In a trade caravan that had just left the docks and departed from the Lower City District, a large crate wrapped in heavy canvas wobbled like jelly with the bumpy ride of the wagon.
"Damn it, Mark, d-did you see that? I think that crate just moved on its own!" a guard escorting the caravan said to his companion, rubbing his eyes in disbelief.
The Warrior named Mark chuckled and clapped his companion on the shoulder. "Told you not to get so drunk yesterday. Now look at you, you're seeing things. If you hold up the caravan, Mr. Jonathan will have your hide."
The guard mumbled, "I only had a little, really just a little… Oh, and don't you dare tell that skinflint I was drinking."
"Of course not. If I wanted to tell on you, Mr. Jonathan would've known long ago that you call him a skinflint behind his back."
"…" The guard was speechless.
