Chapter Seven

The splinter wasn’t an easy one for Secrat to pluck out from his skin. It was a gash that would leave a noticeable scar to remember the altercation forever after. The Thief wiggled the shard of wood around in his flesh, trying to pry it free. Now that the adrenaline no longer coursed through his veins, the pain he felt was some of the worst he had ever experienced in his life. He poured alcohol out from his flask as a means of disinfectant, taking a swig as well, as a means of pain relief. Once the wood was finally jarred free from out of him, a great relief overcame him, no longer feeling the immense pressure he once did. But, like water from newly opened floodgates, blood began to gush out.

He walked around in his room. His fingers shook feverishly and his mouth was watery from the sight of blood. His blood. That was really what did it for him. Blood otherwise had never been much of an issue for him. He had never been squeamish.

Although the shack was not the safest place to be, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. His eyes would sometimes look at the door, expecting Christique to walk into the room like she once before. He wouldn’t stick around for very long. If there was anything at all that he had learned from the whole ordeal, it was that no woman that attractive could be trusted without having paid for her first. That, and he had no further interest in the sand. No interest at all. In fact, he wanted to leave the Whispey Deserts as fast as he possibly could.

With few resources to choose from, The Thief took some of his old clothing and improvised. He wrapped the peasant shirt around his arm, tying it in a knot. He moved his arm around, inspecting his work. He threw fake punches at nothing to measure his pain and test his mobility. It could have been worse, he supposed. It remained sore, but it was at least something he could deal with while he healed.

The return to Acera was a fine one, if uneventful. By now, Secrat was well acquainted with the Unprotected Wilderness and all its nuances, making it smooth sailing once he left the desert.

Part of him, probably the worst part of him, felt inclined to visit The Hills. It was a simple brothel that he had come to enjoy the occasional visit to. Although Father Toucan Veras had never particularly approved of such behavior, that had never stopped Secrat over the years. The prostitutes were treated well. It wasn’t an ugly mess like some of the places you would hear about, either in the deserts, or in some far off the reservation places in the Unprotected Wilderness. Although The Thief never considered himself a saint, there was nothing savory about having sex with someone he knew had been bought and sold off like cattle. They were employees at The Hills, free to leave their position of employment as they saw fit. He would visit them next time, surely. Now, however, he couldn’t bring himself to put forth the effort or chance unwanted conflict.

His arm ached and fatigue plagued every muscle in his body. There would be no time for sleep until he was far enough from the Whispey Desert not to be followed. The journey would be a long one, but he would fight forward.

The Thief knew the forest. He knew the trees. He knew the animals and what kinds wandered where. He even knew the different groups and villages in between each major city. Some of them were friendly. Most of them, really. Although you would never know that if you listened to the gossip that came out of any city district. Each kingdom instilled the same paranoia in its civilians. There was a veil of sorts that loomed over each city – Acera, Jalint, Urgway, Hardan, and Italina. These magical beings, called Aeonians, could apparently be sent out on the prowl like guard dogs, able to detain any wrongdoer that dared trip their alarm. Thus far, Secrat had never seen one, but he had heard too many stories to doubt their existence or the dangers they posed. Every city had their own, but once you were outside their territory, it was a free for all. For that reason, the Kingdoms spread rumors of savages, of rapists, of murderers, and of cannibals, most of it was hogwash.

The troupes along Acera, Jalint, and Urgway were mostly friendly. They would offer Secrat little to no trouble and mostly kept to themselves. Between Italina and Hardan posed the most hassle. Some of it was bullshit propaganda. There were stories of a group called The Carvers that would scalp you and rearrange your face for the morbid fun of it all, but Secrat believed that to be little more than scary bedtime stories to make kids think twice about going out at night. That didn’t mean there weren’t bad people, however. Some villages were territorial and didn’t trust outsiders, others laid traps around the forest either to hunt game or to keep out intruders.

If Satin (Christique’s alleged home village) was considered the friendliest, and the worst was the worst, then, The Red Flux was somewhere in the middle. Most of them killed, whether they admitted it or not, except maybe Lukas Lewis and Toucan Veras. It came with the territory, and sometimes you had to. Brutus Ess was an example of a thief who understood that. Still, they only killed if they had to, and otherwise fell in the category of leaving people to live in peace (so long as they didn’t have something worth stealing).

