Door Handle.
Instinct takes you left. Though heading right leads further into the labyrinth of alleyways, she may try to lose her pursuers in the main town.
But your guess is wrong, and the sounds of the chase become more distant. Your aching legs and rumbling stomach override the desire to retrace your steps.
With no wish to face your master with the paltry sum you've made today, it might be worth pawning the object to get through the next few days.
You walk through the streets, wondering what expert you could take this to - someone you can trust. It is getting dark, and although the rain has stopped, it's cold.
A hand falls on your shoulder and a tall, white-haired man appears at your side. His clothes look to be those of a nobleman but they are dirty and torn. He wears a long robe, with glints of silver, serpents that writhe upwards towards the upstanding collar.
"Give me the handle."
"What handle?"
He smiles, his eyes sparkling with some devillish mysticism. "Then give me the metal egg."
On his command you produce the object, and he takes it and conceals it within his robe. In the same movement he brings out an ancient scroll, and reads through the writings upon it.
"There is little time left," he says, "so I will explain as best I can. You may call me Tharrithon, of the magical races." He grabs you by the sleeve and leads you through the rat-infested alleyways. He positions you carefully in a particular point. "Now, wait, and keep still."
He consults his scroll again, and looking around, produces a pendant on a chain. He holds it up, observing the way it swings.
But your guess is wrong, and the sounds of the chase become more distant. Your aching legs and rumbling stomach override the desire to retrace your steps.
With no wish to face your master with the paltry sum you've made today, it might be worth pawning the object to get through the next few days.
You walk through the streets, wondering what expert you could take this to - someone you can trust. It is getting dark, and although the rain has stopped, it's cold.
A hand falls on your shoulder and a tall, white-haired man appears at your side. His clothes look to be those of a nobleman but they are dirty and torn. He wears a long robe, with glints of silver, serpents that writhe upwards towards the upstanding collar.
"Give me the handle."
"What handle?"
He smiles, his eyes sparkling with some devillish mysticism. "Then give me the metal egg."
On his command you produce the object, and he takes it and conceals it within his robe. In the same movement he brings out an ancient scroll, and reads through the writings upon it.
"There is little time left," he says, "so I will explain as best I can. You may call me Tharrithon, of the magical races." He grabs you by the sleeve and leads you through the rat-infested alleyways. He positions you carefully in a particular point. "Now, wait, and keep still."
He consults his scroll again, and looking around, produces a pendant on a chain. He holds it up, observing the way it swings.