[Start]
It was such a trite thing. Just a little thing. The bag had a weathered look with a hole in the bottom where a patch had been stitched. A raggedy item that was little more than a piece of cloth sewn with a bit of twine at the top, but never had anything so quaint become such an object of intrigue. She carried it everywhere she went, always on her person no matter the occasion. A strange old woman she was. Perhaps more mysterious than strange. It was not her character that earned her such a reputation, nor was it her outward appearance. Rather, it was the fact that no one knew what kind of person she was exactly. She dressed plainly, but almost too plainly. Newcomers would not notice her, yet if one lived in Snowmelt Valley, they would begin to see a woman that blended in so well that as time went on she would eventually stick out to the point where it would make more sense if she were wearing pinstripes with a complementary ball and chain. She was unerringly like the small pouch she carried, no one knew what was inside. There was a tantalizing mystery about that bag. Such a trite thing, just a little thing; at least that's what Cretin kept telling himself. An easy steal, surely.
The gaunt orphan stared longingly at the saloon across the street where she had just sauntered in. It's simple, just go in, get the bag, walk out. There was a senior flock of hungry street brats that would certainly lavish him with grub if he could sate their curiosity, or be less cruel if he were lucky. For that matter, he would certainly pay a heel of bread to know because when it came down to it, he wasn't eager to cross that muddy street.
He scratched at the dried paint of the abandoned motel, his hearth and hovel, drafty as it was. He needed to find his next contingency in the event he was chased off the premises, but that could wait. Right now he was hungry.
He gave his last scrap to pup, the little Jack Russel terrier he left sleeping on the wood floor, basking under a window steeped in light from the noonday sun. He'd have enough after pulling this off. If the other urchins didn't buy his story, then surely the contents of the bag would fetch a good price at the Sojourner Pawn. Enough waiting, he needed to move while his stomach was still yelling louder than his head. He took one step with his clunky shoes and tripped, falling face first in the mud.
Off to a good start. Bewildered, he looked down at his feet seeing the pesky laces trailing up to the boardwalk. He guessed he would have to invent another knot. No one had ever taught him to tie the things, and he failed to see how these mischievous little tentacles were prominent in every pair. He dragged his rump back to the boardwalk, and began crafting a means in which the two laces would remain together. He had found them in the grass outside the church, and just in time before the first snowfall. Compared to dextrous bare feet they were an abomination, but they could certainly hold cloth to his souls well enough.
He stood up and wiped as much grime as he could. He was drenched. That was not a good thing, but the sun was at its zenith so he had time to dry before night fell. Undaunted, he started again, this time successful with the first step. Cretin was fortunate, the mud didn't sink above the lip of the battered leather, and with purpose, the urchin of eight years continued to the opposite boardwalk.
When he arrived, he caught a man staring at him with curious eyes. Half expecting him to be chased from the doors, he hustled to be sure the elder didn't have time to make up his mind on the matter, and with haste he opened the door. A troublesome bell announced his entrance causing him to halt in a stark display of chagrined stillness. With unwieldy toes bent inward housed in shoes too large for his feet he made quite the sight, but to his good fortune the occupants had not noticed his entrance.
She sat at the bar having ordered a plate of peas covered in baked starch and a side of fish. She was washing the palette down with a cup of tame cider, having a lively conversation with the owner, Yapper Yazid. Cretin had never seen him so upbeat and lost in talk. The grump hardly said anything at all at a level voice, at least not directed at Cretin. The fact that his only interaction was the occasional spat at the back kitchen door was besides the point, the man was a grouch. Seeing the old woman dandy in their gab solidified his commitment to thievery. Well, somewhat.
