Yemesvel wakes up. No, wait, that's not who I am, is it?

Yes, it is. Yemesvel is Yemesvel.

Oh. Right. Still doing the third-person thing. Totally didn't expect that little character detail to pop up when Yemes- I created her.

I can suppress it but she's spent the last 12 years referring to herself by her name so I'm fighting an uphill battle against a deeply ingrained habit. It sneaks up on me when I'm not paying attention.

I already get funny looks from the Runts when I try to stop it. Or, at least a different breed of funny look. Yemesvel is a bit more of an oddball than I wrote her to be.

But they're used to that, so, for now, It's being written off as Yemesvel being Yemesvel...

I realise that's the correct usage of the phrase, but even so, I swear I felt a fleeting sense of smugness when I said it.

This whole two minds of the same cloth in one body thing is unreal. I mean, it is unreal, just...

"You know what, forget it," I grumble, sitting up and instantly regretting taking a nap on the edge of a steep cliff.

The city of Redault stretches out beneath me. A sprawling, filthy place, built in the shadow of a mountain. The mountain I almost fell off the side of in my sleep but whatever, details.

The trek up here was definitely worth the view. I don't know if It's the elven part of my heritage or my higher than average focus and perception, but I can quite literally see for miles up here. I'm reminded of my days spent as a sous chef in Paris, when the staff took a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower for my birthday.

I smile at the memory. It's a shame I don't have an ice cream to drop over the edge so I can come full circle, completing the cycle of clumsy idiocy.

Hm. There's an idea. I should try making ice cream. I think the local nobility only has fruit yoghurt and Shaved Ice.

This injustice will not stand, or Yemesvel is not Yemesve-damn it.

Ugh.

Gods it's chilly up here.

The sun is getting low by the time I enter through the city's southwestern gates. The sentries on duty stare at me as I walk by, some in recognition, others for less child-friendly reasons.

I inherited my mother's good looks, and half-elves are rare enough for all kinds of salacious rumours to spawn from the attention-starved degenerate masses. To say nothing of the inherent novelty of being able to bed one of elven blood.

When Yemesvel was young, she was, with one short-lived exception, regarded as an adorably precocious child. In the last year, however, that has started to change as I mature.

Putting my feelings about being treated as a trophy aside, from a pragmatic point of view It's incredibly inconvenient. The bright red hair got me in enough trouble when I was younger, but for a thief to draw so much attention to themselves is problematic with the skills I've learned up to now.

A pickpocket is just another face In the crowd, after all. People won't remember the full picture but details like 'pretty half-elf' and 'striking red hair' will. And I'm the only one who fits both descriptors, as far as I know.

Wearing a hood mitigates it a little, I'll grant you, but that just changes me to 'suspicious cloaked woman' instead, which makes the approach harder in a city where it's not the normal fashion.

All the literature depicting thieves with cloaks are damn liars and frauds, I tell you. Not that I realised that before receiving Yemesvel memories, but that doesn't make me feel any less betrayed.

Waiting for a break in the crowd of people trying to make it home from a day's hard labour, I slip through and into a side street branching off from the main road.

Checking behind me for any tails, I sink into the shadows next to a stack of crates and wait for the sun to completely vanish.

Thankfully, I don't have to wait long. Standing up, I glance around again, hearing little - or at the very least nothing close-by of interest, brush the dust and some lingering pie crumbs and scale the crates.

Pulling myself onto the flat roof of the adjacent building, I take a long drag of the stale city air at night. Smiling in spite of myself, I limber up and break into a sprint across the rooftop, then leap across the divide into the open window of a taller building opposite legs extended forward and landing in a squat.

"Heya," calls a young male voice from a dark corner next to the window, "Password?"

"Sod your passwords, Friedrik. Yemesvel ain interested," I snap, rolling my eyes.

Fredrik sighs, "It wouldn't kill you to play along just once, Yem. We use them for a reason."

I demonstrate what I think of his dumb passwords by giving him the universally recognised one-finger salute and walking off to a ladder resting against the wall.

I'm stopped from climbing it by a tap on my shoulder, "Ah, ah, ah. Boss wants to see you."

I growl turning around reluctantly, "What's he want now? If he tries to grab Yemesvel's-"

"Nothing like that. He's still pissing blood y'know?" Fredrik waves his hands, professing innocence.