Copé didn’t come across too many people on his way. This was by design. Although he knew he couldn’t run forever, he had to run for now. Although he had known Christique to be a mysterious and, perhaps, dangerous person early on, he hadn’t anticipated that she would be so bold and so aggressive. The sheer gusto it took to set fire to a building in broad daylight, in a rather populated area, meant she was even more formidable than he had imagined.

As the night reeled itself in and Secrat found that he could walk no longer, he took refuge beside a large tree, slumbering between two roots. The tree was old and wilting and had nothing but bare branches to show for itself.

It was a tough fought battle on his part. He spent several hours with a knife in his hands, unable to let down his guard. However, once the exhaustion became too unbearable, he drifted off. When he parted his eyelids, he was happy to discover they hadn’t been sewn shut in his slumber.

He climbed to his feet and carried forward. Although his body still ached, the dirt being an unpleasant mattress for a man, he could at least say he felt more rested. As he continued, he beheld the forest in its majesty. Although the tree behind him had been dead, it spoke little to the actual beauty the Unprotected Wilderness could provide. Because Secrat had ventured off the actual roads and pathways, eager to steer as clear from conflict as he could – he was left exploring some of the more unperturbed parts of the forest.

These were the parts that hadn’t been cut into or paved over with cobblestone, and they were all the more beautiful for it. Maybe his time spent at the Whispey Desert had made his heart grow fonder for livelier wild life? He enjoyed the shade from the trees and took refuge in the knowledge that the further he went from the Whispey Deserts, the cooler it would become.

Although a part of him wished to abstain from eating, to continue forward on his trudge toward Acera, he knew it would be a disservice to his own body and only make him weak. Thankfully, the forest was plentiful in its options. There were apples and pears, and berries of all different shapes and sizes. Some of them were poisonous. Thankfully though, Secrat knew the distinctions. It was one of the many skills he had picked up as a member of The Red Flux.

The Red Flux, Secrat thought, unable to hide his own chagrin.

They were the reason he needed to make it to Acera. It was the first step in solving all the problems he had been having. Father Toucan Veras had offered him a life raft. After severely bruising his hand, of course. Even now, Secrat struggled to properly make a fist. Before Toucan left him he offered a glimmer of hope to The Thief that he could atone for his sins and return to the troupe under certain conditions. At first, he hadn’t considered it possible. He was bitter and angry, believing he could make it on his own and make it on his own better than he did with the troupe. Now, he had perspective. Now, he wanted to return. What he had to do, Secrat wasn’t yet for certain, but he knew fixing his initial mistake would be a step in the right direction.

Once he arrived at Acera, Secrat began scouting and looking for him.

Azlak Temps ended up not being a very difficult man to find.

Acera didn’t have very much to say for itself in a lot of ways. By far, the smallest of the five major cities, it was a humble territory that didn’t cause too many ripples or waves. Like any of the Kingdoms, there was a hierarchy. There were lowly peasants and there were high-ranking nobleman. There were more modest abodes and then, there were gaudier displays. That in mind, the wealthiest weren’t really all that wealthy, and the merchants weren’t very popular either. Although the hierarchies did exist, the lines between them were never blurrier than they were in Acera.

Azlak Temps was one of these merchants, a wheel on the barrel that neither shined nor excelled in his efforts, largely in part because he didn’t specialize in the sort of commodities that folks in Acera actually wanted. Acera housed a simpler bunch, ones’ that preferred ale and livestock more than relics and romanticized trinkets. His kind of finesse was better suited for Italina than Acera, but, for whatever reason, that didn’t stop him.

“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls of all ages, may I have your attention!?” Azlak Temps exclaimed, a vigor and excitement in his voice, unlike any sort of enthusiasm that Secrat had ever seen before. He admired it, or, at the very least, he was entertained by it – unfortunately, the rest of the onlookers seemed less than impressed. Chances were they had already seen his performance many times before now. “Are you ready for your whelm to be over? For your ex to be cited!?” The man was practically yelling now at anyone who offered him the courtesy of eye-contact.

From the way that Acerian villagers walked by him, their eyes pointed to the gravel, it would seem they had all learned better than to offer him such attention.

