Sunlight streams down across a clear, blue sky, spilling over embattled stone walls before splashing onto the wood shingles of the town. In the main square, makeshift stalls with linen shades butt-up against the buildings as crowds push in for market day. Men in jewel-toned tunics and women in colorful gowns lift their voices as vendors lift their wares for barter, while children race about the fountains in games of tag. Stray dogs chase escaped cuckoos, setting off small storms of barking and crowing. The clang of plate metal and rustle of chainmail herald the patrolling guards as they try to make their rounds (with a number of them giving up and detouring around the crowd). And every now and again, the noon-day's light breaks beneath the small, fluttering shadow of a golden butterfly.
A lank figure wrapped in a worn, brown cloak slips quietly through the chaos, a russet hand with scarred knuckles keeping the hood pulled tightly down. Zigzagging through the shifting mob, the vagabond slides from the outskirts over to the side of a produce vendor. The sun casts a lustrous glow upon the array of apples, figs and cherries; two amber eyes glance over each shoulder before another set of tan fingers slip out from beneath the cloak's thin folds. With bated breath, the digits dart out to snatch one of the edible gems, quickly hiding it back amongst the threadbare linen. The hood billows lightly as a relieved exhale wisps out; taking a few steps back into the throng, the vagrant shuffles his tattered boots towards the nearby alley. Nearing the narrow corridor, his pace quickens. His fingers unwind from their clasp upon his cowl, revealing cracked lips and gaunt cheeks. He pulls out the lush fruit, brings it up to his open mouth, and—
"Stop! Thief!"
He freezes, eyes wide with fear at the cry; casting only a half-glance behind him, the vagabond drops the apple and sprints forward- only to run headlong into a pauldron.
"What the…?!" yelps a guard, spinning around with pointed spear. The weapon dips down, however, as all he finds is a crumbled figure of brown and black sprawled upon the cobblestones. Tilting his helmet up slightly, the guard edges the spearhead towards the hood; an arm abruptly jolts out from beneath the cloak, knocking the point away.
"Hey!" he exclaims, brandishing the weapon again.
"Come on, idiot!" yells another voice as two more sentries race up the passage. "The brat is getting away!"
Pulling his helmet back down with a huff, the soldier joins the others in a mad dash down the alleys. Cries of 'This way!' and 'No, that way!' echo across the walls til the din of the market overwhelms them.
Rubbing his head, the vagrant slowly pushes himself back onto his feet before sliding off into a shaded doorjamb. His hands pat down his plain tunic and belt, making sure his dagger and purse had not come undone.
"You dropped this."
The silvery voice yanks his attention up, his yellow eyes suddenly staring straight into a brilliant red gaze. His breath catches in his throat; he stumbles back against the wood door and his fingers fumble back down to his blade.
"Relax," the other chuckles while pressing the bruised apple back into his hand; lithe digits brush against his thick fingers before retreating back to their own black belt. With a skip and twist, the ruby eyes disappear beneath a mess of blonde tuffs and ivory linen as the stranger turns back down the alley.
"...Thanks," his low voice mutters back.
"Thank you for the distraction," she notes, tipping two fingers from her head. "Feel free to do it again some time."
As her ragged blue and white tunic disappears into the market, he glances back down at the fruit. Feeling something cool and slick upon his palm, he turns the apple over to find a fresh bite out of the other side. Huffing with annoyance, he starts to wipe his hand off on the skirt of his tunic, but pauses.
His purse is missing.
"Din's spit…!" he hisses, lifting his attention back to the alley. But the thief is nowhere to be seen. Lifting another curse to the laundry hanging above, he bites into the ill-gotten apple and sprints back toward the horde of market-goers.
Just as a package-laden lady steps into his path, he arcs and jumps onto the nearby stone wall; with another twist, he kicks-off to the other side. Repeating the motion, he climbs up the building walls before gripping onto a gutter and flipping onto the roof. Crouched low, he scans the crowd for the blue-clad bandit; his eyes dart across brunette bouffants and blonde tresses before spying the ragged white turban slipping off into another back alley. He follows swiftly across the shingles, eyes locked on his target. Pausing halfway down a pitch, he leans out slightly to watch her stroll down the shaded cobbles; the thief nonchalantly tosses a brown sack through a broken window, then places her hands behind her head and whistles up a simple tune as she continues on her way. He pursues, padding along the planks till she steps into a side corridor. Then, dagger drawn, he drops straight down in front of her—
—and squarely into her fist.
