And this was it.

Serena moved closer to the troll, already noting she had his attention.

It was not the first time she had assessed his spent bottles. In fact, it was not the first time she had assessed the spent bottles she was now assessing.

This did not matter.

All the troll knew was that she was a drunkard. As such, she would not remember what she had done five minutes ago, much less the day before.

She got closer but stopped and looked at him with blinking eyes, squatting but still swaying.

She shuffled ever closer, but he did not move, just kept watching her.

She picked up some bottles, held them to the sun, set them down. More, she held up, sniffed at their mouths, set them aside, shuffled closer, all the while dragging her jug.

She came ever closer, and he pushed away from his lounge against the wall.

He did not arise, but he wanted her to know he was alert.

She scuttled back and eyed the lone crate behind him that had been at least five stacked when she had discovered him and the building he guarded.

Cautiously, she waddled closer.

“Fanshy a shag?” she slurred.

His deep-set black eyes at the sides of his pronounced nose looked around the matted locks falling in his face, this look aimed at her body.

“Mm?” she asked, shuffling closer. “Wanna have shum fun?”

His fangs moved against his upper lip.

Serena came ever closer, securing her grip on the jug.

“C’mon, big boy, les ’af shum fun.”

He sniffed her way, slightly recoiled.

And she moved.

Fast.

Coming up and swinging around, she brained him with the heavy, earthenware jug.

He fell sideways, and she threw the crock at him with all her might.

It hit him in the jaw, and he slammed down to his side.

With that, she dashed around him, took hold of his last crate, dragged it from its alcove and gripped it.

She then lifted it, turned and ran.

The troll snorted his fury, she sensed him shifting, and she prayed to the goddess he would leave his post and give chase.

She did not go fast, she did not go slow, and she did not move with coordination.

She was a drunken wench in the Shanty stealing whiskey from a troll, struggling against her inebriation and the weight of the crate.

She needed to be this, take him elsewhere and find ways to keep him occupied, for Gal told her if the lock on the door of that building was easy, it would take less than a minute to open. If it was difficult, it would take more akin to five.

And at what was found inside, it would take another five for Brix to swing rooftop to rooftop to get whatever the word was to Tor.

But they would not be able to get to it if she could not distract the troll.

She nearly cried out her relief when she heard him lumbering behind her.