Daggers (Rogue) (Chaotic Nuetral)

What to expect: doing whatever it takes to survive, and learning how to confront your problems

You look around the circular room, both marveling and puzzled at the vast array of weapons and tools here. Puzzled as to how you got here, as there doesn't seem to be any clear way to move the metal bars blocking the only way in or out. Marveling, as your mind runs through the rough prices of everything you can see, and the values add up in a hurry. With the right fence, or even just someone in **** enough need, you could be set up for a long time. Of course, that all depends on you finding a way out. You're not worried about that; you've been escaping out of places for as long as you've been alive.

You've had to. Fending for yourself on the streets of Old Town since you were a kid, anything you've had is something you've had to fight or steal for. Without even clothes on your back this time, you have no compunction doing it again. Whatever it takes to survive. No attachment, no rules, no exceptions.

Or so you thought, as you look around, you find something that catches your eye. A belt with two daggers holstered in them. On the hilts of either blade are moons; a crescent moon on the other, and a gibbons moon on the other. Removing them from the belt, you inspect them meticulously. There's not a flaw or oversight anywhere. The blade is sharpened precisely and balanced perfectly with the handle, which feels like it was tailored to your hands. You'd have to get a second opinion, but you suspect the moon decorations are actually inlaid mithril. You never thought you'd say or think it, but these are actually too good to sell.

But not too good not to steal. Placing the blades back, you hoist the belt around your waist. Wearing nothing else, it's a strange sensation of the leather against the bare skin of your waist, but you can get past it. Wouldn't be the first time that you've only had a few straps of leather on your naked body, though that was a special circumstance, you tell yourself. Bringing yourself to the present, something else catches your eye. A peculiar sliver of metal, that seems roughly made and brittle. What most people would see as likely scrap, you understand to be a useful lockpick, at least once. Looking back at the bars, you see a small lock that you missed before; one constructed into the brick wall itself, that must be controlling some mechanism for the metal bars. Hurrying over, you fiddle with the lockpick, and using one of your new blades as an extra bit of leverage. It takes longer than you're used to find your way around, but you hear the satisfying sound of the lock opening, a content smile flashing across your face in response. Pulling your tools away, the metal bars fell almost instantly, with a great heavy thud. Something that someone else would be sure to hear. You start to run out, but have a second thought. Running back, you grab as many of the other weapons on the wall as you can; a mace, a broadsword, a buckler shield, and what looks to be a spellbook, and make your way out. Danger or no, you're still broke, and you still have an opportunity to fix that.

Running through the empty gate is an alltogether strange experience, because for the first time in your life, you can't see. Your Drow eyes are adjusted to working in the Underdark and it's absense of light, but this feels like you've been blindfolded. It's a nervewracking experience, but one you can't get frozen by. You continue on in your best guess as to straight ahead, until you begin to see light. With that as a destination, your pace quickens. Coming through, the strangeness only grows. Your clothes have returned, but the items you carried were gone, save the daggers at your hips, the spellbook you had carried between your arm and your side had become a large loaf of bread. Further, you find yourself in a familiar area; some place that couldn't have possibly been connected to that armory. The Matchsticks; the rough part of the already rough Old Town; a collection of roughly made and assembled homes and apartments, cobbled together from refuse from the nearby docks or whatever else could be gathered together. This is your home, and passing through, you see a familiar face. An elvish child, sitting along the wall. Calling her a "high elf" in such a place would be insulting and cruel, even for you. Her golden hair was marred by dirt and mud, her attire could have easily been scraps taken from the bottom of a wheelbarrow. Her frame was meager and malnourished. And yet, she was able to bring about a smile seeing you. Her eyes quickly gravitate to the most valuable thing you have on you; food.