My mouth twists into a smirk from a scowl, "Oh? How would you kn-"

"Because he complains to anyone he thinks will listen, and since I can't leave the room most days, I have to sit and suffer," He retorts, cutting me off before I finish the question, "Frankly, he should be wearing a codpiece around you, but that's his fault for taking a joke too far. He's got a job for you."

I sigh, "Alright, but if you hear him screaming for help, do me a favour and ignore it, k?"

"Just so long as he can still do his job, Yen," He warns.

I smile brightly, "I'm sure the whores on Vebuk Street will miss his business, but I don't think he needs 'It' to find us all work."

Friedrik flinches, hands twitching toward his groin.

I head downstairs, smug.

Downstairs, in the office of the Drag Street Runts' front business, Dragon's Hoard, a pawn shop that specialises in fencing and 'finding' valuable items, a slightly chubby-faced man with greasy blonde hair sits behind a desk covered in assorted jewellery and a single ceramic bottle of mystery liquor that smells like boot polish.

"Hey Boss, how're the kids?" I announce with a grin, shutting the door gently behind me.

He winces, reaching for the bottle and taking a swig, then belching acrid air back out, "Got a request while you were out 'sightseeing' as you called it. When I heard it I immediately thought of you."

"That's sweet of you, Boss," I say, all smiles, inwardly suspicious.

He coughs, putting down his 'Flask of Courage +2' and presenting a businessman-like demeanour, "A..customer from the Thynnwirk Clait came in to request that a rival customer, the Head of the Dwast Clait have their efforts to impress a visiting representative from House Flom be for nought."

I frown, "Politic people, boss? You sure that's a good idea? You know what happened when the Jasper Vandals on East Road took 'ammers to that pervy Gurn merchant's stone garden sluts."

"They're called sculptures, Yem," he clears a space on the desk then takes out some parchment and a stick of charcoal, "And I have been given a substantial upfront payment, as well as the offer to have the person who succeeds be employed and trained as a Spy if they do well enough. The Advanced Class, not just to be an ear against a nobleman's bedchambers. Which will suit me just fine if it gets you out of my hair forever."

Now that catches my attention. Advanced classes are hardly common, and a class like Spy isn't exactly easy to luck into. You need to attain a level of subtlety and stealth Yemesvel completely lacks. If they're going this far, then they're looking to make a larger statement than I thought. There's also a chance they're using the promise of training to lure me someplace quiet to meet a businessman's knife, but I find it more likely that the Runts will be silenced instead if I agree to become their pet Spy.

"So why Yemesvel?" I frown, suspicious.

"I'm not an idiot, girl. You've been chafing under the Runts' membership for years, and I'll grudgingly admit you're too talented for our usual smash'n grabs. But if that was all it was, I'd have given it to Ricko. And ya can't say he wouldn't do a better job than you, don't try'n tell me otherwise."

It wounds Yemesvel's pride to hear it, but the young boy would certainly flourish under a skilled Spy mentor, and his small size is great for burglaries.

"I'm sending you for two reasons. One, I'm a petty bastard, and even if you're caught mid-way I'll be paid a percentage of the final cut for you slipping past their vaunted security in the first place," He laughs, jowls shaking. Slicking back his disgusting hair after a few strands fall down his fat face.

"Second, because the specific way they want it done just screams 'Yemesvel'. Head Fillip has gathered a small collection of delicacies from far afield and had them prepared by a Master grade Chef to demonstrate his Clait's wealth and their value as a business partner. You're to ensure that this feast is ruined before the representative and her delegation has a chance to sample it."

I lick my lips, trying to not drool, "Yemesvel is going to eat all of it."

Quest Accepted! A Dragon's Appetite Personal Quest Difficulty: Modest/Extremely Hard

The Thynnwirk Clait, one of the city's powerful merchant families, has caught wind of one of their rival Claits' ambitions and has hired the Drag Street Runts to discretely sabotage a party being thrown for a representative from House Flom and his retinue.

Objective/s:

Infiltrate the Dwast Clait's manor 0/1

Sabotage the Feast of Rarities 0/1

Escape 0/1

Optional: Leave no evidence 0/1

Optional: Betray the Thynnwirk Clait and inform the Dwast Clait of their plans 0/1

???

???

???

Rewards:

Dependant on choices and performance

"I had a feeling that would interest you. The customer implied you should make a mess of it, but having a few crumbs be all that remains will be a powerful statement all the same," he laughs sadistically.

I fiddle with my ponytail, hiding my anxiety about how weirdly perfect this whole situation is. I have basically no reason to refuse the job, on the surface. If it's for real, I stand to gain a great deal.

