Confidence. Be suave, witty, but don’t stand out. I immediately notice the hinges on the door. I like a good, stout door as much as any other person, but do tavern doors always have to squeal so much? A loud bang, and the door shuts me inside the bright interior.
The barkeeper. His mustache makes him look like a rat got glued to his face. He’s of the same profession as me, I’ve always thought, but he’s made it a legit business, and soaks his victims so deeply in stinking barrels of ale they don’t even notice when they’ve reached the bottom of their purses. I don’t let them see the bottom of their purse; I simply take the whole thing, or cut the bottom out. Merchants. Disgusting class, if you ask me. They’re thieves as much as I am, but they sweet-talk their targets into giving their money willingly. They make it so their customers only have themselves to blame for losing their money. At least I give them someone else to blame.
I walk across the room with slow footsteps and sit down in a corner where I can see everyone . It’s important to pick your targets carefully. Take opportunity when she drops by, but planning ahead of time saves me the hassle, and is less likely to get the authorities on my heels.
In the opposite corner, a couple sits together. Both are dressed in middle-class clothing. They remind me of a rich couple I had recently gotten away from with a healthy amount of money. Well, granted, they weren’t that rich, but I still had managed to get a relatively- ah, well, enough to buy a meal or two, anyway. Well, I guess the tavern has a good enough reputation that the upper class come in every now and then. I allow a small smile to creep across my face. Those two would be a good option. I’m sure they have a good amount of silver in their pockets. All it would need is a casual bump on the way out. I’m a professional, after all, so I’ll probably be able to get it in one go. Well, I haven’t exactly done this too many times, but I still consider myself a professional anyway. My success rate has been one hundred percent, after all. Well, except for that one time- ah, but no need to think of that, no need.
I look around for any other targets, ignoring the merchantman’s steady gaze. He’s probably looking at the dirty beggar in front of me. An ugly-looking man with patch-work clothing drank deeply from his cup, some of the stuff dribbling down his sordid face. He wouldn’t have anything on him. Even if he had any pennies, he should at least spend them on cleaning himself up. Well, I suppose I’ll head outside to get away from his stink. I’ll wait at a convenient spot for the couple when they exit.