For now, Secrat Copé simply watched quietly, his back leaned up against the wall of a nearby building, a far enough distance that he himself wouldn’t be engaged by the eccentric merchant.

There was a heavy set man standing in front of a barrel filled with fruit. He would sell one or two of them on occasion. He would sell an apple or an orange here and there, but wanderers otherwise walked past him. It was a demonstration of the sad state of things for some village people. As prefaced during Secrat’s journey from the Deserts to Acera, there was no shortage of fruit trees to come across. One simply had to venture out into the Unprotected Wilderness to find them by the bucket load – thus lied the problem for so many people under the veil, however. The barrel looked rusty and unsanitary, but Copé was more taken by the way the heavy set man made no attempt to make a sale. It showed the importance of having an item people actually wanted, if you had that, then people would come to you. For a moment, Copé almost missed the charisma that the merchants of the Trade Network brought with them, always having to shout over one another in hopes of making a sale. Only almost though.

Secrat smiled some.

For better and for worse, this district’s square belonged to Azlak Temps, even if he wasn’t going to have much to show for it at the end of the day.

There wasn’t a table for him. There wasn’t a whole lot of anything, actually. Unlike the merchants that Secrat saw in the deserts, Azlak preferred not to sell in bulk. That wasn’t his game, at least not this go around.

Azlak Temps stood. His hair parted on both sides, and his smile spread from ear to ear, entirely oblivious to the disinterest of the crowd surrounding him. Their aloofness only made him even more enthused. He wore clothing that looked neither intricate and elegant nor inexplicable and like that of a peasant. Rather, he wore a dark green tunic with buttons at the neck; unbuttoned and exposing a white cotton shirt beneath it. At his waist was a black belt with a large buckle. His belly was round, as was not the least bit uncommon in Acera, but he was not especially large – unlike the other man Secrat had previously mistaken him for. Gray trousers were beneath that, with leather shoes woven together in an unfashionable way. Attached to his belt was a scabbard, but there was no sword sheathed within it.

That was because he was trying to sell said sword and having it at his side wouldn’t add to the scenic appeal.

“I know the children in this district have learned this under the watchful eyes of Misses Sairyn Althea, but for those of you who aren’t historians, per se, allow me to help you look forward by looking to the past. You might be thinking to yourself, wondering, what I have that is so out of the ordinary and so very, very special that it will have you jumping up and down like a bunch of crazed baboons! Let me tell you – all of you are likely aware of the story by now, the story of the Aeonians, of how, when Verdicine, one of our magical saviors, dispatched himself up to the heavens, casting a much-needed veil over each of the major cities. Before that though, he had appointed Mathew Lapool to be the sole individual to harness his immeasurable power, and it was from that decision why we find ourselves where we are today.”

Behind Azlak Temps was a sword with a green emerald on the handle, propped up on a small, black stand, otherwise though, from what Secrat could tell, it was a normal, regular, and everyday sword.

“Mathew Lapool accepted the offer with grace, and once claiming the title as King of Acera, he named various men to stand below him. He hadn’t been married, and desired that one of these men would be the heir to his throne.”

There was a small crowd of individuals gathered around him now. It wasn’t a lot of them, but, rather, only a mere handful. Still, it was a testament to his storytelling ability that they were there at all. He moved his hands with a certain charisma. Azlak had a certain oomph that made it easy to rally behind him and it kept those watching him hanging on his every word.

As a matter of fact, even Secrat Copé found himself curious about the origin of the sword, albeit not because he was interested in having it for purchase.

“Each one of these men accomplished hefty tasks to the benefit of the king, his intentions at the time were, of course, unbeknownst to all of them. He, looking to find a man or woman that would offer him unconditional loyalty, neglected to inform them that they were contesting themselves as potential candidates for the throne and the power of one of the Aeonians!”

The man’s excitement was without relent.

“Years afterward, the king began to grow sickly, yes, quite sickly, very sickly, and it was then that he named Charles Tertius as the heir to the throne. Charles, of course, became married, and his family has held at least some kind of leadership over the greater city ever since.”

Azlak Temps’ large smile still hadn’t gone away and, although it may have seemed impossible, it might have even expanded by one or two inches.

“Behind me, I tell you, stands that sword!”

