Clayr tries to subdue the guard

Boldness was not his forte, a life as a rogue had taught him that to survive one cannot make themselves obvious. There are times, however, when taking a single person out of the equation can make the impossible possible. Clayr waits, a nervous tremor running through his spine. Each step, each clank of the guard's armor, echoes painfully in his head as Clayr remains in darkness. Not willing to raise his head even the slightest, he cannot see his pursuer nor they him.

The heavy leather boots are next to him. He senses a small hesitation in the cadence, regret rushing through his mind. Then as suddenly as he imagined it, the footfalls continue on toward the back. Almost too excited to believe it, Clayr slowly lifts the edge of his hood, peeking out. The watchman has their back to him, peering into the final fifteen feet into mound of garbage.

The familiar voice of a women calls out from under the guard's garb, "If yer in there, come out nows an I'll be gentle. Maybe only lose a hand or duece before comin' to the gallows." The woman draws out her weapon, a shortsword. "Come on now, don't make me slay ya on the spot."

Clayr cringes at the morbid declarations his enemy is making. Standing slowly, the thief remains low and silent as he makes his way up behind her. Fortunately, she has her lantern out, his shadow cast behind him and not noticeable to her. His lip is sore as he bites it, his heartbeat racing with adrenaline as he stalks his prey.

"That's it, no mercy". She begins stabbing at the random gaps between planks and burlap sacks. Each thrust sends chills down Clayr's spine. He draws out a thin cord of greased hemp, coiling it around his hands on each end of it's two foot length. He promises to himself the he would show as much mercy as she had.

With swift deftness the noose closes over her head and around the woman's neck. The air is caught in her throat and she thrashes wildly. Clayr cringes as he garrotes her for dear life, her shortsword making lacerations on his cheek and arm. The ligature refuses her lungs any air and the gaurd soon collapses silently to the ground.

The woman's face is blue and she lies still. The lamp-light is dim and sputters only to be swooped up by the young assailant. He gawks at the form below him, his eyes wide in horror at what he just did. Despite her ill palor, the woman is still comely in a spartan way. Guilt tugs at his heart and he falters in his resolve.