>>5934269>>5934268The Thief regards you neutrally. You smile, wondering if the expression translates… And then the Thief smiles back. The expression seems natural, at a glance, but the eyes… The creature’s eyes don’t quite match the mouth. And yet…
>20 for Sense Motive…His posture shifts, and you recognize the way he shifts his head and body. He might be wearing an elf’s face and body, but he moves like a reptile—like Hershy, or like your dear sweet Muffins’ snake-headed tail. And he is expressing not fear, or hostility, but curiosity. You carefully adjust your own body language, moving slowly and speaking with an even volume, as if dealing with a wary snake.
“You seek to steal my people’s secrets with diplomacy?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” you say, and then after a moment, you think better of it. “Well, maybe a little. You are called THE THIEF. Surely you understand the value in a bit of intellectual burglary?”
The Thief nods again, and somehow the smile seems more genuine, even if his face doesn’t change.
“You would be foolish not to extract what intelligence you can, Mage Apprentice.”
“I have nothing I can share with you,” he says. “I am an… What si it your race says? ‘Open book’? I am, however, no spellcaster.”
“So your illusions…”
The Thief taps his face.
“All in the masssk,” he says, accent slipping for just a moment.
“Some enchantment on that,” Pearce notes.
“Pearce is right,” you note. “It’s a masterwork. SOMEONE in your group knows magic.”
“It is an item of ancient manufacture,” the Thief admits—no, BOASTS. “It comes from the hoard of the Red Dragon King, originally.”
“Shit,” Pearce murmurs.
“The Red Dragon King?” Izzy asks, narrowing her eyes. “But everything of its hoard was looted or destroyed centuries ago.”
“Everything YOUR race could find,” the Thief corrects. “But , for a skilled… What was it? ‘Intellectual burglar’? Yes, there are still secrets in Bloodrise… Secrets known only to the Dragon King, and the Master Race.”
“Is that how you earned the title ‘Thief’?” you ask. “Plundering old tombs?”
This provokes another shift in demeanour, subtle indeed, but you spot it immediately—the slight flinch.
“Sorry,” you say. “touchy subject?”
“It was… Not a mark of honour, when I was given it. It was a brand, given to me by… My OLD mastersss.”
You remember the creature’s face—his TRUE face, glimpsed briefly, burned and blemished badly along one side.
“But not anymore?” you ask.
The Thief seems to consider this, and then shakes his head.
“The Dragon King calls me ‘Thief’, and ‘Assassin’, and ‘Spy’. Ach of these roles has earned me honour in the new order… A place in the New Age which is soon to come. A role of such prestige, with duty to such a master, can be no mark of shame.”
