He slipped through throes of legs--human, animal, and otherwise--with a odd kind of ease, blending in with the crowd, moving in ways that shouldn't have been possible. No one ever thinks to look down and back, and he's ever grateful of it.

Saghira was taking up a collection. He'd walk up behind his quarry, slit the bottom of their coin purse with a little pocket knife, then move to the next person with a machine-like efficiency. He likened it to a bee, pollenating the flowers. This place was incredible! He hadn't been to a city this large and swollen with life in
...forever, actually.

The tip of the blade had already cut through the flax of some unfortunate carpenter's pocket change when the sound of something falling and scattering turned Saghira's attention away. He let the gold fall and the woman looked behind her in confusion as her money emptied onto the floor, but he was already gone.

Saghira crouched low and sucked his teeth, dissapointed to find that it was just a few baskets of produce that a not-patron had kicked aside in her anger. Produce wasn't anything special. He walked up to the stall to aid the older woman in gathering the disturbed contents (she seemed more nervous about the presence of a street-rat halfbreed so close to her wares than anything, but he either didn't notice or didn't care) and chittered away at her in broken Brythinian dialect