Scalding sands ripped at your skin, as the ferocity of the sun grew stronger by the hour. Your lips were quenched by the sting of liquid from your flask, yet you yearned past the dehydration. Deep within, a calling for greed was born.

Arthur sat behind a large boulder, his stuff strewn around him. Your mastery in thievery surpassed common crooks, so you swiftly nabbed at it.

Failing instantly, Arthur grabs your wrist, "Don't be touchin' stuff that ain't yours. ‘Specially my things."