But that's what makes me so nervous. I can feel the shadows behind the theatre curtain arranging props for a grand performance - this is such a classic set-up from the novels that helped inspire Yemesvel's character. The secondary difficulty rating of Extremely Hard and all those question marks are evidence enough of that. So, I don't know if this is a story I want to be an actor in.

Even if nothing happens, Thynnwirk Clait will put a leash on my neck and use me for all I'm worth until I become a liability or fuck up a job. I don't want to give up my freedom for a gilded dog collar I'd have to die to remove.

Another, more immediate problem, is what will happen if I refuse the job. I already know enough to make me worth silencing and this fat toad knows it.

I'm cornered, and there's only one way out. Do the job, then disappear from the city without anyone else realising who crashed the party. Thynnwirk may be insulted that I refused to submit to them, but if the job gets done, I have to hope they won't expend too much effort in pursuing me as long as I don't do anything to implicate them or myself.

A few years of laying low, and they'll likely forget I ever existed.

"Well? I don't got all night, girl," the Boss prompts impatiently, tapping his pudgy fingers on the desk surface.

"Alright. I'll get it done. How much time do I have to prepare?" I ask, grimly serious.

The boss is taken aback by my unexpected change in attitude, "G-good to see you're taking our customer's needs to heart. The feast is scheduled to take place just before sundown. You'll have to find out the exact schedule on your own, but a sympathetic individual in the manor will leave the ale cellar door unlocked and unguarded, should you require it. It goes without saying, but don't fuck this up for me. I stand to gain a great deal more coin if this goes well."

I nod, leaving the office behind.

Night well underway, I sway back and forth in a rickety old rocking chair in the dorm room in the third-floor attic space. A wind blows through cracks and holes in the rotting wooden ceiling; thin bedrolls, dirty linen and discarded trash litter the floor.

I stare absently at my status screen, stewing in my anxiety.

Name: Yemesvel Age: 15 Race: Half-Elf (Human) Class: Thief Level: 4 Statistics Strength 10 Intellect 14 Dexterity

12

Willpower

9

Agility

15

Reflexes

12

Constitution

8

Focus

13

Perception

12

Magic Affinity

10

Charisma 11 Stamina

9

Professions Burglar Expert Level 1 Pickpocket Apprentice Level 8 Chef Apprentice Level 5 Tailor Novice Level 3 Traits Racial: Blessed Birth (Half-Elf)(Human)

Few are the unions between elves and the race below, but fewer still are those fortunate enough to bear fruit.

A Half-Elf born of a Human will often inherit the best of both parents' qualities, thanks to the adaptable nature of humanity.

Gain +2 to the highest stat of each parent.

Elf: Agility +2

Human: Focus +2

Memorable Beauty (Half-Elf)(Elf)

Though legends of the beauty of elves may be exaggerated, your very existence gives credence to the tales.

Gain increased Charisma and Fame when interacting with those who find you attractive.

Scales in proportion to depth of attraction, modified by base charisma. No upper limit.

Personal: Deft Hands

Your fingers are exceptionally nimble.

When performing delicate actions with your hands and fingers, receive 50% more from your dexterity.

Dependant on Focus.

Bonus reduced to 10% in combat.

Gourmet

To eat is to love, to love food is to live.

Through your deep understanding and passion for the culinary arts, you are able to discern subtle differences in the meals you eat and have a chance to identify poison defiling the sanctity of the dish by sight and smell alone.

Effectiveness dependant on Focus, Perception and level of Chef Profession.

Acrobat

You have truly mastered the limits of your body's ability to move.

Agility +1

Dexterity +1

Appraise Item(Thief)

A Thief steals for personal gain and can discern the treasure from the trash.

Able to approximate the monetary value of an item.

Appraisal success and accuracy dependent on experiences, class level, related held skills/traits/class/professions, and the item in question.

Accuracy and Success also dependant on time spent studying the item.

Quick and Quiet(Thief)

Stealth and Speed are the Thief's bread and butter.

When attempting stealth, you are 30% more efficient and effective.

Active Skills Fade Away Through study of stealth, you have learned to hide your presence.

After locating suitable cover, concentrate for 25 seconds.

Whilst under the effects of Fade Away, become 20% harder to detect by mundane senses.

Activation time reduced by Focus

Cannot be seen attempting.

