Little Prince in the Big City

Lost. Thirty minutes in the city and Jarmee was already lost. He'd heard rumors of back ways out of the city and knew that someone must know his way around; when Jarmee left he'd planned to hire someone as a guide.
Not that he knew who to hire or where to find him. Now, wandering around the city in search of a guide, he'd found himself in a dark, dead-end alley, about to knock on one of the few solid-looking doors to get help. Something made a noise behind him.
Jarmee spun in paranoia, fingertips brushing his sword hilt. But nothing was there except a cat, eyes glowing the moonlight, pawing through a garbage can. With a deep breath, Jarmee headed towards the door.
All of the buildings in this part of the city seemed to be old. Not like the antique wings of the Palace, but old and ready to tumble down if someone sneezed too hard close by. The few that had once been painted were no longer, except a few stubborn flakes which clung desperately to the brick. Some had missing bricks or stones; none appeared full. Windows were cracked and dusty, trash littered each alley. Nearly no lights were present, and every corner that was lit held held a lady of the night beneath.
A Prince did not associate with that kind, and so Jarmee merely kept one hand on his purse and the other on his sword. It seemed that this section of the city had been designed to induce paranoia, or if not designed that way, it was how Jarmee was effected.
Another noise, but Jarmee had turned only part way before he could half-see and half-feel someone directly behind him and a blade at his neck. Where his assailant came from, he had no idea, but having appeared without warning, Jarmee was caught off guard.
"I ken slit yer throat afore yer sword is out," the man said. "So donna touch it." The man was about a head shorter than the Prince. His hair was pulled up into a brown hat, allowing only a few stray violet locks to escape. In his three-quarter turned position, Jarmee could just make out bright blue eyes and black peasant clothes. And, of course, a wickedly curved blade reaching beneath his chin. The blade disappeared from sight there, but he could feel a cold point resting lightly on his throat. Hell, he thought. He wanted to speak but the knife didn't give him room.
"Donna fear, 'tis but yer money I'm after takin', not yer life, but donna try an' fight me neither. Arms in th' air- tha's the way. An' take about eight steps t' yer right- easy steps t' th' wall."
Jarmee did as instructed, waiting for a chance to step away from the knife and get his sword out. He knew that he'd be able to disarm the thief easily, he was an expert and the thief was probably untrained. So he stepped carefully, predictably, slowly, and allowed the knife to remain steadily with him.
Four steps. Five. Then, as unexpected as he could make it, Jarmee dodged to the right and away from the blade. With a curse word and a suprisingly well practiced motion, the thief threw his weapon towards Jarmee. And, if Jarmee's senses weren't sharpened by the Jewel's magic, he'd have caught the knife in his back. Instead, he threw himself to the ground just in time, rolled, and sprang up with his sword drawn.
The would-be robber had backed up a few steps and produced another knife from somewhere about his person to replace the one now lying on the alley stones. Not wasting a moment, Jarmee advanced and attacked, and the thief countered as well as could be expected. But he was untrained, and his knife not much good against a full blade.
In mere seconds, his knife skittered across the ground and Jarmee had him pinned to the wall, ready to strike a final killing blow if it was needed. But the thief went still and did nothing except glare. Jarmee debated mentally what to do next.
Turning the criminal in would be the same as turning himself in, and clearly that was out of the question. Death was too harsh a punishment; Jarmee had never killed before and also didn't want anyone to investigate a murder. It could lead to someone following him, which was something else he wanted to avoid.
"If yer gonna kill me, jes' do it, why doncha'?" the thief muttered eventually.
"I wasn't planning to," Jarmee replied. "Just wondering where to turn you in." The robber gaped up at him in terror, the look on his face giving away that he1d almost rather be killed than turned in.
"Donna' be so hasty, miLord," the thief started. "I done no real 'arm, an' I'd not a' taken much. Jes' what I'd be needin' fer Lana. Poor gel, if'n I'm gone, she'd be alone. I'm all she 'as, miLord. Since her da' died, well, no un' else was after carin' for 'er, an' wi' her so sick an' all they dinna' think she'd live so long after her da'. Good man 'e was, not like wha' I've become, but I have no choice, d'ye see miLord? No un's after givin' me work, an' I 'ave to pay for Lana's tonic- the Healer said she'll die wi'out an' I couldn't let tha' happen... Not after all her da' did fer me..."