The crowd held down their excitement, but there was some scattered mumbling among them. Secrat could hear mumbled words and shouted whispers, few of which could be made out by him, however. The Thief looked at the sword. Again, he found himself underwhelmed by the simple, otherwise ordinary piece of weaponry. Whether something was special or not didn’t decide whether it was valuable, however. Instead, what made them expensive or valuable was an individuals’ perception of them. When a person perceived themselves as in the presence of some immaculate item, they might as well have been. Materialism did that. Stupidity did that as well. If someone thought a necklace held the soul of their long-lost brother, or some other stupid, halfwit fairy tale nonsense, you had a special kind of sucker on your hands.

Copé watched carefully.

The sword was propped up in an easel-like glass case, a black velvet cloth backdrop behind it, meant to offer up the image of being a piece of divine royalty. The case was closed. There were no locks on the case that Copé could see.

“Ladies and gentleman, I don’t think I need to tell any of you how much of a precious heirloom this is. Can you imagine having it above your fireplace, or better yet, could you imagine fighting as an Acerian knight with the actual sword once used by a former king? I know you are all excited, as I knew you would be, and I don’t want to yammer on for any longer.”

Although Secrat had only known Azlak Temps for a short time, he felt the opposite was likely true.

“Without further ado, I think we can start the bidding at five hundred coin!” Azlak shouts his words loud enough for everybody to hear them.

Nobody jumped at the offer, but that was likely because nobody in this middle-class district of Acera had that sort of money to spend on such a sword. Five-hundred coin was a decent sum of money, but it didn’t amount to a whole, whole lot in the grand scheme of things. For instance, the necklace Secrat had nicked from Christique likely could have fetched a similar price point. What was Azlak Temps’ game here? The man was either expecting the bidding war to reach much, much greater heights or was a complete and total idiot, but who was to say it had to be one way or the other? A sword that once belonged to a King would be worth thousands of coins, deep into the thousands even, provided to found the right buyer. If someone were to bring that sword out to the Whispey Deserts and do their due diligence, they could leave the Deserts with a nice fortune. Unless it was fake, that was. Secrat felt disappointed as that thought reeled itself into his head. It certainly made sense why he would try to market his merchandise to the more lowly, less educated districts of what was, frankly, the more lowly, less educated city of all Maharris. If he were to try and sell such a sword for it all its worth, surely a keen eye could sight its faults. Was that it then? Secrat wasn’t convinced. Maybe Azlak Temps was playing a different game. Maybe he didn’t want to go to the Whispey Deserts. Maybe he didn’t want to go to Italina, or a richer city. The more the years turned, the more often such a person came to be – the hermits so paranoid and terrified of anything outside the veil. Maybe he wanted the buyers to come to him and this was his way of spreading the word.

It was far fetched, but it was what Secrat’s intuition was telling him, and, if nothing else, that had gotten him this far. If the sword was real, a sword like that would be more than enough to make Father Toucan Veras forgive Copé for everything he had done and more.

Secrat leaned off from the walls of the Sidian Inn and walked closer to Azlak Temps. He stayed discreet and remained inconspicuous while doing so, being certain to blend in and not stand out among the crowd. Even if he hadn’t, from what Secrat could tell, Azlak was far more interested in his banter and theatrics than anything else. As Azlak flailed his arms around and paraded, no one jumped out at the offer put in front of them by Temps, which was at least somewhat surprising. None of them likely had the money, but such a deal was an absolute bargain.

Copé looked around, continuing to survey the situation. Meanwhile, Azlak Temps was doing the same thing, his eyes wandered around the crowd with a pleading stare that made Copé almost wonder if he had even ever heard of the Trade Network.

“I understand that, to some of you, this might be a large cost. I realize that, I do, and because of that, I am willing to take a small cut into the cost. Let us start the bidding at four hundred coin, but I must warn you that I will not be able to go any lower than that. That is a terrific deal and i want you to understand that you are not paying for just any old sword, but, rather, you are paying for a piece of history that can’t be replicated. You will own the only one that ever existed. That will ever exist. This sword owned by a former King could be yours!”

