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Description
Note: This takes place in a world not to dissimilar to our own, but in this world the discovery of electricity has not happened, and clockwork is considered the most modern invention. Magic is the main basis of what this world runs on.

Looking out over the darkened city, it appeared as if there was a gathering of fireflies. Every so often a light would go out, as if its life had been exeunt; but really it was just the snuffing of the candle in that window. As the city darkened further, Crow stood up on the battlements. Far below she could hear the river hitting the sluice gate, but closer still she could hear the moans of the prisoners.
“It’s your own stupid fault for getting caught,” she murmured into the rising wind. About her the black feathered cloak ruffled, occasionally scattering midnight blues from the light of the moon; but this wouldn’t last long as the clouds were drawing in. From somewhere down the Thames, she heard the bell toll eleven times; that amazing piece of clockwork that London relied so much upon to tell it the time, whatever the hour of the day.

‘That’s why I’m here,’ she reminded herself, and pulled down her beaked and feathered mask. Without a backwards glance, she jumped for the walls of the Tower of London.

Her fall was broken by the upper branches a nearby Oak tree. Having crashed through the top most branches, she grabbed onto a sturdy branch and dropped onto a limb. Jumping from the limb, she landed on the soft ground with barely a sound. She pulled a twig from her black hair, and tossed it aside, then straightened the belt at her hips, noting the place of the dagger and wire as she did so.

Running over the rooftops of London, she reminded herself of why she was here. Percy had sent her to reclaim some of his notes that had been stolen.
“But it’s only notes,” she had complained.
“Notes for a time bomb,” he had stated.
“So how’s that different from a normal bunch of gunpowder?”
“You can control how long it is before it goes off.”
“Like trimming the fuse on a stick of dynamite?”
“But a bit more exact.”
“And this runs on your clockwork?”
“Yes.”
“So wind it up and boom goes the weasel?” He just frowned in response.
“I got it right, didn’t I?”
“Why do you always insult my inventions?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find your notes on a jack-in-a-box that goes boom.” He just groaned.

She chuckled as she stood on the edge of a roof, “Jack-in-a-box bomb. Actually, that could be quite useful. I’ll have to get Percy to make me some. Anyway, this is the house of the inventor who funds the British military invention. Let’s go.” Scrambling down the pipe, she landed on the cobbles then tapped on the pane of glass. Nothing inside responded. At least it meant he didn’t have guard dogs. Skipping the fence, she landed in the back yard. Again she tapped on a window, and again there was no response. Considering the window, she took a diamond shard out of her belt pouch and cut a hole in the window large enough for her hand to fit through.
“This guy is meant to be a military approved inventor, and he leaves the keys in his window. He could have at least had someone spell it to make it more difficult. Does no one respect a thief’s intelligence and ingenuity anymore?” Unlocking the window, she clambered in.

She stepped into what appeared to be a gentleman’s drinking room. Absent mindedly, she invaded the drinks closet.
“Rubbish, rubbish, tastes horrible, that isn’t even worth the money you have to pay for it,” she searched through the variety of bottles until she came across a clear one, “Finally, something of good taste. Sometimes, I really believe I should have been born Russian and not … would I be classed as Britannian? Why the hell can I not remember the name of my own country at the time of my birth? And heck Britannian would only be the Roman name, and I’m from before that. Oh well, who cares. But thank the world for little water, I really should have been Russian,” and shut the cabinet, making sure that she took the vodka with her.

Having searched the entirety of downstairs, she could not find the notes.
“Well Percy has his workshop upstairs; maybe this guy does as well.” Silently she cursed as she stepped into a marble bust, and caught it just before it toppled to the floor.
“Hello?” came a call from upstairs.
‘I break in, raid a drinks cabinet and you don’t notice, but this you do?’
“Sir, are you drunk again?” a candle appeared at the top of the stairs. The Crow slunk back into the darker shadows, but the person upstairs made no move to come down.
“Maybe I was just dreaming,” they turned back, taking the light with them.
‘That was too close for call.’ It was then she noticed the door knob sticking into her back. Ripping back the wall hanging, she noticed the door, and allowed the smile to come to her face. The door opened easily enough.

