Round the corner, round the corner.
Here, there has to be an escape here!
The sun is hot. The sun is hot.
Dead end. Start over.
Bandobras's hairy arse! Where...?
Fence. Boxes. Climb over.
Freedom! Freedom!
Almost there.
Jump!
The knee is scraped.
Run! Run!
They can't follow.
The short figure wearing nothing more than a dusty hoodie and muddy brown pants and trousers walks into the open street and looks around, appearing relieved. She dusts herself off and whistles a merry tune, letting the crowd of overly-tall men and women carry and push her around as she melts into the faceless masses. The pouch in her hand jingles contentedly and rustles with every step she makes - soon she conceals it by tying it to her pouch, making it appear like it's always been a part of her. Leathery soles touch the cobblestone and move along with the slimmer, smaller pairs of feet dragging themselves around the market - she is safe here, for now.
The summer sun scorches the back of her hood, letting warmth seep through the fabric and add moistness to her already oily and ruined hair. She didn't dare to take off the hood - it adds a feeling of comfort and safety to her, knowing that it doesn't make her recognizable on sight. All around her, the mass of feet and waists is still slogging through the searing heat, carrying goods to and fro from a busy day of transactions. She looks to the coin pouch and then goes back to navigating through the crowd.
There is only a few of her folk amongst them, and the times they spot her, she turns away and disappears back into the pool of legs. No one cares to investigate the small brown blob wandering aimlessly through the market square. She is but an insignificant tinge to them, and they are but a means to an end for her.
A gleam of something shiny catches her eyes. Curious, the weasel slinks through the moving masses, chasing after the whimsical light that bobs and weaves throughout the narrow poles of flesh shuffling about. It's glint fades and reappears, and the weasel looks about. Now it feels like a guiding beacon to her, attracting her away from directionless wandering in the senseless mass. She stumbles through the market square, the steady jingle of coins accompanying her every step: Soon, she sees the gleaming beacon stall before an ocean of fruits and vegetables, nestling contentedly in the basket hanging off a youth's arm. She squints, closer and closer, and admires the spotless polish that signifies good craftsmanship - she guesses dwarf-make, tenfold.
This part of the square looks deserted; She will need to find a creative way not to attract attention. The weasel glances around and sees a small stall of ponies gathered into an open pen, licking their wet muzzles above cold, water-filled troughs. A bucket of carrots lies next to the enclosed stone walls, well out of sight from the horses. Without further ado, the weasel trounces off to the bucket and snatches a carrot, disappearing into the pen.
All they see is a muddy speck of dirt flying past as a caravan rides by.
The weasel looks up and offers the carrot to the pony. She pretends to be fascinated. She runs a calloused hand over the horse's neck and circles around it's backside. A charcoal tail swishes past her visage. One simple movement, and there would be no more monotone.
It wasn't hard to laugh.
The neighs become instantaneous. Hooves rear up and thunder down the cobblestone. The weasel hears gasps. Under the cover of the yelling and the dirt she runs up to claim her prize. A simple motion. A hand grasping tightly onto the silver-laced chain.
Then, the weasel turns and runs, disappearing into the faceless crowd.
