He glared with glacial blue eyes clouded with aging fog and streams of red blood vessels about to burst as she propped an arm without concern before him, knowing he couldn't make out her face through the shadow of her heavy hood. "Still angry, Wally?" She asked blandly, knowing he was still sour for all the damages she'd caused in the last barfight.

"You cost me a lot of money, missy," he warned, barring pale yellow teeth.

She scoffed a smile, taking the shot meant for him.

It burned, coating her throat with fire, but she didn't let on. She came to wallow in self-pity and hoped a few shots and a mug of ale would be enough to excuse her for the damages she'd likely lay should someone pick a fight. Which they usually did, refusing to believe the young woman took out one of Wally's brawniest ticks. One he couldn't shake.

He got what he deserved. The stupid idiot should have thought twice before placing hands on her, thinking her meek, compliant, and easily swayed like the poor women Wally employed.

She took a gander at the room under the safety of her hood, catching a group of men she didn't recognize through the corner of her eye as Wally begrudgingly poured her another shot. "You don't look so well."

You wouldn't either if you were about to be sold off to some suitor, she wanted to say but kept her remark behind her teeth. Instead, she reverted and replied, "How do you know what I look like?" Slinging back the second shot, grateful for the buttons sewed into both her cloak and tunic hood to keep them from falling.

"It's the air about you," he commented, "I can read you like a book."

Placing the empty glass back on the countertop. "You can read?"

His face shaded, and she flashed a gentle grin, revealing a set of perfectly polished teeth. "What do your senses tell you?" she asked with a dip of her head, not wanting to push his buttons and risk being thrown out.

"That you're vying for a fight."

Elowen didn't blink.

"I mean it, girl." Pointing a sharp finger. "You cause any trouble tonight, and I won't let you back." And he meant it.

She caught the almost unnoticeable flick of his eyes dart to their corners, to the strange group of men about half his age before he murmured, "I'm hosting some very important... clients, and I don't need any trouble."

Intrigue got the best of her, but she knew better than to pry when he was angry. So after removing her cloak and draping it over the crook of her arm, she snatched the mug of ale he offered and wandered to the back, choosing a secluded table near a frosted glass window and positioned herself, so her back was against the wall.

Despite its horrendous smell, The Rook wasn't as bad as it seemed and had a certain charm about it, including the low beam ceiling adorned with black iron chandeliers, pouring a sinister light over the many faces cast in shadow, making the patrons more menacing than they actually were.

Elowen took a swig of her ale, tempted to glance again at the men sequestered near the wall along her left playing what looked to be a game of King's Rush.

The most common mistake made throughout history was how easy it was to underestimate your opponent, which is precisely what Elowen thought as she quietly observed the group roaring in victory as another poor soul lost his weekly earnings in a rigged game of cards.

Beneath the shadow of her cowl, she quietly observed, watching him shoot up from his seat in spit-filled rage.

His chair didn't remain vacant for long. Not as the newest gentlemen approached and, from his coin purse, drew the change she'd watch him exchange at the bar for a few silver ducats, their polished metal glinting in the dim light as he slid them across the table and into the pot.

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