Prompt 17: Fade

 Fading away into the shadows was far more difficult than romanticized writings have ever implied. It was this thought that filled Perne's head as she sprinted down the empty stalls of Hawker's Alley, constantly shifting under desks, and behind unsold merchandise.

In any book she had bothered reading, whether it be a story of Limsa's own rogues or the far eastern shinobi, the author always seemed to presume that there was some mystical aspect to it that allowed one to simply drop from sight in the blink of an eye. Perhaps that was the case for the shinobi, Perne had never closely associated with any, but for her, it was a much greater task. It also helped that in every one of those stories the guards had a gourd for a brain.

"Turn the place over," she heard one of her pursuers say, followed by the group picking through the stalls at the end of the market.

She started to crawl to a neighboring stall, the sound of shifting boxes and boots drawing ever closer. Quietly cursing to herself, she half considered dropping the loot this entire chase was over. A small box, containing a ring. Important to the client, but dead weight to her. For a moment she wondered if they would give up if they found the box and not her.

"Can't wait to wring that elezen's bloody neck, got me out on the docks at this hour," another pursuer grunted. There was a shared sound of agreement.

Guess not.

One of them was at the stall directly next to her. The end of the alley was close, and she had ran out of stalls. With another curse, uttered only to herself, she sprung out from under her current hiding place, and bolted for the end of the alley. She plotted out a path back to the guild, but none of her estimated routes felt safe enough to dedicate to. Especially after an arrow went flying by her head, fired by an individual who was far too tired to do this the clean way anymore. That narrowed her options down immediately.

Swerving straight to the edge of the plaza she had emerged out into, she took a running leap out over the edge, arcing herself down into the water. A few more arrows followed after, but no one left above her seemed willing to take the plunge themselves.

Much like one of those stories, she mused, she was allowed to swim away without much more resistance. What those authors always failed to note, she realized, was walking back with the prize not looking impressive, but as a dripping mess.