Starlight and empty plains of scraggly, brown grass gave way to ramshackle huts that leaned against each other. Light was weakly penetrating through the various holes in the constructions, as if even the light couldn't really be bothered with doing more or trying to push the darkness back. It is still light, though, and that is always a beacon of hope to those people that dare to travel the lands.

The Vagrant didn't notice it. He was focused on watching the ground and putting one foot in front of the other without stumbling, a precious burden hidden away on his back under his cloak. He barely cast his gaze left or right as he entered the tiny town, and he ignored the drunkards and whores and troublemakers all around him. He followed the crowd to make it easier on himself until they reached a small square. Platforms rose on unsteady legs and wire cages sat on top. Shivering creatures that could once have been animal or even human sat inside the cages, waiting to be sold. Some of the watchers had simply come to see, others had come for new slaves, and some had come for the fresh, new meat the wretches in the cages represented.

None of them noticed the Vagrant as he skirted the edges of the excited crowd.

The centre of the town was dominated by the carcass of an enormous dragon - a remnant from the war. The inside had been carved out a long time ago, the meat devoured, and since dragon skin didn't rot the carcass provided an entire new section for the town, hidden and much safer than the ramshackle huts built up against its enormous body. One had to go through the open maw to enter the carcass. It was propped open by bones from the dragon's skeleton. The fangs had been sawed off and removed a long time ago, the same with the claws on its four legs.

Since the carcass kept out wind and rain and the poisonous windstorms, the inside was littered with low, circular tents in all sorts of colours. Wooden platforms were built along the edges and on top of these were even more tents and some wooden structures, and unsafe rope bridges were strung up all over the place. Lanterns hung here and there, but the true light came from inside the tents since most of them didn't even have doorflaps.

The Vagrant ducked awkwardly, bent his legs and bowed his head, but his back was held straight. Like this he entered one of the tents that had a sign hanging on one of its poles. Rickety shelves lined the walls and divided the tent in two. They were packed with weaved baskets that had seen better days, rusty daggers some of which were broken, and the bones and skulls of the oddest creatures. Where the shelves divided the tent an improvised counter had been set up. Behind the counter was a small table with a gathering of precious glass bottles. Some were empty but a few had liquids in them, some of the liquid purple, some sky blue and one mint green, and all of them were glowing.

"A new customer?" the propriotor, hunchbacked and with yellow sclera, and sharp fangs appeared in a shark-like grin when the Vagrant nodded. "Welcome, welcome! I am Siroho. I assume ou've heard of me? Of course you have, that's why you're here! Well, what can I get you? You look tired. I have the finest selection of uppers this side of the Breach. Or perhaps something to escape with? There is many a taleteller herb in my shop."

Grey eyes so pale they were almost inhuman had never left the small table behind the proprietor, and the Vagrant shifted briefly. Leaving one arm hidden under his cloak he then pointed with the other right at the glass bottle with the mint green liquid.

"Ah, a discerning customer." Siroho nodded and stroked his chin. "Rare to have somebody who knows what they're looking for. Most of the rabble I get through here can't tell the difference between dried herbs and sawdust." As he spoke he picked up with small bottle with the green liquid. "I assume whoever sent you appreciates the scarcity of good healing potions... and the cost of 'em."

The Vagrant carefully crouched down, moving slowly as he reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out two gold coins. He placed them on the improvised counter and then pushed them across to Siroho. The shark-toothed man grabbed them and bit into them, before he flickered one with a claw-like yellow nail. The coin sang. There was no other word for it, and for a moment the note hung in the air bringing forth memories from before.

Siroho shifted uncomfortably, the Vagrant closed his eyes in peace.

"My apologies." Siroho muttered suddenly, his rough voice breaking the gentle atmosphere, and quickly handed over the potion bottle. The two gold coins had been spirited away into the folds of his clothes already. He put on the shark-tooth smile again. "And if you have any other needs, don't hesitate to come back."

The Vagrant pocketed the potion and quickly left the tent.

Soft, near-silent steps. That was the key to a successful theft. A subtle approach, a deft hand, and a smooth retreat. Failure in any of these was enough to give oneself away, and few were the men or women who would turn a blind eye to a thief caught red-handed.

Most thieves were caught when they failed in one of these respects. Luka was not most thieves. With a practiced hand, the slight figure transferred coins, baubles, and any sparse bits of jewelry from their origins, to another hand, to the small sash-pouch designed for the purpose. It was slim pickings. Not much was worth stealing, and the few trinkets and coins would buy precious little. Perhaps a few meals...

The raggedly-dressed figure stuck to the shadows, dark brown eyes glowing a rich golden-yellow in the darkness. A few paces more, and a more likely target appeared, as though granted by the gods above. From the tent of an apothecary, a rough-looking man appeared, clad in a cloak and apparently carrying something beneath it.

Luka wasn't new to thievery, and with trained eyes, appraised the man. He looked tough enough, and didn't seem to have any visible mutations. That made him perhaps a bit unpredictable, but Luka had faith in the abilities that had been honed through necessity and practice. Whatever the man had tucked in his cloak had to be valuable, or he wouldn't hold it so close to his body.

Luka readied the only weapon available: a kitchen knife, smoke-blackened to prevent it from glinting in the light. Approaching from behind the traveler, the thief danced from one foot to the other, never putting too much force in any one step, feet almost unnaturally light on the barren earth. This theft, if it was successful and the haul was worthwhile, would ensure security of food and wealth for a good while, and allow for some much-needed rest.

The thief's breath rasped through the ash-gray rags tied over its mouth. This was it. With a few dashing steps, Luka closed the distance and brushed up against the traveller, nimble fingers of one hand attempting to grasp the object held so closely, knife readied to cut any inhibiting straps or strings, and legs tensed in readiness to flee, were it to come to that.