"What are we doing now, Boss?" I ask. "Slaying a dragon? Obstructing a penguin conspiracy? Stealing from innocent farmers?"
"What? I would never do such a thing!" exclaims Insomniax, as his hand leaves the pocket of a passing man, clutching a bag of coins. I stare at him. "What?" he repeats. He glances down at his hands. "Oh. That's -- he's --" Insomniax falters. He stays silent for a minute as we keep walking. He makes a sharp turn to the right as we pass the smithy, and I swear I can see the druid's hand twitch toward the pockets of a woman leaning against a tree there.
"Very interesting," I observe. "It must be an old adventurer's reflex."
"Shh," says Insomniax, his eyes darting around nervously.
"What's your Thieving level?" I ask. "It must be at least, like, eighty."
"Stop it!" he says, almost shouting. Insomniax looks at me for a moment, then picks me up and -- get this -- stuffs me in his bag again! I scratch and yowl for all I'm worth, but apparently it's not getting through the thick material of the backpack. When he doesn't respond, I bite into one of his nice cooked lobsters. In just a few seconds I manage to gobble the whole thing up, because I know that the moment it disappears from his pack he'll automatically know. I'm about to move on to the next one when I hear his voice.
"Do you promise to stop?" Insomniax asks.
"Yes, just let me out!" I snap. I feel his slightly cold hands around my middle, and then I'm blinking in the sunlight. He sets me down.
"I'm really sorry, Lynnix," says Insomniax. "It's just that I left that part of my life behind when I joined the druid order and began my journey on the path of Guthix. If it was discovered that I used to be a greedy thieving miser, I'd be executed for sure!"
"I don't think they'd kill you," I say. "Maybe you mean excommunicated?"
"Uh," he says, twiddling his mustache, "sure."
"There you go. Anyway, it's fine. Just keep me out of that bag, it smells awful. I can hardly breathe in that stink. And I don't appreciate getting hit in the head with your ridiculous little toys!"
"They're not toys! They're weapons!"
"I'm fairly certain I saw a little horsey in there."
He walks toward a large, dead-looking tree on the riverbank and pulls out a bronze hatchet from his toolbelt.
"Seriously, what are we doing?"
"We're going to the Grand Exchange," says Insomniax. He starts swinging at the tree. "Remember Ug? We met him in the Troll Stronghold."
"Sure," I say, not really paying attention. Money, trolls, dumb pseudo-altruistic human. That's all you need to describe the druid known as Insomniax.
"Well, I need to buy some wax for the sled that Dunstan made. I have some swamp tar in the bank, but I don't want to disturb the bees just for something so trivial." Insomniax finishes chopping down the tree and begins shaping it into a long, vaguely boat-shaped object. He does this by swinging his ax wildly at the log instead of attempting to, say, carve it out. I settle down for a quick cat-nap in the meantime.
Just before I drift off to sleep, I hear Insomniax mutter, "Ridiculous little toys, indeed."