• “Ha! You won't catch me that easily!” Said Martin Carson, small-time thief to no one in particular as he bounded down a particularly bleak alley-way, his sack of loot jingle-jangling over his shoulder. The town guard was doing it's best to keep up with the swift thief, but to no avail. Years of escaping the same guards he was running away from now and running down the same alley-ways he now traversed had given him an unfair advantage. Martin knew very nook and cranny of the dirt roads intertwining the city of Eacove like the back of his own be-gloved hand.

    Making one more very sharp turn, the mischievous burglar decided it was time to end the chase. Ducking down and skidding to a stop just in front of a sewer entrance, the Journeyman thief quickly flipped the top of the covering open, and slid down the ladder contained within, closing the entrance shut behind him.

    As the guards swung around the corner, their swords held high, yelling for the culprit to stop, the cover was just closing shut. One of the guards immediately went for the covering, ready to continue the pursuit.

    “No, no.” Said a very rough and scratchy voice from the middle guard of the three. “I've dealt with this guy before. If he's made it into the sewers, we'd have a better chance killing a fire elemental with snowballs than catching him.” he said semi-jokingly. His colleague removed himself from the covering, and the guards walked away, defeated. “C'mon boys, cheer up” came the same voice “How about a pint down at the Red Rum, eh?”.

    Meanwhile, down in the sewers, Martin Carson, 33 year old cat-burglar extraordinaire, was not living up to the lead-guard's speech, only leisurly walking along the concrete walkways lining the rivers of sewage next to him.

    Eventually he came upon his hide-away, a small enclave mysteriously carved into the side of a wall. It's walls were hewn of rough stone, not lined with brick like the sewers a few feet away. Boxes and crates and barrels full of the thief's loot littered the floor of the 25 foot square room. A single shabby, termite infested wooden table stood in the middle of the room, with a matching chair laying on its side near by.

    Picking up the chair, Martin threw his haul onto the table, and reached into a small pouch on his belt. Retrieving a small matchbook, he made quick work of lighting a small candle in the center of the table. After locating a scroll of paper and functioning pen from the piles of junk littering the sewage-infested hide-away, Martin began to record his haul for the day.

    This night he had emptied the local branch of the First Bank of Termis, a large banking firm in the kingdom, famous for it's tight security and overall good-will toward it's patrons. Pilfering through the sack, he came across many valuables, pounds of gold, sliver, platinum, and bronze, statues of varying rarity and value, family heirlooms and jewelry, magical knick-knacks, and other such rig-a-ma-roll. After he had nearly depleted the sack of it's goods, the thief came upon an item of unique shape and composition.

    It was a large crystalline orb, appearing to be a massive emerald, if not for the fact that it actually glowed powerfully in his hand, much brighter than the small candle could possibly radiate. The jewel was lined with bands of gold, platinum, and other precious metals; each etched with twisting runes and arcana. At the bottom of what seemed to be the primary golden band, there was a small drilling where it seemed a shaft of some form could be screwed in.
    “Oh, fuuuuuck me...” Groaned Martin, for, with a flash, the thief knew what he possessed, and what a great mistake he had just made.