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Once per turn, deal an extra 1d6 damage when you hit with a weapon that has the finesse or ranged property, if you have advantage on the attack roll, or if another enemy of the target is within 5 feet of it.
You have a reliable and trustworthy contact who acts as your conduit to a network of other criminals. You also know how to send messages to and from your contact.
You gain Initiative Proficiency (add Proficiency Bonus to Initiative rolls) and can swap Initiative with a willing ally in the same combat.
Choose two of your skill proficiencies (Sleight of Hand and Stealth recommended); your proficiency bonus is doubled for checks with them.
You know Thieves' Cant, an secret mix of dialect, jargon, and code that lets you send hidden messages.
Your size is Medium, speed 30 feet. You gain proficiency in one skill of your choice (Survival).
Behind the character
Sable Quickfingers is a wiry nineteen-year-old human rogue whose whole body seems coiled like a spring ready to bolt. Short, choppy black hair—cut by his own knife more than once—frames a narrow face dominated by sharp grey eyes that catalogue every exit, every purse, every threat in a room before most people have finished blinking. A faded scar splits his left eyebrow, a souvenir from the first time he learned that running away is a skill worth practicing. He stands lean and quick rather than strong, all sinew and balance, moving with the unconscious economy of someone who has spent his entire life being somewhere he shouldn't be.
He dresses in a patched charcoal hooded cloak over worn leather armor, fingerless gloves that leave his sensitive fingertips bare for locks and pockets, and well-oiled boots chosen for silence over style. Twin curved daggers rest at his hips—one honest steel, one with a story he doesn't tell strangers—and a coil of hempen rope hangs from his shoulder because a thief without rope is just a burglar with ambition.
Sable's personality is a careful blend of charm and suspicion. He half-smirks more than he fully smiles, deflects questions with jokes, and trusts exactly three people in the world, none of whom know they're on the list. He is Chaotic Neutral not out of malice but out of survival arithmetic: laws were written by people who never went hungry, and rules are for people with something to lose. Beneath the bravado, though, is a kid who learned to read by deciphering shipping manifests he was stealing, who feeds stray cats in every district he works, and who quietly gives a cut of every good score to the orphan kids who once taught him which merchants kept real coin and which kept bluffs. He talks tough, but he's never once left a child behind in a collapsing job. That softness is the secret he guards harder than any loot.
He is quick-witted, observant, allergic to authority, and utterly certain that the rooftops of the city belong to him—no matter what city he wakes up in.
Before the adventure
Sable Quickfingers doesn't remember a mother's face; he remembers a market's. Born in the sprawling port city of Saltmere, he was one of dozens of unclaimed children who lived in the gaps between the docks, the fish markets, and the warehouse district—a tribe of small hands and quick feet the harbor guards called 'the gulls.' His earliest memories are of cold mornings under a collapsed pier, learning the sacred laws of the street before he learned his letters: never steal from another gull, never give a real name to a watchman, and always know where the second exit is.
The gulls had an unofficial elder, a one-legged ex-sailor called Marrow, who ran food and information like a miser runs coin. It was Marrow who gave him the name 'Sable'—his birth name went into the harbor the night the fever took the family he barely remembered—and Marrow who taught him the fundamentals: how to palm a coin so even a merchant's eye misses it, how to walk a rooftop in the dark, how to listen at a window without letting your shadow fall across the candlelight.
More importantly, Marrow taught him Thieves' Cant, the secret dialect of chalk marks, hand signs, and double-speak that lets one thief tell another 'the watch is bought' or 'this house is death' without a nobleman being the wiser. Sable still scratches Marrow's marks on doorposts in every new district, a habit that's as much prayer as communication.
He earned the surname 'Quickfingers' at eleven, the hard way. Caught mid-lift by a spice merchant's hired muscle, he talked his way out of a broken hand by offering to work off his debt—then picked the man's strongbox lock that same night and was three rooftops away before the shouting started. The story made the rounds of the underworld, and the name stuck. In the years since, he's worked as a lookout, a cutpurse, a cat burglar, a courier for fences who don't ask questions, and once, memorably, a 'legitimate' dock clerk for eleven days before the boredom nearly killed him.
His Criminal Contact is Vessa Thorn, a sharp-tongued fence who operates out of a pretend cobbler's shop in Saltmere's Middle Shambles. Vessa bought his silence once when the watch nearly caught him, and the debt became employment, then something adjacent to trust. She's his conduit to the wider network—jobs come through her, warnings come through her, and if Sable ever needs to vanish, she's the one who can make it happen. He resents owing her almost as much as he relies on her.
Now on the cusp of true independence, Sable has begun taking riskier jobs: noble houses with real vaults, merchant guilds with real guards, and the occasional contract that smells like someone else's war. He tells himself he's saving for a boat and a one-way ticket out of Saltmere, but the truth is quieter and more complicated—Saltmere is the only home he has, and every rooftop is a map of his childhood.
His ambitions are simple: get rich enough that no one can ever own him, get skilled enough that no lock can tell him no, and never, ever end up like Marrow, old and crippled and still living on other people's charity.
What he doesn't say aloud is that the gull tribe still watches for him, that he still owes three orphans their cut of his last score, and that the scar across his eyebrow itches every time he walks past the spice merchant's old stall. The streets made him, and some part of him is always going to be a nine-year-old under a collapsed pier, hungry and listening for the watch.
Everything else—the daggers, the smirk, the reputation—is just armor he built on top of that kid. He's a rogue in the purest sense: skilled, self-made, loyal to a very short list, and permanently at war with the idea that anyone gets to tell him where to stand.
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