Again, Copé looked at the crowd of potential buyers. Although they may have been impressed by the initial sales pitch, it was clear that, for most of them, their interest wasn’t sustained enough to commit to an actual purchase. Some of them were comically digging into their pockets or checking their bags for money, as though any of them possibly carried that much money around with them. Copé ventured further into the crowd. He didn’t really know what he was doing yet, or what he planned to do. He didn’t really know what to do for that matter. All he knew was that he wanted to have his hands on the sword before Azlak Temps rid himself of it.

It was such an interesting performance on display by Azlak Temps. For both of The Thief’s theories, he was beginning to wonder if it was possible neither of them was the truth. It appeared that Azlak wanted to rid himself of the item and be rid of it quickly. Secrat had an idea of why this was. The item must have been stolen. That was the most logical explanation Secrat came to. The item was stolen and Temps wanted to rid himself of it as soon as possible. After all, what possible claim could he have had to a sword once owned by a King?

Copé wanted to rob him blind, but it would seem that the best item Azlak Temps had in his possession was about to be taken and gotten rid of for pennies on the dollar.

In search of inspiration, or perhaps a small diversion, Secrat admired their surroundings. There had to be something he could do. Anything at all that would have been able to take everyone’s eyes off from the sword. He reached down in his pocket, his fingers touching at one of his knives. It was his old reliable, after all. He felt his hand wrap tightly round the handle. Then, he released. Such an aggressive approach wasn’t the best course of action. The knife could have. It could have easily, in fact. He could have stabbed someone in the crowd and the screams would have brought all the attention to whichever man he left to bleed out. That would have gotten him the sword, but killing was what had gotten him kicked out of The Red Flux in the first place, and it wasn’t what would help bring him back in.

He needed something else. He needed something less heinous and more clever. In that thought, he took sight of something else. Not far off from them was a knight, a soldier of Acera. Knights were, putting it frankly, not what they used to be. Although knights in the days before the Aeonians might very well have been able to command respect from everyone around them, that couldn’t have been further from the truth now. There hadn’t been a proper war involving the five major cities in more than a couple centuries and their soldiers were a sorry reflection of that. Knight wasn’t even the best way to describe what he saw. Knights didn’t serve a lot of purpose in the major cities. Most people knew better than to commit crimes within a veil of the Aeonian, and the ones who really knew better were smart enough not to get caught.

Some thieves were occasionally more blatant and reckless, some such as Azlak Temps, it would seem.

Secrat neared the knight, who was standing toward the front of the Sidian Inn, facing away from Azlak Temps. He rested a hand at his waist and quietly removed the knight’s sword from out of his scabbard. It was an act that was far easier than it should have been. He had already worked up a simple alternative had the gesture failed. Knights in Acera were generally unassuming and naive.

He rested the sword at the side of his leg, being sure not to draw any attention to it. Next, he rested his hand over the shoulder of the unsuspecting knight, whose body jolted at his touch. The knight turned around, taking a moment to regain his composure and ease his disposition. The knight wore light chain mail armor and dark green leggings, complimented by dark brown boots. To his credit, he had a strong, muscular build. All the same, Secrat couldn’t say he looked the least bit intimidating, however. In a boulder throwing contest, he could have walked circles around The Thief, but otherwise, the man didn’t appear too coordinated and certainly didn’t have much wits about him to have not noticed himself to be a whole sword lighter.

That was something that Copé mostly had. He did have moments where his own confidence betrayed itself, especially as of late, but mostly, he was very comfortable in his own skin.

To put it plainly, he liked himself very much.

“What can I do for you, sir?” The knight’s voice supported the theory Secrat had concocted in his head.

He detected a small amount of rasp, but there was also something else, more than that. He detected a lack of certainty and confidence in the man. Knights weren’t all brave warriors ready to sacrifice themselves for the sake of the King, they were glorified messengers in most circumstances, their jobs mostly having them navigate back in forth in the Unprotected Wilderness. Copé smiled at him. The smile was as genuine as he could force it to be.

“There is a man over there, I don’t know his name, but I believe he may be up to no good. I saw a man with a large gash in his stomach, fleeing from the man.” Secrat’s voice feigned being worried and rattled, albeit fictitiously, but the knight didn’t seem to know the difference.

