The time was 2:45 a.m. in the city of Markarth that night. The tall and mighty towers making up the expansive capital seemed to touch the clouds, as they blotted out the sky and plunged the populace into a particularly dark night. This was a perfect time, thought the master thief Markus Blackwell, to attempt a truly grand theft; for the shattered remains of the Heart of Lorkhan had been unearthed in Morrowind one week before, and were summarily shipped to Calcelmo's Dwemer Museum to be put on special display. In the privacy of his rented room at the Silver-Blood Inn (a room which happened to provide a rather convenient window leading outside), Markus donned his thieving garb and gathered his arsenal: lockpicks, a grappling hook, climbing claws, explosive powder-potions... he was all set. Blackwell opened the window and, with catlike grace, stealthily climbed the wall of the inn and darted across the rooftops of Markarth. The thief known across Tamriel as The Black Phantom had come, and he had come for the city's most valuable artifact.
Stealing the Heart itself would be a challenge, of course. First Markus had to creep his way into the Jarl's palace, so as not to rouse suspicion from any potential onlookers; then came the task of creeping around the palace itself, and this particular challenge suited his equipment nicely. With his climbing claws strapped to his gloves, Markus was able to carefully scale the upper reaches of the palace without fear of detection... and then came the door of the museum itself. Standing there was a single guard; he was a shorter man, somewhat chunkier than his superiors and, judging by the way he talked to himself, not the sharpest sword in the armory. He wouldn't be much of a physical threat by the look of him, but Markus never liked the violent approach; he preferred dealing with guards in far smarter ways. Thankfully this one provided an idea by way of his indifferent self-talk.
"Wouldn't mind a bit of ale right now, actually. Tell the truth. But noooo... that's against the rules... pah."
A wily cat-like grin spread across Markus' face as he checked his rough map of the palace. Several minutes later, the guard heard a casual voice behind him.
"You seem parched, friend. Long night?" Markus asked.
"Aw yeah." The guard sniffed, "Damn cold here too. I tried tellin' 'em we need provisions to keep us warm, but did they listen? Ohhh, no."
"Now that's just unfair. You all work so hard to keep our people safe, and what do you get in return? Are you even paid?"
"Yep... 10 septims an hour, give or take. But they've been cutting my pay down, and you wanna know why?"
"Why?"
"They keep tellin' me I get drunk way too much on the job. But you know what? When has anyone ever caused any trouble around here, huh? Everybody's too scared of the Stormcloaks and the Forsworn to try stealin' anything from Markarth!"
"Well naturally -- and these nights go on forever, don't they? Why not indulge in a little liquid courage?"
"Exactly! Lousy stinkin'..."
"What is your name, friend?"
"Name's Benjard... but most guards jus' call me Benny."
"Well, 'Benny'... I think you've more than earned a reprieve from the hardships of your labor." Markus handed him a brimming mug of especially strong drink. "Ale?"
"Oh yes, yes!" The guard said excitedly, accepting the drink. "Finally a decent soul around here! What's your name, good sir?"
"Oh, you can call me Garrett." Markus replied in a friendly voice, grinning that his false name wasn't called into question as he sat casually with the guard 'Benny'. "You know, come to think of it... perhaps we can help each other out."
"Oh really? Well, Mr. Garrett, how can the city guard help you today?"
"See... I've always been curious about this museum of yours. I'm something of a Dwemer scholar, you see, and I was so excited to hear about Calcelmo's work that I came all the way from Cyrodiil to see it... but when I arrived earlier today, I found that it was closed to the public."
"Y-hic-yup." The guard hiccuped, drinking another mugful of ale. "Calshhelmo'sss ordersh. Nobuddy's... allowed to shhee it."
"Not even a budding scholar? Come on now, old chum, what's the harm in letting one friendly face see what's in there?"
"Oh I dunno... -hic- Calshhhelmo was pretty shtrickt about..."
"C'mon, please? I won't tell a soul."
"Ummmmm... aw, all-riiight." The guard said, stumbling toward the door. "All the other guardsh are ashleep allready... y-you won't haff any troublesh in there. Enjoy youuur shtay."
"Much obliged, old boy. Thank you." Markus grinned as he slipped inside of the museum and closed the door behind him.
From there, stealing the Heart was little more than child's play. There it stood before him: a priceless treasure mounted upon a bright golden altar, unprotected and free for the taking. Markus chuckled to himself as he stepped forward and gathered the remains of the Heart of Lorkhan; he'd won this treasure by way of his wit and intelligence, all without a single drop of blood being spilt -- as any true thief should do it, he mused to himself. After closing up his bag and sitting it on his shoulder, Markus quietly opened the door of the museum and found the guard 'Benny' to be fast asleep, knocked out from the drink and snoring like a cave bear. Up went Markus from the floor to the ceiling, and finally out through a high window leading into the city outside. He could hardly believe the simple gravity of this task -- stealing what remained of the Heart of Lorkhan, an artifact not seen since the days of the Nerevarine, with not but the simplest of tricks! What was there to stop this thief now?
