Medeia fancied herself a thief, and all who knew her for more than a day doubted this not in the slightest. Perhaps years spent trying not to fall asleep during study and daily routine had dulled those sharp senses. Or, more likely, she was just so hungry that her attention never wavered once from the food, even when Garron began to stride towards the porcine fellow. If not for the soft press of fingertips against her waist, she probably would have eaten without even waiting for the dickering to begin.

It became apparent to her after a moment's study that Garron suspected something in the obese man's mannerisms, so she forced herself to drag her gaze away from the food to study him closer, though the tempting little pie wafted its delectable odor almost teasingly under her nostrils.

The man spoke to Garron, and yet his eyes never settled on Garron's own. It was as if he were afraid that a prolonged exposure to that cool, blue stare might bring to light every fault within him for the world to see. A finger on his right hand ticked nervously against its neighbor, and she knew that for what it was: a tell. Garron was right; there was something amiss here. What it was, she had no idea. Had Vivica sent more soldiers after them already, or were these a different group altogether?

Her introspection was cut short of sudden, her focus drawn back to the here and now by the acidity in Garron's tone. As spoon broke crust, she slipped unnoticed around the side of the stall. She had no idea what was really going on, but it would probably help to flank the fat man's booth.

It was bordered on the other side by the sea-washed building behind it, tucked securely into an obscure corner of the market. Placing herself outside the little curtain that led into a back alley, she waited, assured that if the man took off running, (as funny a sight as that might be), he would come this way. A soft whisper of metal against leather accompanied a slender, haft-less blade that she let drop into a loose grip between her first and third fingers, resting the blunt side flush against the pad of her thumb.

A moment later, Garron uttered a loud curse, followed by a sputter. The curtain drew back roughly, ripping fabric from the rotting little ringlets that secured it to the stall roof with the force of its motion. Bright yellow for a moment filled her vision, and her hand rose back and to the side before she brought it flying up and forward in a calculated uppercut stab to the flabby folds of the man's unprotected neck.

The strike was true, and tubby squawked in surprise. So wide and ample were the folds, however, that the blade was lost in their quivering depths, the blood flow steeped by this protective layer of blubber. A ham of a hand rose up to enclose about her neck, pressing down like an iron vice.

"Filthy cull of lass, you make to kill me? But Strong Jazeer is too much for you. You bite more than can chew, yes?", he spat at her, grip tightening with every word.

Spots began to dance before Medeia's vision as she clawed furiously at the pudgy hand of her doom. Where was Garron? Why was he still not here? Had the man done something horrible to him in so little time? She kicked with her feet, finally finding purchase in an ample belly, straining backwards with all her might.

Something collided with her back roughly; it felt like a small foot landing on her before pressing off almost immediately. A small compact form launched itself up and over her head, a warbling war-cry exploding out from behind a many-braided and flowing beard.

Light glanced off metal, as the fat man before her suddenly sprouted a great-ax out of the center of his skull. Blood spurted in crimson sheets, and the grip around her throat slowly went lax. Great, rheumy eyes rolled back in their sockets, and the fat man fell with a resounding crash. Medeia somehow managed to land in messy sort of sprawl lain sideways over the mountain of the dying man's belly, and thus evaded an embarrassing end.

A small, sturdy foot encased in worn, soft leather boots studded with iron planted itself on the dead man's cheek, as the dwarf twisted and tugged at the axe in annoyance.

"Comfounded lummox of a great galloping ape's arse...", Torgrin Oarhell muttered, apparently speaking to the deceased. "Will'e let go of my axe already? Splintery maggoty sack of horse dung..."

More of the same colorful language that had once made Medeia blush as a young girl flowed from the dwarf like water from a tap. Finally, the axe pulled free and the dwarf tumbled away with a grunt. Rising and adjusting himself, he squinted at Medeia before looking around.

"Missing someone aren't ye?," he rumbled, pausing a moment to scratch at his beard. "Where is he? Usually you two be thick as thieves, no offense meant."