The vagabond stumbles back, holding his nose as his head spins; through his fingers, he catches her black toed-boots bounding up a stack of barrels. Shaking off the sting, he dashes after her, his footfalls clattering sharply across the boards as he barrels after her. The thief starts in surprise, shuffling a few steps before darting to another roof. He matches her leap and then some, his long, muscular legs propelling him easily across. With a few more strides, she comes within his arm's reach; he darts out his hand, only to catch air as she drops down to sweep her lithe legs out and around. Her heels hit hard upon his shins, forcing him to fumble forward upon the sloped surface.
The shingles scrape roughly against his thin shirt and tattered pants as he slides down boots first, the gutter banging roughly against his ribs till his fingers snag onto the metal lip. Gritting his teeth, he swings his other arm up and vaults himself back into the air. The red-eyed woman stares wide-eyed at the cloaked figure descending upon her like a hunter's hawk before scrambling back. She narrowly escapes his striking fist, nearly tripping over her own toes as she scurries away. He sprints after her, blood trailing along his snarled lip and fire building in his eyes.
The pair race across the roofs, the perilous game of cat and mouse snaking them around the top of the town square. Their ruckus draws villagers to their shutters, peering out for but a moment before darting back in as boots fly by. Cries and curses chase after, but fall short as they vault over dormers and skid down rakes. Rounding a second-story corner, she ducks into a vendor's roof-top garden; his heavy footfalls thunder past the tangle of vines, and a heavy sigh blows out against her white scarf.
A hand bursts through the leaves and suddenly yanks her out by the collar, causing her to choke in surprise. As she flies forward, she jabs flattened palms forward, managing to jab him in the sides; the vagrant recoils and loses his grip. Coughing and eyes watering, she throws out a fist, only to be knocked aside by a strike of his own. Tumbling to the side, the thief rolls back onto her feet before quickly dropping again as a blade slices through the air. He pushes forward, deftly driving the dagger toward her; yet she manages to duck and dodge each slash and stab. When one of his strikes lingers, she catches his tan wrist, digging her pale nails into the joint; a sharp hiss escapes from between his teeth and the blade slips from his grip. Catching the handle and unsheathing her own stiletto, the thief brandishes both blades towards his throat.
The vagrant slowly straightens his stance, watching as a smirk peers out over the other's linen wrap. His flaming amber eyes narrow back at her, and he starts to lift up his hands. Suddenly, he tosses his cape off to the side and wraps it about the stolen blade; yanking back with a spin, he pulls his startled opponent forward, snatches his dagger back, and sharply kicks her in the stomach. She flies backwards, skipping like a stone along the sloped shingles. Chuffing to himself, he lifts up and wags his dagger, glinting the afternoon sun back at her. The blue thief rubs at her sides, rolling over with a pained snicker. His brow knots for a moment, but as she starts to walk away with a whistle, he smacks a palm to her forehead- his purse! Sheathing the blade, he charges the gap and begins the chase once more.
Steep peaks and thick pillars mar their path as she leads them toward the town's front gate. They sprint through skeletons of new towers growing atop old stone, clamor up construction lines, and narrowly dodge sudden drop-offs. Approaching the main portcullis, the blue thief takes a leap of faith off the guard house; somehow, she manages to snag a short bit of rope and swing to a wood bracket the other side. The vagabond skids to a stop atop the towering embankment, panting heavily through his grimace. His eyes frantically search the area, but his stance steadily wilts: even if he was quick on his feet, she could easily see him coming and swing back to the other side if he took another path. To add insult to injury, if he falls, an array of armed guards standing on duty below. A taunting giggle pulls his attention back to her, a defiant snarl curling his lip as she waves back at him. Yet that, too, fades as his chin falls to his chest; with a heavy sigh, he turns around and retreats to rooftops.
Her back against the gable, the blonde bandit slowly slides down to the sit upon the beam, dropping both her legs on either side. She blows out an exhausted exhale through puffed cheeks, closes her eyes and leans her head back against the cool stones.