Behind the door was a staircase that spiralled downwards. As she came to the bottom she stopped in the well, and peered into the room. A lit chandelier hung from the ceiling, and several wall lamps were lit. The room was open plan, meaning it wouldn’t be easy to hide at ground level. Looking at the ceiling she gulped, there were no rafters, only some beams, which meant she’d have to cling to one like a cat to stay up there if anyone turned up.
“My my grandma, what sharp fingers you have. All the better to hide with,” she smiled at the silver claw that began to form on her right hand, her most treasured possession. It was only a copy of the original claw, but as the original was lost, this was as close as anyone was going to get to the real one.

Moving to the closest desk, she rummaged through a set of papers, but couldn’t find anything with Percy’s handwriting on; but as she found other interesting notes she shoved them into a pocket.
“A carriage that moves by clockwork, Percy will be interested in this.”
“Martha, I’m working on the mechanism again,” came someone’s voice. For a moment the Crow stopped like a deer at the barrel of a gun, but then action clicked into her head. Leaping onto a desk, she grabbed a metal hook in the roof. Her feet hung down, and the steps were getting closer. However, she looked at the cross beams. Swinging up and round, she pushed against the wooden beams so she was spread-eagled, her right claw piercing into the wood to give her a better hold. As she looked down at the floor, the pewter chain around her neck began to slip, the silver looking ball attached to it hanging ominously down towards the floor.
A man appeared, probably late thirties. His hair was a lush brown, with an open book hairstyle. He didn’t look like he’d worked one day in a workshop, and guessing by the number of notes that had different handwriting styles on, he didn’t even come up with his own ideas.
“Now where did I put Asquith’s notes?” he believed he was talking to himself.
‘He’s getting Percy’s notes!’
“Ahh, here they are!”
“And here you are,” Crow dropped from the roof, putting her dagger to the man’s throat.
“Who are you?” he swallowed.
“I ask the questions,” she told him, digging the dagger in a bit more so he couldn’t risk saying anything without cutting his own throat, but she released the hold as she asked him the questions,
“Who stole Percival Asquith’s notes on a Time Bomb?”
“I don’t – “
“Don’t lie to me, you’ve got them,” she snatched them from his hand, and sure enough it was the Time Bomb, “Now who did you hire to steal these documents?”
“This group, they called themselves ‘Magpies’, I don’t know who they are, or where to find them.”
“The next time you see them,” she whispered in his ear, “You tell them, if they dare fly anywhere near my roost again, that the Crow will reap such swift vengeance, that their eyes won’t even be able to sparkle at the treasures I wield.”
“But the Crow, the Crow’s the myth of the Danes.” Sheaving the blade, she kicked him in the small of his back, sending him sprawling forwards. He turned and looked at her,
“But you’re a girl.”
“The Crow is not a myth, and I am indeed a girl. Now I suggest you make a quick escape with Martha.”
“Why?”
“Because of the fire.”
“What fire?” he stuttered.
“Why this one of course,” she answered menacingly. The bands of small lightning whipped about her claw, and she shot it over his shoulder. Upon contact with a desk, it started the blaze. As the man turned to look back at Crow, she was no longer. Without another thought, he ran as if hells own hounds were on his heels.

Crow stood by the balustrade on St. Pauls’ domed roof, watching the line of fire. She knew many people would go to the place where she could not, but it had to be done; the house had contained too many plans to fund the British military against the magic on the continent, and against Denmark itself. England might once have been her homeland, but it had changed so very much since then.

Turning her back on the now reddening sky, she looked at the flyer she had ripped from a notice board as she had passed by. Lots of it just said what current exhibitions were on, but only one caught her eye:
‘See the Lost Claw of the Thunder God!’
Where? The British Museum. She crumpled the paper in her claw, turning it to ashes. When the Claw had first been lost 5 millennia ago, she had looked for it, along with the twelve Ancients. Much had changed in that time; London had been built up, eleven of the Ancients were dead, and she had not aged a single day. As she blew the ashes from her hand, the storm blew in, and wept its many tears, as if the memory of the God himself felt such mockery by the fact ‘his’ Claw had been found. He rang out his anger with blue light.

Crow looked out across the city, pure determination filling her, allowing her to forget the rain that was beating at her face. Percival’s mission was still unfinished, but this ran deeper, and she did not know when she would be in London again. Jumping from the roof, she allowed the night to swallow her as she continued on her holy crusade.

