Most days it was business as usual in Arca, and today was no exception. It was mid morning, not quite noon, but late enough in the day that the town was bustling with activity. Merchants trying to sell their wares, townspeople and travelers occasionally buying them, and, once again, Desmond running for his life. Granted he felt that might have been a bit of an embellishment, but frankly he'd been caught playing with 'the wrong dice' (oh how he wished someone would eventually fall for that excuse), and this was only after he'd managed to make the coin purses of certain gamblers significantly lighter.
The gaunt man burst through the doors of a local tavern and onto the street, the sound of hurried footfalls echoing behind him, and desperately looked for an escape route. He could hardly make a straight up run for it; too many people in the way, and while not a matter of selfless concern for the well being of strangers, Desmond's chief concern was that he wasn't exactly the right build to just plow right on through. So that plan was out the window.
Where's a wagon load of hay when you need one?
He spotted a wagon, and that would do for now. It was close enough to the tavern anyway. A running start later, he'd managed to jump up onto the side of the wagon, then turn and leap toward the tavern again; this time grabbing hold of the sign outside and pulling himself up. Two men emerged underneath him just a split second later, and from their cursing and the use of such phrases as "that two-bit bastard of a thief" (something Desmond deeply resented, as he was by no means 'two-bit') in their requests to confused passers-by, it was fairly apparent they were looking for him. Luckily they were either too drunk or two stupid to actually give a description of the rapscallion they were after, and no good citizen elected to give away his location. Of course, he couldn't very well dangle above them all day...
...well, off with you then! Clearly my escape was too swift for your booze-addled brains to cope with, so run along then! Back to bother the bar wench!
But they didn't move. They just kept looking around. And what's worse, Desmond could swear the iron bar suspending him (and obviously, the tavern sign) was beginning to give way. Shoddy worksmanship at its finest, no doubt. Of course, the bar itself didn't give way; the bolts attaching it to the side of the building did, snapping out of the side and sending Desmond plummeting toward his pursuers amid a shower of wooden splinters. Luckily they didn't have any swords drawn or it would have been a rather messy end indeed. Instead of such impalement, Desmond knocked both men to the ground and landed on top of the pile; dazed, but not seriously hurt.
"...had enough?" he groaned, climbing back up to his feet as best he could. Unfortunately, his fellow gamblers weren't quite so slow, and Desmond's smart mouth earned him a right cross that not only bloodied his nose, but also sent him sprawling back down to the ground. Obviously, this was not a fight that would play out in his favor, though as the town was not new to his antics, he didn't think it was terribly likely anyone was about to come to his aid...
