You shall need the following:
A safe haven wherein you forge your spell:
A bubbling bazaar under an overzealous sun with dusty, red brick lined shrunken lanes, cunningly tucked in banal corners; their narrow veiled entrances visible only to a pair of eyes curious or habitual enough. Dark heads, chattering tongues, clammy bodies crawl like insects everywhere, sucking in the sweat and perfume filled air of the streets. This is my territory, the place where I conjure.
Collect the ingredients:
A lost boy, A young thief, An ambitious lady preferably in her mid thirties and An old man with a hunched back.
Then wait for the opportune moment:
A lost boy about six years old wanders the streets, searching for the hint of white clothes that was his mother. Squeezing between the giant bodies of the crowd, he pushes forward, wiping his eyes and nose with…
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