Not far off, the pup would find a strange little cache. It was little more than a gap behind one of the well-worn stones, but it gave off a strange, slightly metallic odor.

Someone had, at some point many, many years ago, stashed a leather pouch back here. It was worn through in many places, despite what looked like an enchantment left to protect it from the elements: it had nevertheless aged and worn away, eventually. The drawstring was completely gone, and the entire thing was covered in a thick layer of fine sand and dust.

Within lay a number of small items: personal things that had once been valuable to their owner. Clearly, whoever it was was never coming back for them, not now. But the little chips of gold had perhaps once held some worth, and the little pocketknife (fashioned from a handle of polished, mottled wood), though its blade was rusted, was well-made. The rolled-up map disintegrated the moment it was touched, its ancient parchment too worn, but the two sticks of pigment--one coal, one red ochre--used to mark it remained intact. A few other things within had not survived the ages. A small stick figure had fallen apart, the sticks rotting into nothing, so that only its shape was briefly visible before the dust blew away. And a small paper box of some sort turned to dust, as well. But the rest--the gold chips, the knife and the pigment, as well as the hole-ridden, dusty pouch--remained.