Yikes, it's been a while. Hiya! What's new?

This chapter is certainly new, and I guess you'll be wanting to read it. Who can blame you, with tastes so keen? ;)

Read on!

Whichever one of Locke's ancestors thought there was a niche in the market for keys, they were dead wrong.

He had (unfortunately) accepted the family business from his father, who was just as idealistic as the entirety of the grub-eaten Locke family before him. "My boy, there's a cauldron full of rupees on the other side of that ridge," Locke's old man would say, hands spreading expansively across the room. Or, more likely, the mountain of bills accumulating on the table. "You just got to get yourself up and snatch it."

Locke didn't know about rupees. Rupoors, perhaps, but certainly not the immeasurable wealth his father had promised him. Because if the failing key business was doing anything for him, it was digging his grave. It might as well be locking up the chains of poverty that bound him to the bellows, trying with all his might to get a good batch of keys out for a needy customer.

Maybe this time they won't break.

Then this time blended into next time, and the cycle continued. Locke hated keys with a passion, but he hated his father a little less. So he stuck with Locke and Sons Locksmith as it dragged him deeper and deeper into debt, desperately trying to put on a good show for the customers.

Usually business went well if they didn't ask for demonstrations. From the outside, Locke and Sons Locksmith keys looked brand-thumping good. The shiny mystery metal, the Locke family version of a secret recipe, was formed from melted-down aluminum cans and bottlecaps. Grandpa Locke had said the resulting material was surprisingly durable, which Locke himself agreed with until you stuck the poor key in a keyhole. Maybe it got cold feet, claustrophobic, something. Maybe the key and the tumblers had a row. Locke couldn't figure the problem out – whenever he stuck his "surprisingly durable," "top class," "top-of-the-line" keys in a lock, they snapped cleanly in two.

Without fail.

At first he thought there was a problem with the family recipe, because there was no way aluminum cans and bottlecaps could make strong metal. Locke prided himself in enough scientific knowledge to assume that. So he had set about trying to break the keys in every way possible. He threw the blasted things at stone walls, crushed them under boulders, even threw one into a coop of cuccos, to no effect. The things could withstand a bomb blast. But when he slipped the metal into a keyhole – snap!

It was a most maddening dilemma, and one that was dragging him down with it. As soon as customers got word that Locke and Sons Locksmith sold keys that broke after one use, his business was practically boycotted. The only people who frequented his dusty store were hopefuls trying to help their neighbor out (or perhaps operating on some sort of bet), those who wanted a prank key to get back at their mothers-in-law, or newcomers who didn't know any better. It wasn't enough to keep the business afloat, that was certain. As the alarming number of FINAL NOTICEs on his desk seemed to indicate, he needed to do something drastic, and fast.

At first, he was optimistic that he would get some big break. Maybe word would get out about the locksmith whose keys broke, a sort of anecdote. It soon became clear, however, that the only joke was his hope that Locke and Sons Locksmith had any sort of future. One time a strange-looking Gerudo stormed in and bought out every key he owned, which sent Locke on a sort of spending frenzy. He bought a horse and gave it away that same day to a dancing-girl when he was in a drunken stupor. So much for big business. The facts seemed to be piling up against him: Locke would have to close up shop.

The thought was heartbreaking, but the fact that his ancestors were idiots for making broken keys raised his spirits a little.

Just when all seemed lost, Locke was browsing the day's newspaper (fished from the bottom of a trash can, of course) and stumbled across a rather interesting article. It was hard to read the words through a curious stain that mottled the snippet, but from what he could make out a certain posh family's bone-china vases had been stolen. The punch was the thief used their keys to enter, a clean escape that guaranteed his success. There was even a snub to Locke and Sons Locksmith, saying the family would certainly not be purchasing their new keyring from Locke. The townspeople would get a kick out of that, as they always did. A scowl furrowed Locke's face, which was soon replaced with a brilliant smile.

He had been looking at the family business completely wrong for years now! Everything fell into place in seconds – cheaply made, self-breaking keys, which ensured crippling debt. His father's sly comments about massive sums of rupees. The world was suddenly made clear, as if someone tugged back the curtain of doubt and fear that had been clouding Locke's judgment. What if the fabled cauldron or rupees wasn't a cauldron after all? What if it was a safe?

For all of Locke's life, his ancestors hadn't been shaping him to be a locksmith. They had been shaping him to be a thief.

Armed with a battalion of keyrings and his wits, he was going to strike fear into the hearts of the foolish townspeople. No cupboard, drawer or boss battle room was – well, safe – from him now.

As the master of keys, he was going to rule the world.

I cannot spell the word anscestors for the life of me.

Reviews, favorites and follows are welcome as always! Hope this is a nice refresher after (probably a month) of no TTC. Chin up, wonderful reader!

Until next time!