The city was well positioned, nestled up against the mountain side and fortified with high rock walls. The mere existence of such a wall spoke volumes of the wealth of its inhabitants. This success could come from many sources, but logic would lead to only a few conclusions. The surrounding country side was dotted with small villages, all within no more than a few daysâ€™ journey to the main city. Each village survived on a trade or craft, and the people took pride in it. No one could match the quality of workmanship found in these villages. The cloth woven by the women of the village to the east, the timbers to be found in the lumber mill to the south, and the fish brought in by the fishermen to the west. All of these villages came to one city for their needs, and to sell their wares and crops. It was a city built by the people and for the people. Which was why it was so plagued by crime. Over the last several years, the attention of the city guards had shifted from without to within. No longer were the eyes of the protectors trained on the surrounding woods and mountains in search of attack, but instead, they focused on the towns people themselves. Every day there were muggings, robberies, attacks, and even rapes and murders. The wealth and success of the city had attracted as many criminals as it had merchants.<br/><br/>At the center of the city, a bustling market could be found early each Saturday morning. Carts were set up in the streets, occupied by shouting merchants trying to call over the sound of the other merchants to entice shoppers to their goods. The square was always packed with milling people, jostling and shouldering their way through the chaos of people, animals, and carts. The smell of filth, and food mingled with the cacophony. It was not the perfect place for a young girl, on her own, trying to make a living. She had no cart, so she set out a length of ragged on the porch steps of a clothing shop to display the few things sheâ€™d managed to gather over the last week. She was thin, of average height, and unremarkable at first glance. Her dress was plain, stained and worn with time and work. Her hands were calloused and strong, though still dainty somehow, as if she knew how to carry herself. The only feather that set her apart from the other simple maids who were her peers was her speech. She spoke without the thick accent of a country girl. Her diction was clear, her vocabulary wise and well used.<br/><br/>This week, her display was meager in the extreme, only a few rare herbs. As she bent over the cloth sheâ€™d set out to display her herbs, a foot came into view. She blinked and moved to rise, but the foot came to rest on her hand, painfully trapping her in the stooped position.<br/><br/>â€œWell wellâ€¦ if it isnâ€™t the little bunnyâ€¦â€ spoke a rough voice quietly in her ear.<br/><br/>The girl gave no answer, tugging on her hand in an attempt to free herself.<br/><br/>â€œAh-ah-ahâ€¦ I wouldnâ€™t do thatâ€¦ I would hate to see that pretty little hand smashedâ€¦â€ the voice continued, malice dripping from it, â€œLetâ€™s talk, shall we?â€<br/><br/>An armored glove clamped around the back of her neck and lifted her forcefully to her feet. She was given no choice but to comply, leaving her herbs behind. She didnâ€™t need to see the figure behind her to know who he was, and her blood boiled in anger. When he had maneuvered her into the alley between two shops, out of the sight of other merchants, her demeanor changed. No longer was she the meek cowering girl who had been dragged into the alley without a fight. Suddenly, she became an infuriated tigress. Rounding on the man, she drove her foot down onto his ankle, her elbow into the soft spot between armored plates at his ribs, and the heel of her palm into the section of helmet over his nose. The ankle curled under the impact, she heard the air woosh out of him, and blood squirted from his nose as she broke it. This, of course, inspired the man to release his hold on her hair in order to see to his wounds. She took her opportunity to sweep a foot behind both of his, and drive her palms into his chest, shoving him to the ground. Before he could react, she was kneeling with one knee on his chest, the other on his arm. His other arm was pinned painfully behind his back, his own weight trapping it there.  Her free hand pulled a knife from her boot and pressed it to his neck hard enough to draw blood. Immediately, the man ceased his bucking and lay still, glaring at her through the blood streaming from his nose. They both held this position. She remained silent and still, glaring down at him as he panted and spluttered, choking on blood.<br/><br/>â€œNow listen to me well, mongrel. I speak only what I mean with all sincerity. If you think to intimidate me, you are gravely mistaken. I made an agreement with you and I will never go back on my word. You will get your book. But it will take time. If I see you againâ€¦ if you approach me, or even watch me from a distanceâ€¦ you will find out how very mistaken you are in your assumption regarding my strength. You see me as a cowering street rat, but appearances can be deceiving. Now go, before someone sees you. Do not seek me out. I will find you, when I have your item.â€<br/><br/>Without another word, she stood, replaced the knife in her boot, straightened her dress, and headed back out into the square. Her long, strawberry blonde hair was mussed, but still hung in waves down her back. The plain dress she wore bore new splotches of dirt and grime to match the others, but somehow she was still attractive. She stood with strength, yet managed to present a meek, feminine countenance. Her eyes were submissive,  yet she always met a gaze directed her way without hesitation. Emerging from the alley, she looked around, hoping no one was watching, then continued on. As if nothing had happened, she returned to her cloth, only to find her herbs gone. Gathering what was left of her belongings, she hoisted the pack onto her shoulders and began making her way through the crowd, heading south, toward the city gate.