“Well that makes perfect sense,” says Shyan, her deadpan sarcasm blisteringly obvious.
“That witch must really hate this guy,” Fassn says. He strums his fingers over a band of studded mail, savouring the bumpy sensation. He then gnaws upon the piece like a toddler, testing his new teeth.
“Should we chase him down?” Shyan asks the group.
Cang shrugs, wanders over to the counter, as though random perambulation by chance brings him to the blacksmith’s lockbox. It’s got a peculiar purple lock, inscribed with runes.
“Oh, let me, let me,” Fassn says when he spots the box. He strides toward it, lead by his pinky finger, to insert its tip into the lock. Cang slaps his hand away.
“Those runes,” Abia says, under her breath. She feels a gentle heat brewing within Ulxurix’s book.