The knight’s face looked flushed by the end of the sentence, and nervous, like he hadn’t been trained to deal with such situations. And likely, he hadn’t been. Thing is, Secrat wondered if he even had to have made such a severe claim. What would have happened if he would have claimed a smaller, more miniscule circumstance? That …. that cat … he is stuck in a tree! Would that have been all it took to send the knight into complete disarray – simply having to deal with the smallest amount of confrontation? Was that how sanitized and watered down the knights of Acera had become?

Copé smiled at him some more. The difference was that this time was much more genuine. He appreciated being able to manipulate someone with complete ease. The knight seemed to notice Copé’s amusement and appeared embarrassed or indignant, as he straightened his posture and deepened his voice to something a smidgen more formidable: “I don’t suppose you can take me to this gentleman?”

Copé motioned further back toward the town square, motioning with his hands for the knight to follow. He stepped onto the cobblestone path but didn’t return to exactly where he once was. Instead, all he did was point in the direction of the alleged perpetrator, this being the obese gentleman handing out fruit from a barrel. He looked back at the soldier, whose face had returned to its fearful state, but once he realized Copé’s eyes were on him again, he tightened his expressions.

“I won’t head any closer to him. I don’t know whether he is dangerous, but all I know is that I saw him talking to a couple of his buddies about how he had killed a female companion of his earlier in the day. Some woman he had bought at some brothel called The … Hills, I believe he said. I am too frightened to come any closer.”

Copé tried his best to sound intimidated and fearful, although he wasn’t certain how authentic it sounded. Again though, the knight lopped it up, completely oblivious. He nodded at him and didn’t offer anything else for comment, but Secrat saw it in his eyes, whatever training he had been had fallen away, in its place was naivete and assumptions of the worst. The knight’s attention went over to the man at the town’s square. The burly fellow had short black hair and a thin beard and mustache to match. He seemed friendly enough, but Secrat had a feeling the two’s altercation could lead to a lot of destruction if the stars aligned right.

Unfortunately, Copé didn’t take too much time to wait around and observe his handiwork. Copé walked out of sight from both the knight and the large salesman. He walked off the cobblestone path and even away from the Sidian Inn. It took a few seconds – the Sidian Inn was the largest building in this particular district, which didn’t mean a whole lot, but it still took a minute to lap around. He peeked his head out. The knight spoke to the large man with a calm and balanced demeanor. Copé appreciated that he was at least composed enough not to go straight for his sword, only to discover that it was nowhere to be seen. At the same time, the knight was so dimwitted he could very well have chalked it up to forgetfully leaving it at home.

The words exchanged between the two of them couldn’t be made out by The Thief, but he made assumptions about some of it. The knight was explaining the situation to the man, and, at one moment, even motioned over to where Secrat had once been before realizing he was pointing at nothing at all. The large man didn’t become enraged or yell in a fit of rage, and that was disappointed. Copé didn’t exactly know for sure what he had wanted to happen yet, but something like a crazed obese man throwing punches and yelling out profanities would certainly be enough to create a small diversion.

That was what he was counting on, in fact, but that wasn’t what happened. Instead, Copé watched the knight lead the man out and away from Azlak Temps, the exact opposite of what he needed to happen. Secrat sighed for a moment. Before long, the man and the knight were away from view, and it was safe for him to step out of his hiding spot. He walked nearer to where the large man was sonce standing. Everybody else was still mostly focused off to the side at Azlak Temps who continued to spout off a bunch of colorful words to describe the sword. As far as Copé had seen, there still hadn’t been any bids for it, but there very well could have been conversation he missed.

Secrat looked at the cart of tomatoes and oranges, and all kinds of different fruit. Tomatoes were fruit in Acera, although the debate raged on in neighboring cities. Men were burned at the stake over it in Jalint (not really, but they were the most agriculturally inclined of the five cities, and thereby, the most likely to become hostile over it). He picked up one of the pears and held it in his hand. He didn’t know whether he wanted to take a bite into it or chuck it at somebody, but the answer was likely somewhere in the middle. He resisted both urges and decidedly rested the pear back into the barrel. There weren’t a whole lot of options he could think of, but if there was anything he had learned from The Red Flux, it was that the simplest answer often proved to be the best one. The same one that was looking him dead in the eye, whether he realized it or not, like the loose planks in Christique’s shack.