Description
Note: This takes place in a world not to dissimilar to our own, but in this world the discovery of electricity has not happened, and clockwork is considered the most modern invention. Magic is the main basis of what this world runs on.

Looking out over the darkened city, it appeared as if there was a gathering of fireflies. Every so often a light would go out, as if its life had been exeunt; but really it was just the snuffing of the candle in that window. As the city darkened further, Crow stood up on the battlements. Far below she could hear the river hitting the sluice gate, but closer still she could hear the moans of the prisoners.
“It’s your own stupid fault for getting caught,” she murmured into the rising wind. About her the black feathered cloak ruffled, occasionally scattering midnight blues from the light of the moon; but this wouldn’t last long as the clouds were drawing in. From somewhere down the Thames, she heard the bell toll eleven times; that amazing piece of clockwork that London relied so much upon to tell it the time, whatever the hour of the day.

‘That’s why I’m here,’ she reminded herself, and pulled down her beaked and feathered mask. Without a backwards glance, she jumped for the walls of the Tower of London.

Her fall was broken by the upper branches a nearby Oak tree. Having crashed through the top most branches, she grabbed onto a sturdy branch and dropped onto a limb. Jumping from the limb, she landed on the soft ground with barely a sound. She pulled a twig from her black hair, and tossed it aside, then straightened the belt at her hips, noting the place of the dagger and wire as she did so.

Running over the rooftops of London, she reminded herself of why she was here. Percy had sent her to reclaim some of his notes that had been stolen.
“But it’s only notes,” she had complained.
“Notes for a time bomb,” he had stated.
“So how’s that different from a normal bunch of gunpowder?”
“You can control how long it is before it goes off.”
“Like trimming the fuse on a stick of dynamite?”
“But a bit more exact.”
“And this runs on your clockwork?”
“Yes.”
“So wind it up and boom goes the weasel?” He just frowned in response.
“I got it right, didn’t I?”
“Why do you always insult my inventions?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find your notes on a jack-in-a-box that goes boom.” He just groaned.

She chuckled as she stood on the edge of a roof, “Jack-in-a-box bomb. Actually, that could be quite useful. I’ll have to get Percy to make me some. Anyway, this is the house of the inventor who funds the British military invention. Let’s go.” Scrambling down the pipe, she landed on the cobbles then tapped on the pane of glass. Nothing inside responded. At least it meant he didn’t have guard dogs. Skipping the fence, she landed in the back yard. Again she tapped on a window, and again there was no response. Considering the window, she took a diamond shard out of her belt pouch and cut a hole in the window large enough for her hand to fit through.
“This guy is meant to be a military approved inventor, and he leaves the keys in his window. He could have at least had someone spell it to make it more difficult. Does no one respect a thief’s intelligence and ingenuity anymore?” Unlocking the window, she clambered in.

She stepped into what appeared to be a gentleman’s drinking room. Absent mindedly, she invaded the drinks closet.
“Rubbish, rubbish, tastes horrible, that isn’t even worth the money you have to pay for it,” she searched through the variety of bottles until she came across a clear one, “Finally, something of good taste. Sometimes, I really believe I should have been born Russian and not … would I be classed as Britannian? Why the hell can I not remember the name of my own country at the time of my birth? And heck Britannian would only be the Roman name, and I’m from before that. Oh well, who cares. But thank the world for little water, I really should have been Russian,” and shut the cabinet, making sure that she took the vodka with her.

Having searched the entirety of downstairs, she could not find the notes.
“Well Percy has his workshop upstairs; maybe this guy does as well.” Silently she cursed as she stepped into a marble bust, and caught it just before it toppled to the floor.
“Hello?” came a call from upstairs.
‘I break in, raid a drinks cabinet and you don’t notice, but this you do?’
“Sir, are you drunk again?” a candle appeared at the top of the stairs. The Crow slunk back into the darker shadows, but the person upstairs made no move to come down.
“Maybe I was just dreaming,” they turned back, taking the light with them.
‘That was too close for call.’ It was then she noticed the door knob sticking into her back. Ripping back the wall hanging, she noticed the door, and allowed the smile to come to her face. The door opened easily enough.

