When things seemed too good to be true, they generally were.
And normally O'Brien did not like to take risks. He was a practical man who waited until the odds were tipped so far into his favor as to be certainty. He liked safe.
Perhaps something had changed in him that day, when he acted where he would normally watch and wait—when the Troupe had banded together to save ol' Cookie. Since then, he'd taken chances, talked to people he would normally avoid, tried to bring in more and more goods back home. He did most of it for them.
This led to now, with O'Brien contemplating the napping figure in the clearing, and the saddlebags full of goods resting propped against a nearby stone. The doggish Luperci was well-adorned with clothing and dangling jewelry, a sure sign of wealth; they wouldn't miss a few goods from their bag, the thief thought. It was tantalizing.
He crept forward, his ears swiveling, nose twitching. The bag smelled herbal, and its holster held an array of dangerous-looking darts. There could be poisons inside, or perhaps medicines; things his companions could trade.
One more glance at the napping shape. Another few steps. He leaned forward, his fingers beginning to open up the saddlebag, flitting over the contents, grabbing a bottle or two to pocket.