A sudden flicker in the afternoon light pulls her lashes apart; her breath catches in her throat and her muscles tense. For reflecting in her red irises is the stark silhouette of a hawk-like figure striking down from highest spire, his brown cloak flung open like wings and tan fingers curled like talons. The rope fumbles and slips from her grasp, and all too fast the thief finds her perch quaking beneath her as he catches the end. She twists to the side, reaching out for the nearby ledge, but he throws a hand up to snag her ankle. Digging his fingers into the wood, he yanks her off, dangling her over the drop.
"Oh… wow…" she gasps, swallowing dryly as she stares down at the spearheads below. Looking back up, she softly applauds with her taped palms and then gestures upward with an urgent index finger.
Narrowing his burning gaze, he jerks her up for a moment, then lets go. Her heart drops into her throat as she starts to fall, only to be yanked back into her stomach as he catches her again. Bending up slightly, she presses her hands together and silently pleads to be spared. The vagabond stares down at the thief for a long, hard time, amber eyes boring into the shaky garnet gaze as they start to water.
Finally, he bites his lip and pulls up. Throwing one leg around, he sets himself flat upon the perch before pushing himself back and pulling her up. When the beam comes into reach, she rolls up carefully and swings herself over.
"Wow…" she rasps while wiping her eyes. "Just… wow…"
"You…" he pants, scooting back to rest against the gable, "you... brought it… on yourself…"
"I… I know," she answers, a chuckle trailing at the end. She crawls forward, sliding up next to him. "So… so glad I did…."
He jerks her head towards her, his cracked lips parted in disturbed disbelief. "...What?!"
"The way… the way you kept up…" she continues, tapping a few fingers against his shoulder. "And-and the way you fought…!" She leans in, peering up under his cowl, and whispers, "No one - not anyone has caught me before…!"
The other leans back and tugs his hood down, muttering back, "You're crazy..."
"No, I'm Sheik," she corrects, "and you- you my fine friend are… amazing!"
"I… I'm not your friend," he counters, shifting his shoulders uneasily.
"Then who - or what - are you?" she inquiries while poking a pink nail into his swollen nose.
"Oww!" he winces and smacks her hand away. He grimaces as he touches the sore spot. "You don't need to know that…" A sigh breaks his answer, his eyes falling to the stones below. "...No one does..." he adds quietly.
"Well then," Sheik notes, leaning once more to try to look under the cloak, "how about 'Mister Tall, Dark and Mysterious'?"
His head whips back around to glare at her. Her almond-shaped eyes stare warmly back, their focus drifting from the flecks of red in his own gold gaze to trace over his bare brows curiously. A shudder creeps up the young man's spine, and he pulls the hood further down while twisting away.
"No?" she giggles and straightens back up in her seat. "Well… I guess I'll just call you Anon, then."
"Anon?" he repeats, glancing back with a curled lip.
"Short for 'anonymous'" she explains. Rolling her wrist, she adds matter-of-factly, "Many distinguished details and thoughtfultales are attributed to such nameless sages in respectable works."
Rolling his eyes, the vagrant jabs two fingers roughly into her shoulder and grunts, "Look, would you just give me back my money already?"
"Oh, right…" She slips a hand down to her belt, picking around. Then slides to the other side, fishing about. Then, with both hands, pats herself down, searching for the little purse.
"...Fuck!" she spits, frantically digging into every pocket and pouch. "No! Could I have…? I couldn't have…!"
"Sheik," his low voice rumbles as he grabs onto her arm, "where is my money?!"
"It-it must be back at the drop-off point!" she stammers, glancing up to him. "I-I must've accidentally tossed it with the other delivery- I'm sorry!"
His teeth grind together and his dark nails dig into her blue sleeve. "Then take me there," he directs and starts to pull her up with him.
"I-I… I can't!" she protests, her eyes darting to the ground below.
"Why not?!" he hisses, his grip shaking her sharply.
A yelp catches in her throat as she bites down on her bottom lip, her breath roughly hissing between the gaps. As the thief tries to maintain her composure, his stare comes to rest on her closed eyes; he pauses, inadvertently focusing on the lashes drawn tightly shut to hold back tears. Abruptly, he relaxes his grip and turns away.
