[Something about trading/stealing/guarding]

You turn your body sideways to squeeze through the crowd, a palm on the hilt of your sword so it isn't launched by the flailing arms. A shipment of exotic goods and shouts about never-before-seen contraptions have drawn a wave of fat purses and fatter bellies, stampeding your way like someone yelled "Whores and wine. Free!"

"Desert! Island! We've gone to where man hadn't stepped before! Lands in Eversnow! We have a piece from every place! This one's from three countries over!" a young man cries with a voice too clean to have ever known hunger.

You'd think these merchants would be in shape with how fast they move when coin's involved. But no... They sit so much their asses could probably tell wood types apart. It's the poor beasts hauling their heavy, silk-wrapped guts through town that turn into muscular hulks instead. They do smell nice, though. Perfume, spices... a hundred different smells stinging your nose at once like a fire you can't get away from.

Before you reach the edge of the flood, you feel a tug on your sword. Luckily, you prepared, and whatever catches the hilt gives in. There's a clank. Not yours. Something heavy hits the stone. Metal on metal, high-pitched rings echoing like little bells. You glance down.

A purse. Stuffed beyond capacity but somehow holding together. Yeah, it's definitely not yours.

The fat cunt who dropped it looks like he couldn’t bend far enough to pick it up even if his life depended on it. So you do the honors. His grunt of “Hurry!” sounds more like an order than thanks.

You crouch under the shade of his belly in a half-kneel, scooping up the spilled wealth as you question your life. Silvers. Coppers. And gold... Actual gold.

It’s the first time you touch it. And as you drop coin after coin back into the pouch, something in you starts to itch. Every clink back into the sack feels like you’re burying a piece of yourself. You had almost sold yourself for not even a tenth of this pouch...

Just behind you, a soft giggle cuts through the clanks. You glance over your shoulder and spot a pair of courtesans leaning against a fruit stall, their eyes on the coins and their owner.

One bites her lip. The other parts her bodice a little more with each laugh, hoping the fat fuck with the purse will spot the cleavage and mistake it for love.

"Big pouch on that one," one murmurs, not even trying to be subtle.

You can't tell if she’s talking about the coin or what’s below his gut, but you wouldn't put it past either.

Of course, the merchant doesn't even notice. He must be used to it, like rich men always are. No effort, no shame. Just money and holes that open like doors when it jingles loud enough.

Not wanting to be part of this play any further, you give yourself a self-deprecating smile and return the last coin to the purse.

“Sorry,” you say, barely meaning it as you stand and hand it over.

He opens his mouth, sour look plastered across his swollen face. He’s ready to scold you, but pauses when he sees the sword at your hip and the look in your eye.

“It happens, I guess,” he mutters instead.

You almost laugh. Maybe he's afraid you'll be guarding his goods next time. That, or maybe he knows how quickly bad luck spreads when you piss off someone with callouses on their knuckles and nothing left to lose.

You watch him waddle off, shouting at the young man about a painting some silkpants noble's been turning the city upside down for... But your thoughts stay with the purse. With the weight. How it felt.

As you turn to step away, one of the courtesans whistles, at you this time. A wink. Maybe a joke... You don't know. You don’t stop to find out, but it adds another weight to your thoughts.

Why can’t you be the rich one? The fat one? Who would've stopped you if you had just taken it?

Maybe you still can...

Would the girl help if you asked?