Opalina (prime)/The Sleepiest Rogue in Icemule
The Sleepiest Rogue in Icemule
Title: The Sleepiest Rogue in Icemule
Author: Opalina Jalcon
From the journals of Opalina Jalcon- 1-28-2002
Morning arrived long before I was ready for it.
I blame the hot cocoa.
Too much of it, not enough sleep, and whatever dreams had lingered refused to leave my head. I stumbled into Town Center still wrapped in the haze between sleeping and waking, watching familiar faces drift through the square like snowflakes caught in a lazy breeze.
Dravnum helping people.
Kelgea and Zehnduul stealing kisses.
Merjinia fussing with scrolls.
Rhamnus looking as dependable as ever.
Home.
There are some places where you never have to announce yourself. You simply arrive, and somehow everyone already knows you're there.
That is Icemule.
Someone asked if anyone could open boxes.
I raised my hand before my brain remembered to wake up.
Of course I could.
Boxes were simple.
Boxes made sense.
At least...they usually did.
Echinox handed me a sturdy silver strongbox, and I settled into work almost automatically.
No traps.
Good.
The lock, however...
Stubborn.
I frowned at it while my lockpick complained beneath my fingers.
Again.
Still no.
Again.
Nothing.
I could feel every missed tumbler mocking me.
"Hum..."
That about summed up the morning.
Farmhand boxes always did have an attitude.
Eventually I surrendered the box back to Echinox with an apologetic grin.
"One of those toughie ones."
He thanked me anyway.
No embarrassment.
Just another rogue understanding another rogue.
Sometimes skill isn't enough.
Sometimes steel simply refuses to cooperate.
Jerrec wandered over before long.
Jerrec had always existed in my life.
When you're young, heroes seem impossibly old.
When you grow older yourself...
...they're still impossibly old.
I teased him anyway.
"I bet you could if you put your mind to it."
He laughed.
Someone joked about people younger than you calling you old.
I pointed at myself.
"Hey, I've known Jerrec since I was a baby."
It was probably only a slight exaggeration.
Probably.
Then came my greatest feat of the day.
Not opening locks.
Not spotting traps.
No...
I somehow managed to begin opening boxes...
...in Town Center.
Town Center.
The one place every locksmith knows not to do such things.
I didn't even realize it.
Not until someone pointed it out.
"Did I just open boxies in TC??"
Jerrec answered with perfect deadpan.
"Well you tried to."
Heat flooded my cheeks.
Oh.
Oh no.
I had honestly believed I was standing beside the well.
I apologized to everyone.
"My brain isn't with me this morning."
"I thought I was at the well."
The laughter wasn't cruel.
Just amused.
Everyone has mornings.
Mine simply happened to involve public locksmithing violations.
Eventually I made my way where I should have been all along.
The well.
Children played nearby, dropping stones into the water while their laughter echoed up from below.
Now this felt right.
Boxes.
Customers.
The familiar rhythm of checking for traps.
Lockpick.
Click.
Payment refused unless I'd actually earned it.
One customer insisted on tipping me after I failed to open his impossible trunk.
I refused.
"I didn't lose a pick."
"I didn't open it."
"No charge."
He looked almost confused.
As though failure should still carry a price.
Perhaps other locksmiths thought that way.
I never could.
If someone trusted me enough to hand me their treasures...
The least I could do was be honest when I couldn't reach them.
The trunk defeated me.
Again.
And again.
Even with enchanted lock enhancements.
Even with better rolls.
The lock simply laughed.
I finally handed it back.
Some locks aren't meant for your hands.
Not yet.
Maybe someday.
Not today.
People teased me throughout the morning.
Breon tickled me.
Someone whispered invisible jokes.
Arimantis asked if I was alright.
I admitted the truth.
"Lack of sleep."
"And lots of hot cocoa."
There are few things more comforting than friends who understand you don't always have to be at your best.
Sometimes they simply let you be tired.
Sometimes that's enough.
When the morning finally settled around me, I looked down at my scarred hands.
Tiny cuts from lockpicks.
Old calluses.
A rogue's hands.
Not a priest's.
Not a hero's.
Just a locksmith trying to help people open whatever stood between them and the little treasures they'd earned.
Some days I saved lives.
Some days I failed to open a box.
Some days I forgot where I was entirely.
Yet somehow...
...the people of Icemule still smiled when they saw me coming.
Perhaps that was worth more than all the silvers hidden inside every lock I'd ever picked.
After all...
Anyone can become known for opening chests.
It is far harder...
...to become known for opening hearts.