He finally paused. During his speech, the thief had slumped as much as Jarmee would let him; his eyes had come to rest on Jarmee's boots. Now he looked up, half-hopeful. At first, Jarmee felt pity, but could tell it was a lie.
Chances were that the thief didn't care for a sick orphan girl, and why couldn't he get work? How'd he gotten a Healer in the first place if he had so little money? But still, if it was true- even partially- Jarmee didn't want to leave a sick child to die. Yes, he'd have lost the money, but if she was really going to die...
"You're a liar and a thief, a lousy one at that, but I won't turn you in-" he started.
The thief cut him off with, "I thanks you, miLord, a thousan' times. It inn't oft'n a lowly un' like meself is after meetin' as noble a Lord as un' like you, miLord, if'n I ken help you in any way--"
Jarmee interrupted with, "Actually, you can. I need a guide who knows cities, this one and Areith, and who can get me there without anyone seeing me. I can pay well enough, but my guide has to be good-- and honest." He released the thief, who relaxed and leant casually against the wall. Jarmee kept his sword out and his guard up, but decided to trust the thief's reply. It was the best he was likely to find.
"I'd do it fer ye meself, miLord, if'n I wasna' after carin' fer Lana. But I know un' what ye ken trust; name o' Hall. That un' knows th' cities better'n the un's what built 'em in th' first place, an' knows more o' disguises then any ten spies together. An' I ken tell ye where Hall's likely at this e'en..."
It sounded promising- more so than anything else, anyway- so Jarmee decided to follow the directions to a tavern and find Hall. The thief certainly sounded confident, so Jarmee sheathed his sword and left the thief to his own devices with no more than a warning.

The tavern was full of smoke, and between that and the stench of cheap alcohol, Jarmee nearly choked upon entering. It was hard to make out details of the room, thanks to the veil of smoke. The furniture appeared splintered and old, most of it ready to fall apart if one more brawl burst out. The people, for the most part, were large and looked as if they'd been in more brawls than the furniture. Most bore scars, yellow teeth, and weapons.
Trying to attract as little attention as possible, Jarmee waded through tables to the bar. The man behind it either didn't see him or didn't care he was there. "Excuse me?" he started. No reply. "Excuse me?" he tried again. Nothing.
Annoyed, he half-yelled, "Hey, you deaf or something?"
The barman turned to him. He was around Jarmee's height, a little taller, but much wider. Not fat, but muscle. His face and arms showed scars that boasted he'd seen and survived much violence, and the look on his face made Jarmee want to shrink back into the crowd.
Instead, with false and probably stupid courage, Jarmee met his glare.
"You talking to me?" the bartender demanded.
"Yeah. I1m looking for-"
"You insulting me?" the barman interrupted.
"Maybe if your skull wasn't so thick, you wouldn't have to ask. I'm looking for-"
Much faster than someone with his bulk should have been able to move, the barman reached out and grabbed Jarmee's vest in one huge hand. "No one insults me in my own Inn!" he roared, and the room went silent. Everyone stared at them, as Jarmee looked down at the hand grabbing his open vest.
"Let. Go. Of. Me."
"You want to fight, pretty boy?"
There was a pause, but before Jarmee could respond someone in the room called, "Five silvers say the pretty boy's face isn't so pretty when Mikan's done with it! Anyone?"
A violet haired woman laid a few cards face down on the table in front of her, reached into a purse and came out with five silvers. She set them on the table, calling back, "And I say the Lordling can do more than just carry a sword!"
Betting on the outcome of a bar room brawl? Jarmee thought in wonder. And the first bet was against me! I1ll show them... Thoughts of finding Hall peacefully fled from his mind as he let the insults sink in. The past few weeks had been rough, and Jarmee had a lot of tension to get rid of.
"Yeah. Let's fight!" he grinned. He attempted to force the winder man's hand off his vest, failed, and shrugged his way out of it. A fast jump has him perched on the bar.
The bartender grabbed for his sandal, but instead was met with a quick kick to the face. Jarmee slid down the bar, followed by the cursing bartender.
