Our story
Here we are, in a miserable outpost on the Eastern Sea they call Dashka.
For thousands of years, this place has been home to the Eastern Harbour, the mouthpiece of our desperate valley, and we Thieves have been its guardians.
They call us the Noble Thieves, but I never understood why.
We cheat, we lie, and we steal, but with every rotation this rock makes around our blackened sun I have yet to find someone that doesn’t.
If we’re Thieves, what is everyone else?
For generations, neighbouring tribes tried to capture our land, believing that riches lay beyond the poisonous sea that hugs our shore. All they found was cold death served with a smile.
Our ancestors had to deliver justice to a hundred eager armies before they stopped trying.
But the peace didn’t last long.
Bringing ruthless technology, the Machine Party is the only foreign power to occupy Dashka. With brutal efficiency they penned us in like squealing pigs and bled us dry.
Today, the Noble Thieves, who once rose from the ashes of empires, live in squalor. The Old Town that borders the Harbour, my home, is a slum.
Despite the occupation, the Eastern Harbour remains the centre of the global smuggling trade. Once fueled by Dashkan pirates, today’s smugglers find their treasure much closer to home.
Even with an official embargo for imports to the Old Town, the city’s Noble Thieves ensure the port’s mysterious cargo doesn’t evade them.
As the son of a Thief, Edo was raised in the Old Town, and was trained in the art of smuggling before he took his first steps across its cracked cobbles.
Every night, under the cover of darkness, he attempts to breach the Harbour’s defences to pry precious cargo from its grip.
This is where our story begins.
Yours eternally,
The Architect
Abi sits at the dock most nights.
Dangling his feet over the rancid water, he enjoys evenings spent alone. As his jetty creaks above the greasy bay, he dreams that he was the only man alive to hear it.
This isn’t true of course. Despite his remote outpost’s position downstream from the yawning mouth of the harbour, many small boats pause here each day, seeking permission to approach Dashka’s beating heart.
Every day, Thieves disguise themselves as fishermen, or foragers, or treasure hunters, and attempt to penetrate the Eastern Harbour. Abi watches them from his perch as they flat up to the jetty, correct their outfits, and rehearse their cover story one last time.
Once they have gathered themselves, they ring the bell that hangs precariously off a wilted, wooden stalk on the jetty. Abi often watches with glee as a flashing light signals them to approach, only for the dishevelled crew to return but a few moments later, typically arguing amongst themselves about why their ingenious plan has been foiled.
It never worked, and Abi knew it never would. The Machine Party had dozens of guards scoping every area of the harbour for this kind of ploy. How these stupid Thieves hadn’t realised this yet, Abi couldn’t understand. Stupid Thieves doing stupid things. No surprises there.
After a few months watching this tired circus, Abi grew bored of the Thieves’ performances and rescheduled his visitations to the evening. Abi didn’t like people anyway. The dark suited him just fine.
Dangling his boots off the jetty, he must have spent a hundred nights planning his own entrance to the harbour. He didn’t need a crew, or even a boat, just a rope, a tube and every ounce of courage he could muster.
The Old Town reeks of blood and rotting gold. For centuries it has been home to a lineage of Noble Thieves who, by cover of darkness and metallic rain, scurry through smuggling tunnels to pilfer from the world’s most valuable harbour nestled just beyond the border wall.
Unlike his thieving brethren, Forger has spent most of his life handling gold deposits for the Old Town’s infamous Banker. As his brothers and sisters use the dead of night to extract cargo from the Eastern Port’s supply ships, Forger sits in a musty corner of the Midnight Market awaiting their arrival.
Thieves are paid in gold for their troubles, and Forger controls the largest gold vault in Dashka.
Despite being outlawed as legal tender in Greater Dashka centuries ago, the Old Town runs almost exclusively on gold that flows from a single source; the Banker.
It is not clear where he came from, or what he does with it, but for many generations the Banker and his ilk have kept the Old Town’s heart pumping via an official exchange rate for gold and thieving bounty. A gram for a pickaxe, a pebble for a gun, and a bar for an armoury; prices in the Old Town are well established.
Very little is known about Forger and his connection to the Banker. Some believe that he saved the Banker’s life from a mugging many years ago, and was repaid with a job as his head of security. Others say it is really Forger that runs the Old Town, and that he uses his humble bench sheltered by a torn canopy in the Midnight Market to disguise his true power. All that is known for certain is that Forger is one of the most deadly Thieves in the entire region.
As the only source of the Old Town’s official currency, many have tried their luck against him. None have succeeded.
Wearing bandages from their attempted conquests as a sort of sick boast, the glint of Forger’s grin can be seen as he dispenses gold pebbles and bars into filthy thieving hands throughout the night. Many years ago he sustained his worst injury yet as a gang of six pounced from the shadows attempting to claim a large gold deposit from the Central Chamber.
Using his barbed club, he swiftly dispatched two of his assailants, but in the struggle was thrown into a tip of scrap metal he had just exchanged for a few gold balls. Momentarily bested, his remaining attackers grabbed his ankles and tore him from the shards of metal attempting to finish the job.
As the sound of cold steel ripping through his chest tore through the Midnight Market, the crowd gasped and watched in awe as one of Dashka’s most violent thieves flailed helplessly before them.
Quickly regaining composure, Forger kicked off his assailants and sprang to his feet. Tearing a shard of metal from his chest and brandishing it in front of him, the remaining four froze.
After a nervous pause that felt like an hour, one of the gang suddenly turned and sprinted off into the crowd. He was quickly followed by the others who sprinted after him, away from the mass of blood and metal that stood unshakably before them.
Forger didn’t have to move, as his reputation chased them through the dark streets of the Old Town.
The crowd stood stunned. Forger took a seat at his disheveled trading desk and pulled out a wad of bandages he kept stored close by. Still grinning, he sat amongst the pile of gold and scrap metal, and began to wrap himself.
Many have told the story of Forger and the Midnight Six, but few know the ending. As he sat back down at his desk and invited the crowd to go about their Thieving business, Forger never fully cleaned his wounds.
Leaving shards of metal embedded under his stained bandages he made a pact that he would not allow himself to be compromised ever again. Leaving the shrapnel to chafe against his chest and arms, he decided this would be a constant reminder that there is no glory in defeat.
Forger still sits in the corner of this ancient market. If you go close enough, you can still see him smiling.
