[Complete] Call the Locksmith?

Helena Prieskorn's favorite informant was a cherry-cheeked pick-pocket of a lass who never let go of her grudges. The woman had come to her door quietly several nights ago, and Helena had shared a bottle of wine, and in exchange, was regaled by an epic tale of love, betrayal, and the crippling flaw of pride. The lass, Stella, had gotten back on the good side of her old flame, and had been invited to a robbery of the chantry's tithehouse. Helena had first met Stella in jail. Her hands were scheduled to be chopped off. Stella owed Helena her hands, but Stella never came to Helena's door in mind to pay this debt. Stella was aflame. Helena had seen it in her eyes, and recognized it for what it was - vengeance. The two women never toasted to honor, nor to the Maker, despite it being Helena's usual tradition. They simply drank for themselves as Stella related all the details of the plot, and then Helena leaned forward with a small smile and told Stella what they would do.

Templar-Knight and thief matched gaits as they stepped into the circle shaded by the alleyway. Helena wore one of Stellas patched black cloaks, and carried a long, black ebony pole polished to shine in the lamplight - her magic focus.

"All here," said Stella in her swanky street-stretched accent. "Oy, even found us an umbra," Stella, hissed proudly, shooting a competitive glint at the boss for the job.

Helena pushed a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear, an old habit, half hidden by her hood. Then drawing her hand lower, she clamped her black-gloved thumb to the tip of her fingers, as if grasping an invisible thread, and seemed to twist and bend it. All around them, the streetlights dimmed. "Better." she whispered.