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SUMMARY: This is meant to be a pulp wierd tale type story, in essence an homage to R.E. Howard's Conan stories. However, it takes place in approximately 4000 BCE, and any fantastical elements should be plausible.

The pallid red Hunter's Moon rose slowly over the city of Ara, obscured by smoke rising from a myriad number of hearths. The yearly harvest festival of Shar Nahaved had begun, and the people of the capital city were out in full force; drinking, carousing, and toasting the name of their lord. The yield was bountiful this year, and the merchants and nobles could almost feel their pockets bulging in silver from the crops. However, not all were filled with joy this night.
Ossrad, a Skadian wanderer and mercenary, ran swiftly along the narrow alley between the earthen-walled courtyards in the noble quarter. His brown hair fluttered wildly in the cold autumn wind.
"How does this always seem to happen," he thought to himself as he heard the clanging of armor behind him.
"Stop that thief!" yelled the guard chasing the young Skadian. A narrow side passage, no more than a crevice two hands wide appeared between two unkempt walls on Ossrad's left. He shimmied nimbly between them, hoping the Zurati militiaman couldn't fit through. He stopped briefly to catch his breath as he came out the other side, his hair stuck to his head by sweat, his grey eyes darting right and left to try to find any sign of another guard. The crevice led him to the great marketplace, and he easily slipped into the throng of people on its way to the festival. The Skadian looked down at the bag gripped tightly in his hand, making sure his package was still safe.
"So much trouble for so little," he thought, weighing the heft of the gold idol inside.
He took the job from an old Azak woman, probably a priestess judging by her long flowing yellow robe and elitist demeanor. A price of 100 silver coins for a trifle stolen from her village, she said. He was merely reclaiming their rightful heirloom, a small gold statue of their goddess of water, Mivilkie, she said. Stored in a ramshackle old manor in the nobles quarter, she said.
Ossrad had only been in Ara for a few days. He didn't know what was supposed to be a deserted house was really the beautiful two story manor of the Sagat's beloved mistress. He stole the idol without alerting the guards, but on the way out of the courtyard he slipped on a piece of loose plaster and fell, his yelp of surprise bringing unwanted attention. Ossrad fled, trying to lose the guards that were attempting to surround and flank him. He eventually made his way into this crowd of ruddy faced drunkards, speaking their uncouth tongue.
Ossrad soon realized how much he stuck out amongst the Zurati. They were a shorter, stockier race than he, with dark hair and equally dark eyes. Ossrad stood a head taller than most, leaner, with a thick light brown beard tinged with red. He decided to get out of the crowd and find a more direct route to his drop-off point.
The Skadian saw an avenue that led away from the festival so he jostled his way through the crowd, slipping onto the side-street.
"There he is!" came the familiar cry as two guards wielding spears came down the dusty road. Their bronze cuirasses shined blood red in the moonlight, and the faces under the leather caps were twisted into a bloodthirsty grin, eager for an easy kill.