"Hey!" A young-sounding voice called from down below. "What are you doing up there??"
Markus looked down from the stone wall of the city to find a boy, no older than 11, looking right up back at him. The boy's hair was dark and messy, and his clothes were worn and dirty. "Does the rogue have a familiar face, lad?" Markus responded in a friendly manner, spreading his arms proudly. "I am the Black Phantom!"
"You? You're that thief they're after!"
"None other! I am indeed the one that the guards and captains of Skyrim have sought for nearly 10 years now!" Markus knelt down in a humbler position. "And what is your name, my boy?"
"Branvor! Son of Brenvor!"
"Well Branvor, son of Brenvor, I fear you've caught me at something of a bad time. T'would be a pleasure to speak further with you, I've no doubt of that, but I really must be going."
"Why? Did you steal something?"
"I did indeed. A very special something -- which you'll be hearing all about tomorrow."
"I'm not letting you get away, thief!" Branvor approached the stone wall and appeared to start climbing its surface.
"It is not even a contest, Branvor!" Markus admitted, not wanting the boy to get himself hurt trying to climb the wall. "Be reasonable!" But Markus was stunned by the boy's remarkable tenacity; not only was he successfully scaling the wall, but he was moving at a skillful pace. "Well now... perhaps I underestimated you, sir Branvor!"
"I can reach the top before you run away!"
"I'd dare to believe it, lad. Tell you what: I'm going to follow this wall and climb up that building there. See it?" He pointed out his destination. "I'll bet you my entire haul of stolen treasure that you can't beat me to it."
"Yes I can!" Now Branvor was nearly at the top of the wall, and Markus ran slowly across its surface. Branvor, for his small physique, managed to keep up with Blackwell's speed with relative ease. Then the nimble thief began scaling the wall of the tower he'd pointed out, and Branvor soon followed suit. But try as he might, the boy simply could not keep up with Markus' superior strength... though that did not stop him from giving chase.
"You're incredible!" Markus encouraged him as they climbed, genuinely impressed. "I've never seen a boy with such tenacity as you! C'mon, you're almost at the top!"
"I'll -- rrgh -- I'll catch you!"
Finally Branvor reached the top of the tower, to find that it was connected by a pillar to another structure. He looked every which way for any sign of the thief, but there was none. Branvor innocently looked at the city from above, and found himself awestruck by the sight of it; the lights in windows, the guard patrols moving every which way with their torches, the sounds, the smells of the city... for a moment he was awestruck by the sensation of seeing Markarth from so high up.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Markus asked, sitting casually beside him. "I have to say that this one of my favorite parts of this life of mine... being able to see these cities like this."
The two remained silent; it was clear that Markus had won the race, but for the moment it felt as if neither of them really cared. This was a special sight they were seeing together, which could not be enjoyed by the common man. Below them they saw a small group of guards searching every which way for the one who had broken into the Dwemer museum; apparently the one guarding the door was found unconscious, and one particularly special artifact had been stolen from the premises.
"Look at them... I guess someone's finally made their night." Markus grinned at the sight of the guards and rose to his feet. "Well, I really ought to be going now; I've never liked prison cells much. They make me break out in a rash." And then, unexpectedly... Markus handed Branvor the bag. "They'll be looking for this. I suggest you take it to the Captain of the Guard immediately."
"What? But I--"
Markus rested a hand on Branvor's shoulder. "Oh, the bet was a facade; don't you see what you've done, my boy? You caught a wanted thief -- nay, the most notorious thief in all of Skyrim -- as he was making his daring escape from the Jarl's palace, and with unfathomable bravery you chased him down and claimed his prize for yourself, so that it could be delivered to its rightful place. It is a glorious thing you've done tonight."
"But what about the treasure? What about the money?"
"Money? Pah. If it was money I wanted, I'd have stolen from the Treasury House. No, my friend... I steal not for money, but for glory. These grand heists are to become my legacy in the years to come -- and that there is the ultimate prize, that none but the most talented thieves may attain. But as for you... your legacy has only just begun."
"My legacy?"
Markus knelt down to his level. "On this night you shall make a name for yourself: Branvor, son of Brenvor... better known as the boy who bested the Black Phantom. You've got talents that so many in Skyrim can only aspire to achieve... something tells me that Tamriel hasn't heard the last of your name. And I, for one, consider it a privilege and an honor to contribute to what will become your legend."
With a final pat on the shoulder, Markus leaped bravely from the tower and landed upon the stone wall surrounding the city. He taunted the guards, asking them what took so long to notice what had happened, before vanishing into the night. And Branvor, son of Brenvor, was hailed as a hero the next day for outmatching the infamous thief that night, and now the Black Phantom's words resonated even further with him as his future seemed to be brimming with possibilities. His encounter with the Phantom had marked the beginning of what would indeed become a great legacy. Such an ironic thing it was, Branvor thought, to receive so generous a gift from such a dastardly villain...
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