In that instance, he decided he didn’t really have anything much to lose and while he wanted to avoid certain habits, he even more wanted to avoid coming out of the altercation empty handed. Thus, his hands wrapped themselves around the handles of the barrel. In turn, he dropped the knight’s sword behind him for the time being. The rustic feel of the metal in his hands felt weak and flimsy like they were hoisted together with wet sand or an only slightly stronger remedy. Nevertheless, he took the barrel and pulled it back, not caring about whether one or more of the fruits spilled onto the ground. The wheels at the bottom of the barrel had seen better days and didn’t turn very well. The wheels shook as he stepped back more and more, not leaving a lot of room for mobility with the wagon. The large man likely relied strictly on brute force to push the damn thing, practically defeating the benefit of having wheels.

His eyes went back over to Azlak Temps. He had a clear view of him, as well as a clear view of the sword resting in its black case. For now, Azlak was completely unsuspecting of him, and only continued to talk, his gift of gab being exceptionally gifting today and his hand gestures remaining as energized as ever before. From where Secrat stood, it looked as if he was discussing the sword one on one with a potential buyer.

Secrat paid him a final look and didn’t even bother giving his decision a final thought. Instead, he simply shoved the barrel forward and ran with it. The wheels didn’t offer him very much assistance and by the time the barrel connected with Azlak Temps and the glass case it had also flipped forward along with it. Copé was sent tumbling over the barrel. He flew over the barrel and rolled one or two times for good measure. His fall only broken by the unforgiving rock path. The sound of the glass breaking on the sword’s case was distinct, but it blended in with all the other noise, like a grunting Azlak Temps that was sent spiraling off his feet in a way that wasn’t graceful.

With the wind knocked out of him, Secrat thanked the stars that he had managed to evade breaking his neck in the midst of the act. Meanwhile, all of the fruit spilled out from the barrel and fell onto the ground, tumbling and rolling around – men and women clumsily tripping over it.

The Thief hurried, taking advantage of being the only one who had anticipated the event – he first found the Sword of Tertius and threw it off in the distance, then, made way to make the switch. He retrieved the knight’s sword and unceremoniously threw it beside the black case, hoping the commotion would be enough to keep Azlak from noticing the lack of an emerald encrusted at the hilt. At least long enough for him to make his leave.

“You idiot! Do you realize what you’ve done!?” Azlak shoved Secrat away from the sword, sure enough, his anger and focus toward The Thief kept him blinded.

Instead of inspecting his precious heirloom, he merely placed the knight’s sword in the case, not taking his eyes off of Secrat.

“You are lucky this thing wasn’t scratched or damaged, or you better believe some serious coin would be coming out of your pocket right now. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but this isn’t just some useless fruit,” Azlak said before throwing a kick at one of the oranges and sending it spiraling into the crowd of civilians.

“This is the Sword of Tertius, and it is worth more than your life, friend!”

As Azlak Temps ranted, Secrat made sure to play the part and keep his composure, trying not to bring attention to the fact that the so-called Sword of Tertius was actually hidden in the grass several feet behind them. When Azlak finished his speech, Secrat faked embarrassment for a moment and gasped for air for an added level of depth, “I, … I am terribly sorry about that. I mean, the barrel just became completely out of control. It was heading downhill and I couldn’t make it stop.”

There were no hills anywhere nearby, but, for some reason, Azlak Temps didn’t know that. Instead, he merely rubbed his temples with an irritated expression and finally spoke, “I want you to leave. Just leave! And take your stupid no good fruit and take that stupid barrel and let me get back to doing my job!”

Secrat nodded back at him. He carried a sad, somber, and completely fictional look on his face. He lifted his barrel, or, rather, he lifted somebody else’s barrel, and started to walk away with it. Most of the fruit had already spilled out from the cart. He took one final glance at Azlak with puppy dog eyes, but Azlak wasn’t have any of it with a no good glare directed at him.

“I have to apologize to everybody. It was my mistake, and so, all of the fruit you see before you is yours for the keeping.” The Thief announced aloud.

He knew he sounded ridiculous before he even said the words, but some part of him couldn’t resist the outlandishness of such a statement. Nobody yelled or cheered about that, and more than likely had either assumed that to be the case or had no interest in collecting the dirty fruit off from the ground.