The early afternoon sun hung in the sky, casting its warmth down on Nirn. The Skyrim air had its signature cold which was only exaggerated by the bite of the ocean breeze. The Sea of Ghosts was particularly angry today, as heavy winds whipped around Solitude and whistled through the stone edifices of the city. The breeze was also unusually saturated with the briny scent of the sea. But this evidently didn’t bother the Nord taking an afternoon nap atop a pile of potato sacks. Bundled by worn leather armor typical of the Thieves Guild, Esca was oblivious to the cold. His feet were up, supported by the spuds and he had folded his arms over his chest. Hood over his eyes to keep the wind out, he was taking a light snooze after a hard day’s work. If work could be defined as extorting the local shopkeepers, collecting “protection” money, bribing guards and getting updated by the Guild’s inside man at the East Empire Trading Company. His pockets were brimming with septims and he had no intention to lose or spend it. These coins were going straight to his private chest back in Riften. Of course, after he’d given the Guild their share. He’d saved quite the horde over the years and figured if he could keep this up he could probably buy a nice little manor right here in Solitude. A great big one, made of cold stone and with an ivy blanket. Oh he’d be sure to get one overlooking the sea. He’d fill it up with expensive art, priceless antiques, and plenty of gaudy trappings. Crystal chandeliers, satin curtains, velvet plush couches, gilded doorknobs, the finest clothes, the most expensive wines, and of course the world’s best security system. He was a thief after all; he knew that such luxury would attract criminals. Then again, living in Solitude wouldn’t be the most ideal places to live for Esca. He’d be practically forced to attend fancy soirees and be expected to wear posh clothing and mingle with the nobles. Not to mention the strong Imperial Legion presence. He might have stolen from the Legion a few times, and they would most likely not approve of him living there. His thoughts of luxury were interrupted by a strong blast of wind that almost threw him off his perch and flipped his hood down. Rearranging himself back unto his resting spot, he sat up and rubbed the drowsiness from his eyes. Sooner or later he would have to return to Riften, the others would be expecting him to return from his mission. After a stretch, he figured he could hang around the market stalls. Maybe he could snag just a little more septim from some poor fool before he departed. Jumping off the potato sacks, he began to slowly saunter towards the market stalls. Stuffing his cold, numb hands into his pants pockets to shield them from the wind’s sting, he walked up the cobbled path past some houses. He passed the Bards College, and for a moment pondered if he should strike there. Bunch of milkdrinkers anyway, sitting around playing music and reading poems. He figured he could steal their instruments, hold them for ransom. But that would just attract guards; it was simply too much trouble for him at the moment. Continuing his walk, he passed under a stone arch and soon came to the main square in Solitude. The stalls were bustling with citizens buying goods and shop keeps hawking their items. Luckily for him, there were few guards about today. Partly due to him paying them off to keep low for the time being until he left. He stood at the edge of the market fray, inspecting his surroundings and surveying for potential targets. He spotted some well-off nobles, and he could practically hear the gold jingling in their purses. However, they were flanked by a couple of sellswords, big, ugly brutes with uglier looking swords. Spotting an empty corner of the market occupied by nothing but some barrels, he strolled over. A perfect spot to pick up targets, secluded yet in full view. Opening a barrel to discover some apples, he plucked one out. Closing the barrel back up, then hopping on top to sit on it. He began tossing the apple into the air and then catching it, repeating this action as he scanned the market. Quietly whistling a tune to himself, he knew that one would turn up eventually. After all, a sucker is born every minute.

Or so they say.