In the world of Valterra, where ancient forces of light and darkness clash, the Primordials awaken. Marcus, a seasoned warrior, embarks on a perilous quest to unite a group of extraordinary beings known as the Primordials to face the Dark and its mi...
"Thief! Thief! Stop that girl!" A vendor squawked and pointed as Daenna took off with the two loaves of unpaid elf bread. Ducking under the red and purple draperies that lined his booth, she darted through the neighboring yellow out of sight. She tucked the bread under her left arm and pulled up her hood to cover her bright red hair and adjusted her face veil, slowly moving from booth to booth until no one so much as looked at her. She hadn't planned on getting caught, so her escape route needed improvising. She'd hit every market square she could find since leaving home and hadn't gotten caught yet. Her luck had finally run out.
She scanned the square, feigned to be an ordinary patron looking at wares, and spotted the Watchman wandering away from their posts at the call of a thief.
"She went that way, she's young, fair skin, red hair." She overheard and cursed her kirtle, wishing she'd kept her trousers on before entering the city. Instead, they were stuffed inside her knapsack, with all her other belongings, hidden in some brush a good distance away from the city walls. She always tried her best to blend in with the locals, and a lone girl in pants stood out. She turned her face from the closest vendor who began looking for her as well. She wasn't that young, only two years until her Nameday if she has a home by then to celebrate it, yet she still carried no age in her eyes.
The Watchmen prowled for her. Six of them, two at each exit of the square and two who walked rounds through the market itself. "There's a young thief among you, citizens." One of them shouted. "A red-haired beauty. I'll give a copper to anyone who points her out." No doubt the one questioning the vendor sent a message to the others from across the way; who to look for, what she was wearing. She could only hope the details went askew. They were all tall, angry-looking men with swords surely marked with the Phoenix, all the Watchman carried one, no matter the town or city they guarded. Some wore dark brown leather jerkins that almost looked black, and their helms adorned with small horns and bone. The higher ranking Watchman wore more metal, including a breastplate with pauldrons and had large metal spikes protruding from their helmets.
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Daenna hated being hunted, she felt she had been running all her life, only now she was alone. She'd only just arrived in Fretram, so she was simply another new face among the crowd. The coastal towns in Altnahara were the best targets, always plenty of trade, plenty of strangers and full of busy people to use as distractions for her thievery. She didn't want to steal, but didn't have much of a choice either, not down the path she was on. Even if anyone realized she was traveling alone and turned her in, at her age she could end up a slave to some noble. There's no way she'd let that happen. At that moment, she wasn't sure what scared her more, being caught by the guards or admitting she was wrong to set out on her own.
She cursed the wicked sun for drying the hillside crops making her have to enter each town she came across. She cursed the barren sky for not producing enough rain, and her idle hands for lack of speed while she looked for her best escape from the Watchman.
When the two middle guards turned away from her direction, she darted towards the other side of the square, weaving in and out of the crowds, fast enough not to have anyone's eyes on her for too long, but slow enough not to raise suspicion. There were all types of travelers in the city. The colors they wore gave them away, for the most part. She dodged some southerners, most likely from Martel or Evenfell, who wore brighter colors than the local folk, mainly white robes embroidered with every color of the rainbow. The northerners, from Hanna to Paderdun, wore mainly grey, or deep shades of red, the color of the Phoenix, its teachings still holding strong there. Even those from the Mainlands traveled there, she knew them by their unveiled faces and much lighter skin than all the rest. Altnaharians, besides the northerners, had grown accustomed to veiling due to the dusty and dry conditions that blew down from the Scourge. The closer one lived to its border, the worse it got, and the more elaborate the robes and wraps became to protect the body from inhaling too much dust or sand in the wind.
