A man of style, the Boss. A thief of course wants to be rich and live a life of luxury, but once you hit a certain point of wealth, I imagine you might be motivated by other things.
Apparently, the Boss was living very comfortably indeed, but felt the need to challenge himself. He entered the First Bank of Theopolis in the middle of the day, entered the vault, and just started... movin' stuff around. Octavius family fortunes into the Maxius deposit box, Avarius riches split across every small safe, each of which he popped open as if there weren't even a lock on 'em. Mixing all the money up like it were caught in the tides. Then he goes and finds the records of deposits and withdrawals, and sets 'em on fire. Walks out like nothing happened.
Well, of course the bank puts the fire out, but the records are gone. So they notify all the big customers, telling them to come in with their copy of the deposit slips... and wouldn't you know it, they're gone too.
No bloody idea how he pulled it off. 'Course, the bank and all the clients will deny it ever happened. Be foolish not to.
Got my contract, do ya? Ran with some low-life criminal scum in the back alleys of Oriath in my younger days. Real good blokes. Loyal to the last, or so I thought. Right before I was exiled, they beat me half to death and took off with my finest lock picks. If I'd had 'em when the Law came for me, I probably wouldn't be here, so in a sense, I 'spose I should be thankful, eh?
Well I'm not. I want those picks back, and I spent a lot of markers to find out where they went. Now I know, and you're gonna help me get 'em.
Been good having my old picks back. Real good. Just not good enough. It's like there's a lock inside me, and not even my beautiful antique picks can open it. But I been thinkin' about it long and hard, and I reckon I know what might.
One of me old crew recently got out of the game. Livin' a life of luxury now while everyone around him is suffering and strugglin' just to survive. That should've been my life, but he took it from me when he took my picks. I want to send him, and the rest of my old crew, a message. So, rather than take something, we're going to leave something. Something that'll put the fear of Sin into the lot of 'em.
Bet you're wondering what happens now, eh? Interesting little toxin we left. Slowly fills the air, then the lungs. Never leaves the body. Just keeps building up. First you start feeling light headed. Then you start hearing things, start seeing things. Start getting paranoid. A day or two later, you feel tingly. The tingling turns to pain, and the pain keeps building until your heart just stops beating.
Word of our last job has started gettin' round. Unfortunately, all the credit is goin' to an old rival of ours. That don't sit right with me. It's one thing to steal a man's property, but to steal a man's hard work? No, I ain't gonna let that stand.
So we're going to leave a little present at my ol' rival's abode. One of my prized lockpicks, dipped in the very same toxin.
You know what, rookie? I do believe I feel whole again. It's only a matter of time 'til that old rival of mine suffers the same fate as my traitorous crewmate. With both the bastards dead, and my pick the only common thread, the message is crystal clear:
'Ello rookie! Found a few markers, did ya? Apparently the Boss sees somethin' in you, but we won't know for sure 'til you're on the wrong side of a lance. I'm Karst, and there's not a lock in this world that I can't open. All you have to do is make sure I live long enough to open 'em. Adiyah'll get us to the job, and I'll show ya the ropes. Don't get tangled in 'em, 'cause it ain't my job to cut you free.
First things first; Client wants us to find an urn. Reckons the mark has it locked up. Thing is, it's pretty suspicious if that's the only thing that goes missing. Not really our problem, but taking heat off the client makes us look good, and we get to keep whatever else we find. Get where I'm going with this?