Lashiek was shrouded in darkness at this time of the evening. Only the wealthy or foolhardy used open lights in the city, of fear of attack or fear of discovery before they themselves thieved upon someone. T'was true, Lashiek was known more for its Corsairs than it's bandits, but there was still no shortage of scoundrels within the bowels of the deceivingly opulent city. And of course, even if a light would make you a target, it still brought comfort to those unused to such settings. This was what Amal ibn Has'raikk had counted on, and he was not disappointed. 

Even without the sun, the lands of Araby still lingered from the day's heat. Amal steadied his breathing, calming himself as the footsteps became audible to his ears. He suppressed the urge to smile at his fortune. He had spent too many nights going to sleep hungry to count his throats before they're slit. He padded the hilt of his dagger with his nimble fingers, the blade sharp enough to shave a scorpion's ass. The footfalls grew louder, and even a non thief would be able to hear it now as it approached closer. Three men, which met the headcount he had made earlier. 

The Satrap and his two guards moved at a steady pace, soon entering the light in the street to walk past Amal's hiding place. The light would disorient them for but a moment, and they would feel safer within. 

Two moments passed, and the men entered the light and continued past Amal, unbeknownst of his whereabouts. The Satrap wore an elaborate headpiece ringed with ivory and royal purple atop a flowing golden robe. The guards were nearly as impressive, with sweeping armoy of bronze filigree, and red capes that kissed the sand as they walked. As soon as they had passed the alley, Amal rolled out into the open of the light as their eyes attempted to adjust to darkness once more. 

Under the flow of their crimson cloaks, his dagger shop out and severed the rope that held the Satrap's coinpurse. Amal held out his offhand, and let it fall with the coins so as to catch them with as little noise as possible. As soon as he had the purse in his possession, he slipped out of the light at their backs and gave a triumphant grin. Greedily, he pulled the thread to open the coinpurse, letting the coins spill into his strong hands. 

It was no King's fortune, and it was even less than he had hoped from a Satrap. But it was gold, and it would last him for many nights. Perhaps he could even afford a bath and try his luck seducing one of the local Pasha's voluptuous dancers with a display of wealth. The possibilities were wide and varied. He nearly did not notice the steel being drawn, glinting in the light he had just been within. 

"Serpent's teeth, my money! By Allah, find the bandit who took my gold!" The Satrap roared. He wouldn't ever get it back, for Amal was already traversing the towering building next to him. His arms were long and strong, almost simian in appearance. They needed to be in order for him to climb as effectively as he did. With a tug and a shift of his hips, he swung his legs into an archwindow and landed nimbly. "Allah will give you no fortune today," he whispered to himself, referring to the Satrap's cries. The room he found himself in was adorned with tapestries of the old kingdom under Sultan Jaffar. 

He did not know much history, having been sold into slavery by his mother as a small boy. He recalled her glee at giving him away so she could afford another breadloaf for dinner to appease his father's ire. He had worked in a quarry for six years before he had escaped and entered a life of banditry. Over a dozen years later, he had become one of the most infamous rogues in the city, though he had crossed far too many people to be in one of the infamous thief guilds. He had to make do with small scores. 

On the other side of the tower, he peered out of another window opening, breathing in the hot air of the evening. Moving his wavy, dark hair out of his eyes, he could see lights dotting the undulating skyline of Lashiek. In one window, a man smoked a hookah with an oddly clad stranger, and in another building there was a group of Arabyans performing the Dance of Many Sabers. Smirking, he stepped onto the sill of the window and checked the alley below to where he would make further his escape to see... a wave of light without a light?

He blinked, and realized what he looked at. A woman with hair like gold and arms around her buxom chest. He leaned out further, wondering by what reason a foreign woman of such beauty was wandering the street. Even in simple starlight, her hair was an alarm to anyone who saw her pass by. He felt his fingers slip an inch and his heart thundered in his chest for a single, terrifying moment as he caught himself. "Allah's mercy!" he cursed. An ironic curse, because if the great God was aware of him, he'd sooner smite him than give aid. Amal really felt a fool once he established he was safe. One look at this strange woman and he nearly fell four stories! But he was nothing if not curious, and as silent as a hunting cat, he leaped over the alley to the other building with a lower roof. If she had looked up, the woman would have seen the silhouette of a man pass straight through the distant moon.