Vicnan Lightouch

Portrait of a Criminal
By
Willard Milstone

Note from the Editor:

I realize that the majority of you readers have never heard of Mr. Milstone. Indeed it has been a full eight years since our esteemed publication has employed a new journalist, however Willard is our first. He came to our office without much confidence, but seeking meaningful employment. I must admit I did not have high hopes for the little gnome at first, for our paper had never before employed one of his kind. With a little laugh to myself I gave Willard the job thinking it would provide a decent amount of amusement. I set him on the task, which was in high demand but had been failed by its three previous carriers, of bringing me a truly unique view of the underground world of crime within our city. I was sure he would fail, but I was wrong. Four months after I had given him the assignment (I had actually forgotten the incident before he came scrambling into my office barley able to hold all of his assorted notes) he brought me a compelling story reflecting a grade of journalistic research never before seen in our firm. The material he brought back was too extensive for a single article; so without further a due please enjoy the first article by Mr. Willard Milstone with promises of more to come.

The Criminal World exists. I have seen it, both first hand and through the eyes of one of its best. It lurks on dark corners and alleys, in the market and the noble's house, in the guard station and theatre. Its representatives are everywhere, and still next to impossible to find. I nearly gave up my assignment after three weeks of searching, but word travels fast and the world which can't be found came to find me. I must decline to tell the circumstances by which I came to know the actual whereabouts of Vicnan Lightouch, of whom the guard have, until now, known only by name. I was informed later that the arrangement of our meeting was not by a third party, as I first believed, but by Vicnan himself. That he wished to be found and documented is a testament to his own arrogance. Now, according to his wishes, I shall share with you, my first reading audience, the compiled notes I took from our first encounter.

   I must admit that the tavern was not quite what I had expected. When one thinks of a human crime legend the setting you associate him with is a dark room filled with ruffians ready to cut your purse or your throat, whichever is easier. We gnomes are not known for incredible fear, but I was intimidated by the prospect of a crime lord's hideout. To my surprise this was not at all where my informant had led me. I entered a tavern well lit by Gnomish lamplights (of the design created by my brother back home). The Patrons, while rowdy, seemed to be well off men and women looking to relax over excessive drink (a very human flaw). I approached the bartender who directed me to a back table. At first I did not recognize the man I was looking for, then it hit me like a loose bolt from a pressure drill: I was not looking for a man. There in the corner with his feet propped up on the table (as not to have them dangling off the edge of his stool) was the only non-human in this establishment.
   Vicnan Lightouch was a Halfling like none I had ever seen. He was tall, standing a full 4 feet, with none of the normal portly aspects one associates with a Halfling. Rather than the full rounding of the face and limbs it seemed that the Halfling chub had been chiseled away leaving a striking figure of a man with only the ever present bulge of his midsection to indicate his true parentage. Certainly "man" is the correct word. Vicnan was clean shaven with his brown hair cut short to show only minor curls (curls being a defining trait of Halflings). He was dressed in a miniature version of the most popular (human) style of the day all inclusive with a mini rapier and a short curved pipe (as opposed to the long thin pipes carried by most Halflings).

"Hello Friend Gnome, I was beginning to believe I was the only small one in the section of town." Stated Vicnan laying down his pipe and producing a wide smile. He then jumped from his chair to the ground, making his way quickly over to greet me.

"I am Vicnan Lightouch at your service."

"You?!" I exclaimed, my cheeks instantly reddening as I realized what I had said.

"Of course Young Spout. You think a humey coulda pulled all the jobs I have? Of course not! It takes skill, smarts, and true craftiness. No sir I assure that I AM the very same Vicnan Lightouch." Says Vicnan as he leads me back to his corner table.

I will admit that my short stature prevented me from mounting the high stool without first falling off, but Vicnan seemed to do so with ease and found my floundering attempts hilarious to say the least. After finally situating myself I pulled out my small scribing pouch, quill, and ink.

"Mr. Vicnan I am a reporter for the papers and... well... I was wondering if I might, um, actually be able to interview you."

The strange smile on Vicnan's face told of amusement at my question and he responded mater-of-factly telling me that it would be his pleasure, as long as the story I presented was unbiased and factual. Mr. Vicnan wished to dispel the recent rumor that he was a common thug. He told me that "true crime is an art form, it must be worked out thoughtfully and with great effort … the best laid plans will end in not a single person being injured."

"Does that mean that you have never killed while committing a crime?" I asked him after his lengthy (and omitted) explanation of the nature of crime. This was the first time I saw his smile falter.