"Get out of here…" he murmurs, sliding back down upon the ledge.
Sheik stands stiffly, watching with confusion as he deflates into a tired brown and black mass upon the scaffolding. She takes a hesitant step backward, then another, and then dashes up over the eaves. Shaking his head, the young man pulls his legs up into his chest and wraps his cloak about himself.
Grey clouds mar the blue sky the following morning. Scraps of butcher paper drift upon a stray breeze, whilst foot traffic kicks up crumbs and pebbles of yesterday's busy bazaar. Save for the muffled guffaw between gossipers or the quick yip of dog, a quiet lull hangs over the square. In the shadow of a crate stack, the cloaked young man sits huddled up against an alley wall, his brown cape wrapped about himself and his hood face-down at the cobbles. He huddles in as yet another set of boots approaches; his nondescript rags have blended in well with the excess goods thus far. The footsteps begin to pass him by, but their clattering rhythm abruptly halts; a scrape on the stones and rustle of cloth to side cause him to stiffen and flinch away.
"Din, relax," sighs a familiar silvery voice. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"Yesterday says otherwise..." he grumbles as he scrambles to rise. A hand grasps onto his cape and holds him in place.
"There's a guard at either end right now," Sheik notes softly. "Captain ordered an investigation after citizens complained of a scuffle on the roofs and carpenters reported damage about a new tower."
He plops down with a grunt and yanks his cloak away. "And I have you to thank for that," he sneers.
"Pretty much," she replies nonchalantly. "Fortunately for us, the guards' pay isn't enough to get them to care.
"Wish I could say the same..." he quips. As if on cue, a dull rumble echoes from his stomach. But as he goes to clutch his gut, something white and gold is pushed towards his face. Lifting the lip his hood, he blinks in disbelief at the loaf of bread held out to him. Canting his head towards her, he asks, "What's the catch?"
Pulling the loaf back, she carefully looks it over, running her fingers along the ridges and taking an inquisitive sniff.
"Manchet, I think," she answers before holding it back out as her dimples peek out above her high scarf.
The young man squints back at her with a lifted brow, then snatches the bread out her hand. He holds it up to his own bruised nose before sinking his teeth into the tanned crust.
"Wow," she remarks as the bread vanishes in a matter of moments. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Why do you care?" he huffs, popping the last bit of white fluff into his mouth.
Rolling her eyes, she disregards his snotty comment and notes, "You know, with your build and abilities, you could be a castle guard."
"They would sooner put an arrow between my eyes than field me," he replies curtly, but continues to watch her.
"All we did was ruffle a few feathers and shake loose a few bricks," she presses as she draws out a chunk of cheese. Breaking it in two, she offers the larger half to him.
"That's not it...," he answers while swiping the broken orange block.
"What is it, then?"
The vagabond's yellow eyes slide to the street, his fingers tapping against the food. After a few breaths, he half-glances at her and mumbles, "It's... I'm... I don't look right... for the job."
Just as he's about to take a bite, she grabs his chin with one hand and lifts pulls back the hood with the other. Her ruby eyes graze over his deep tan skin as they trace along his bare brows, bruised nose and bronze lips.
"Yeah... you could really use some eyebrows," she observes. "But we can fix that."
"No...!" He pushes her off, yanking the hood back on; hissing through his teeth, he states, "I'm... I'm not from around here!"
Sheik pauses, scraping a fingers across the top of her turban.
"Oh… yeah…" she notes, wilting against the wall. "They are kinda' dick-babas to foreigners…"
A sigh passes between them, each of their deflated expressions falling into their laps. They sit together in stiff silence, the scrape of soles on stone only breaking in when a patrolman strides by.
"So..." softly starts Sheik, "you're not from around here-"
"I don't want to talk about it," he interrupts.
"Farore, fine..." she grunts. "What do you want to talk about?"
"With you?" he huffs, shooting a side-glance from a canted hood. "Nothing beyond how you're going to get me my money back."
"Yeah, about that..." She hesitates, glancing down both ends of the alley. Suddenly, she jumps to her toed boots and dashes off.
"Hey...!" He scrambles to his feet and races after her.