Behind the door was a staircase that spiralled downwards. As she came to the bottom she stopped in the well, and peered into the room. A lit chandelier hung from the ceiling, and several wall lamps were lit. The room was open plan, meaning it wouldn’t be easy to hide at ground level. Looking at the ceiling she gulped, there were no rafters, only some beams, which meant she’d have to cling to one like a cat to stay up there if anyone turned up.
“My my grandma, what sharp fingers you have. All the better to hide with,” she smiled at the silver claw that began to form on her right hand, her most treasured possession. It was only a copy of the original claw, but as the original was lost, this was as close as anyone was going to get to the real one.

Moving to the closest desk, she rummaged through a set of papers, but couldn’t find anything with Percy’s handwriting on; but as she found other interesting notes she shoved them into a pocket.
“A carriage that moves by clockwork, Percy will be interested in this.”
“Martha, I’m working on the mechanism again,” came someone’s voice. For a moment the Crow stopped like a deer at the barrel of a gun, but then action clicked into her head. Leaping onto a desk, she grabbed a metal hook in the roof. Her feet hung down, and the steps were getting closer. However, she looked at the cross beams. Swinging up and round, she pushed against the wooden beams so she was spread-eagled, her right claw piercing into the wood to give her a better hold. As she looked down at the floor, the pewter chain around her neck began to slip, the silver looking ball attached to it hanging ominously down towards the floor.
A man appeared, probably late thirties. His hair was a lush brown, with an open book hairstyle. He didn’t look like he’d worked one day in a workshop, and guessing by the number of notes that had different handwriting styles on, he didn’t even come up with his own ideas.
“Now where did I put Asquith’s notes?” he believed he was talking to himself.
‘He’s getting Percy’s notes!’
“Ahh, here they are!”
“And here you are,” Crow dropped from the roof, putting her dagger to the man’s throat.
“Who are you?” he swallowed.
“I ask the questions,” she told him, digging the dagger in a bit more so he couldn’t risk saying anything without cutting his own throat, but she released the hold as she asked him the questions,
“Who stole Percival Asquith’s notes on a Time Bomb?”
“I don’t – “
“Don’t lie to me, you’ve got them,” she snatched them from his hand, and sure enough it was the Time Bomb, “Now who did you hire to steal these documents?”
“This group, they called themselves ‘Magpies’, I don’t know who they are, or where to find them.”
“The next time you see them,” she whispered in his ear, “You tell them, if they dare fly anywhere near my roost again, that the Crow will reap such swift vengeance, that their eyes won’t even be able to sparkle at the treasures I wield.”
“But the Crow, the Crow’s the myth of the Danes.” Sheaving the blade, she kicked him in the small of his back, sending him sprawling forwards. He turned and looked at her,
“But you’re a girl.”
“The Crow is not a myth, and I am indeed a girl. Now I suggest you make a quick escape with Martha.”
“Why?”
“Because of the fire.”
“What fire?” he stuttered.
“Why this one of course,” she answered menacingly. The bands of small lightning whipped about her claw, and she shot it over his shoulder. Upon contact with a desk, it started the blaze. As the man turned to look back at Crow, she was no longer. Without another thought, he ran as if hells own hounds were on his heels.

Crow stood by the balustrade on St. Pauls’ domed roof, watching the line of fire. She knew many people would go to the place where she could not, but it had to be done; the house had contained too many plans to fund the British military against the magic on the continent, and against Denmark itself. England might once have been her homeland, but it had changed so very much since then.

Turning her back on the now reddening sky, she looked at the flyer she had ripped from a notice board as she had passed by. Lots of it just said what current exhibitions were on, but only one caught her eye:
‘See the Lost Claw of the Thunder God!’
Where? The British Museum. She crumpled the paper in her claw, turning it to ashes. When the Claw had first been lost 5 millennia ago, she had looked for it, along with the twelve Ancients. Much had changed in that time; London had been built up, eleven of the Ancients were dead, and she had not aged a single day. As she blew the ashes from her hand, the storm blew in, and wept its many tears, as if the memory of the God himself felt such mockery by the fact ‘his’ Claw had been found. He rang out his anger with blue light.

Crow looked out across the city, pure determination filling her, allowing her to forget the rain that was beating at her face. Percival’s mission was still unfinished, but this ran deeper, and she did not know when she would be in London again. Jumping from the roof, she allowed the night to swallow her as she continued on her holy crusade.