Door Handle.

You cover your fruit with a blanket, and venture through the rain towards the pub. She struggles like a cat, but her captors hold her fast. Above them, a window shatters, and the rafters of the great alehouse roof creak. Seizing the moment, the lady breaks free and runs, in your direction.

Her hair, short like a man's, is already wet with the rain as she pounds along the middle of the road. For a second she looks at you, and flings an object in your direction. It rings as it hits the cobbled road, and skids into the filthy gutter.

"It's yours!" She runs past on shoes that are unlike anything you have ever seen. Swirls and patterns adorn padded fabric uppers, large white laces holding the shoes tight to her feet. But the soles - she seems to spring from those soles - the bright, red and white patterns are mesmerising.

"After her, boy! Get moving!" The mob from the alehouse are already on her trail. You move towards the gutter and feign tripping over, sweeping the metal object out of the muck with your left hand. You try to rub the dirt from the object on your breaches, but it only becomes more ingrained into the delicate elven figures that circle its egg-shaped surface.

This could be worth a lot of money, but without washing it you cannot tell what it is. But there's no time to try and clean it up now. You stuff it into the money pouch strapped about your waist, and wonder whether its worth joining the chase.
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