The thief sidestepped a fresh, steaming mound left by one of his charges and shook his ridiculous belled staff at the lazy, plodding animals, casting his gaze towards the young musician. He smirked and called, “Aye, know any from Kistr way?” Songs from that port city were always entertaining, filled with deviant sexual escapades. They were sure to lift his spirits. His steel grey eyes were drawn to the silver flute, and frowned, realising only then that the lad would likely not sing the lyrics, only carry the tune. Pity.