The Long Con

He had to bite his lip during the lap across the market. Laughing as he fled was a dead giveaway. It had been too easy and pulling a fast wee kiss was just the icing on the cake of his little misdirection. With practised skill, Colt weaved and wove his way through the stalls, animals and people seeming to flee, using every pre-checked shortcut committed to memory. It was a miracle he didn’t barge into one or the other, his body twisting, turning, clambering and slipping past whatever obstacle.

It wasn’t to last though. He’d thought her maybe a noble brat, but clearly underestimated her being a mage. Fuck. The strange fog cut him off, not once, but at nearly every turn he tried to take to increase what distance he had, Colt was quickly losing as it rolled in, drawn to him. He felt a thrill of panic run up his spine, but he shoved it down to take another path only to come to a skidding stop some few feet into it.

He recognised the street instantly, realising the little minx had corralled him like a mouse in a maze. But he wasn’t a mouse. Colt smirked, quickly checking the flagstones for a grate and darting for one when found. He was just about to get it mostly opened before her white haired head rounded the corner. [color=#c10300]“Shitshitshitshit,”[/color] came as a mantra, his body pressing against the heavy iron into the sewers.