"No," he replied with seriousness that I would not have afforded to the jolly halfling. I suddenly became aware of a throwing knife cycling between his fingers, how or when he had produced it remained a mystery. "There are times when killing is necessary, usually when a plan goes bad… but there are other times when killing is the only possible plan." Suddenly his smile returned "but, that is usually not the case. Murder is a messy business. A dead body is a clean giveaway that a crime has been committed, the longer till the crime is discovered the quicker and easier the getaway becomes. Besides, those 'common thugs' which rely on killing indiscriminately have no respect for life, and therefore will never truly enjoy their own."

As I jotted down a few notes Vicnan took the opportunity to relight his pipe and begin puffing away. "Take my theft at the Lady Larissa's estate last month for example…"

"That was YOU. The article in the paper said that EVERY piece of furniture on the estate disappeared without any sort of trail!"

Vicnan chuckles "Of course it was me, and a fine pull it was. I came to their house with a small Goblin named Cax-Botal whom I hired to be my assistant. Cax was an alright fella, for a goblin of course, trained in human manners and even convinced that sometimes bathing is necessary. Cax and I claimed to be business men setting up safaris for the wealthy to visit the 'exotic' lands to the east and experience their "exquisite" cities made of goblin Architecture, strange animals such as wolfhounds and spider mounts, and even ancient Goblin Clan Rituals. To hear Cax tell the stories I almost believed myself that it would be a land worthy of noble vacation." After two weeks of dinner visits we convinced the lady Larisa to book her family a spot on our caravan and even to bring ALL of her servants along with. We hired a makeshift caravan which Larisa was convinced existed entirely to make her feel like she was 'roughing it'. What a pushover. We hired a group of Peddlers to come and pose as guards we would be using to guard her estate while she was gone, and set the caravan off toward the eastern Goblin Kingdom. Immediately upon her departure the house was stripped dry by the peddlers which offered Cax and I mint for every article removed from the estate. The peddlers where convinced she was leaving, she was convinced that the peddlers where guarding her house and in the confusion Cax and I where forgotten. Ah what a Scam, she may have even enjoyed the 'rustic' voyage to the Goblin lands."

I could not help but chuckle at the thought of a Noble lady riding in a sight seeing caravan through the cities of toppled buildings with curious Goblins, having never seen a human, poking through all of her belonging (including her dress).

"Do you mean to tell me that you sent her on a trip to the eastern desert, she returns to find all of her belongings stolen, and then she 'forgets' to blame you?" I ask in blatant disbelief.

"Well… while I did enjoy her company I must admit that she was not the brightest of women, but no that is not the only reason. There are… ways of disguising ones identity. Cax and…."

"Do you mean the uses of Magic" I ask while he is in mid sentence.

"That is one way of putting it yes."

"You being a thug is not the only story about you on the streets. Some say that you are a powerful Wizard as well, an illegal Wizard." I set my stair on him, but rather than becoming uncomfortable as I might expect his smile grows even wider. Suddenly, a mug of beer came floating across the room from the bar to his hand. He hands it to me as my jaw drops in Disbelief. "Then it is true!"

"No, my good sir it is not. Before coming here I traveled the land as a petty thief performing in a five man musical act. The token Halfling flute player cheered everyone and provided ample distraction for the other members of our group to rob or fans blind. During these travels I managed to learn a few tricks, nothing more. My choice not to register with the IMG had more to do with my desire for animosity than my disregard for their work. Magic used for destruction must and should be regulated. My simple tricks to fool the eye and simplify life are harmless. Besides, it was not me but Cax who was able to magically disguise us."

"Then you don't mind associating with rogue Wizards?" I asked

"Not for killing, of course, but on occasion the services of one skilled in magic are required. One always does what must be done."

"You mentioned earlier that you had a respect for life when at all possible. Does that mean that you are opposed to the Black Wheat organizations?" With this question I managed to produce the second frown of the evening on my new friends face (a truly rare thing as I would come to find out).

"Scoundrels, it should be known that most Halflings have the greatest regard for the value of a life. They are an abomination, ruthless and reckless. If one has no regard for life he will never feel its joy, if one does not know what he will do to preserve his life he will never last, and if one does not know for what he will risk his life he will never prosper. Believe me I know the value of life, better than most." His returning smile turns to almost a cynical grin. "Try looking into a man's eyes as he bargains with whatever he has, and sometimes what he doesn’t have, to keep you from finish the stroke across his throat; then you will know too." A strange silence falls between us as he pauses to puff on his pipe. This is the first time the jolly Halfling has made me uncomfortable. It will not be the last. "Now, enough talk, drink your ale and enjoy the show."

Vicnan produces a wooden flute from his shirt sleeve, hops down from his stool and goes strutting up to the stage (a strange sight to see a halfling strut). As the merry music begins playing from the front of the tavern the drunken well-to-dos go wild and begin singing along. I sit back and watch in amazement as a woman I didn't notice before begins picking pockets while swaying with the men to the happy song.