Fuckin’ merchant didn’t even know what he was talkin’ about. Crew stomps down the rickety boards of the marketplace, his heavy boots kicking up a cloud of dry, dusty air that sticks to everything in this town. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is a hot glare burning into his neck.

“Damn locals,” he mutters, readjusting the strap of his leather pack. His palms ache from clutching it all day, desperate to get some silver for his troubles. Days of no sales. No trades. Nothing but suspicious glances and too many turned backs.

He’s tried. Really, he’s tried. Smiling when he’s used to scowling, being polite when he’d rather just spit and get it over with. Hell, he even shaved. And still, these people look at him like he’s some kind of travelling curse, ready to empty their pockets or charm away their goats. Which, fair enough, he does have a few tricks up his sleeve. But that doesn’t mean they have to treat him like he’s got a plague.

He weaves through the thinning crowd, grumbling and swearing under his breath. The blacksmith, the one with arms like iron hammers and a face like a chiselled boulder, eyes Crew with a warning look. Crew spits on the ground, just out of spite, and marches on. Can’t let them think they’re gettin’ to him.

Finally, he’s out of that hellhole of a market and taking a shortcut down a narrow alley, sidestepping a few scattered crates and mangy cats. His storage spot isn’t far now.

He’s still cursing the merchant under his breath when he rounds the corner, and that’s when he sees it: a small shape crouched over his stash, nimble fingers poking around his stuff. His blood spikes hot. No way is someone dumb enough to steal from him.

“Oi! Those are mine!” Crew’s shout cracks through the quiet. He's already storming over, boots thudding like a war drum. “You know what happens to thieves, huh?"