Spells

N/A

Weapon Proficiencies

Straight Daggers

Apprentice Level 5

Curved Daggers

Apprentice Level 1

Throwing Knives

Novice Level 6

Hand-to-Hand

Novice Level 7

Titles

Blessed Child

Successfully conceived by an unlikely union

Grants Trait: Blessed Birth

Sneak-Thief

Steal an item and escape without being noticed or caught.

Gourmet

Eat a dish prepared by a Master Grade or Higher Chef, and be inspired by the experience

Grants Trait: Gourmet

Senior Runt

Attain the rank of Senior in the Drag Street Runts

Grants Access to better Jobs

Heister

Successfully complete a burglary without being caught

Increased Infamy if discovered

Unlocked Profession: Burglar

Accomplished Heister

Successfully complete 50 burglaries without being caught

Greatly Increased Infamy if discovered

Profession: Burglar level increased by 1

(Does not advance Grade, gains applied after Grade increase if applicable)

Expert Heister

Successfully complete 100 heists without being caught, and stealing an exceptionally valuable item as part of a Very Hard or higher rated quest.

Massively Increased Infamy if discovered

Profession: Burglar advanced to next Grade.

Flowering Beauty

Gain the admiration of more than 100 people for your looks before reaching maturity.

Increased Fame in:

Redault

A pair of urchins crawl up the ladder. Looking around they shout in glee, "Aunt Yemmie!" Scampering over the rubbish.

The smaller urchin, a Munbas girl named Ten with a lion's brush-like tail and a series of bandages over her arms and hands, reaches me first, "Auntie, Auntie! Do you have any sweets?!"

The larger, a human boy, arrives a second later, tugging on my trousers, face beaming with pride, "Aunt Yemmie, I got you a present!"

Wordlessly, I pull out a sticky currant filled bun wrapped in a clean cloth and pass it to the girl, before leaning forward and flicking the boy on the forehead.

"Ow!"

"Silly boy, you'll make Dazzy jealous like that," I scold him quietly, glancing at the greedy little girl wandering off, trying her best to fit the whole bun in her mouth and failing.

The boy, Ricko, turns bright red, "B-b-but..I don't like her like that!"

His crush on me is precious, but It's plainly obvious that he's not being honest with me or himself. Children can be so adorable.

Yemesvel is more or less the closest the youngest two members of the Runts have to a mother figure. She, by which I should say we, can't help but want to dote on and feed the hungry scamps. Alexis because of her pride as a chef, and Yemesvel because she knows what it's like to truly starve, thanks to the death of our mother.

Perhaps the hardest thing for me about this job is the muddy fates of Ricko and Dazzy. With me gone, There's going to be nobody left who cares enough to look after them. They'll still be fed, but without me passing them extra snacks they won't get enough to grow healthily.

Ricko will be able to endure just fine, but the sickly Dazzy will struggle.

I want desperately to take them with me, but I know I can't drag them into this whole mess.

Even so...

"Dazzy, come here. I've got something important to tell you both" I command, moving from the creaky chair to kneel on the floor, putting face at eye-level with them.

Dazzy skips over with a big smile, a single currant stuck to her cheek, "Ok!"

Ricko looks at me, worried, "Auntie?"

I look at them both, "I need you to do something very, very important for me, ok?"

Dazzy tilts her head, the embodiment confused naivete, "Something important?"

I nod, "Yemesvel has a job tomorrow night. When you wake up in the morning and go out on your sprees, you need to grab some money and food, and leave the city to go to some other town. The further away, the better. You can't ever come back, you might never see me again, and above all, you cannot tell anyone where you're going or why. Especially not me."

Ricko gapes, "But, Auntie why?!"

"The Boss has gone political."

Both their adorable young faces turn hard, belying their age and usual temperament. They may be kids, but children in this business age far faster than others. They know the significance of the statement.

"Izzit really that bad?" Dazzy asks.

"Dunno how far up the chain this goes. Not taking any chances. Gut feeling," I reply gravely.

They think for a minute, gears turning in their tiny skulls, look at each other long and silently, then nod. Once to each other, once to me.

"Good," I smile softly, "Look after each other, ya hear? After tonight, you're all the two of you have that you can rely on. Now come here, Yemesvel wants one last hug to remember you by. Yemesvel might not see you for a long, long time."

I gather them up in my arms and squeeze tight, warm tears soaking through my clothes.

After enjoying the moment for who knows how long I pull back and grin impishly at them both, cackling.

"Next time I see you there had better be grandkids."

""AUNTIE!""