He jumped lightly from the counter and the bartender- Mikan- followed into the main part of the room. Jarmee wove through spaces in between tables, forcing the bulkier man to follow, crashing into tables, chairs, and customers. But, eventually, he caught Jarmee and slammed a few punches into the smaller elf, until Jarmee ducked, kicked, and dove under a table. People who had been sitting around it scurried away, as Jarmee popped up on the side opposite Mikan. The bartender lunged across the table, and Jarmee snatched an abandoned beer mug. He splashed liquid from the mug into Mikan's face before disappearing again.
Sputtering, Mikan followed. When next he caught his prey it was by an arm; he slammed Jarmee into a table several times and began to beat him bloody. The crowd yelled mockeries at the Prince, until Jarmee got a knee and some leverage in. The barman doubled over as Jarmee rolled off the table, leaving blood drops to soak into the wood. The prince snatched a chair while Mikan attempted to get his breath back, and shattered it against the blood-stained table. He held a broken leg as a club, preparing for Mikan's advance.
Yes, he had a sword with him, but it didn't seem sporting to use it in a fight like this. So, instead, he met Mikan's charge with a few bashes to his knees and stomach, and finally Jarmee clubbed his opponent in the head.
Mikan slumped on to a table, and then to the floor. Still holding his club in one hand, Jarmee posed shamelessly while he caught his breath. He had startled the crowd with the fight and awed them by winning; now positioned himself to be admired-- shirtless, drenched in blood and sweat, breathing hard and brandishing a broken chair leg.
Damn, I'm good, he thought as the crowd returned to their drinks, card games and conversations. The violet-haired woman collected on the bet and made her way up a brittle looking stair case. Jarmee set down the club and retrieved his vest, but before putting it on used a few ratty and probably unwashed napkins to wipe away blood and sweat. As there was no bartender at the moment, (Mikan had been left in the middle of the floor,) he helped himself to a drink and made his way to the table holding the man who'd placed the bet against him.
"Excuse me, sir," he half-snarled. The blue-haired elf stared up at him in fear, before stammering, "Y-yes, my Lord?" His clothes showed him to be middle-class, probably a merchant or smith.
"I'm looking for a man named Hall. Perhaps you know where he is?" It was a question only in wording, Jarmee knew how to order people and he did so now.
"A man named Hall, my Lord?" the man asked in confusion. "I- I don't know a man named Hall...There's a woman, Lord, but I don't know what you'd want with her."
"A woman?" Jarmee asked, then nodded. The thief had never specified Hall's gender.
"She's crazy, Lord. She hears voices, an' she... She's just plain crazy! You'd better leave her alone, Lord. She's dangerous crazy..."
"That's my business. Where is she?"
"She just went upstairs, my Lord... Her room is the third door on the left, but don't say I didn't warn you. Hall's insane, she is." The blue-haired man gave him a last look, then shrank away from Jarmee's gaze. The Prince didn' bother to thank him before heading for the staircase.
He counted doors and rapped on the one which, hopefully, held Hall. There was the sound of someone inside, undoing numerous locks, and the door swung open a crack. He could see someone peering out at him. "Oh, it's you. What do you want?" a voice demanded.
"I'm looking for someone named Hall. I was told this was her room," he answered. "Are you Hall?"
"Depends on what mood I'm in. Why do you want her? She's crazy," the woman replied.
"So I've heard. I'm looking for a guide, and she was suggested to me," the green-haired Prince replied.
"Can you pay?"
"Yes."
"Then come in, and welcome to my office!" she said, flinging the door open and stepping aside so he could enter. Her 'office' consisted of a single room. A window was on the far wall, a curtain with holes covered most of it. A bed sat in one corner, a chair at the foot of it, and a small desk with a chair on the opposite side. A trunk next to the bed probably held her clothes, and a large candle on the trunk provided light.
"So, are you Hall?" he asked, sitting in one of the chairs.
"Usually," she responded with a smirk. Hall was a head shorter than Jarmee, with dark violet hair and bright blue eyes. She wore earrings that appeared to be sapphire, and her clothing was that of the lower-middle class. A short-sleeved tunic, open vest, leggings, and boots. She had a rope belt, two daggers hung off it in cheap leather sheaths.
She drew one of the daggers and began cutting her fingernails with it. "So where are you trying to go?" she asked.
"Areith," he said. "No questions asked. No one recognizes me, we stay away from cities and Nobles, and especially soldiers."
"Cities and Nobles I can do," she replied easily. "But soldiers, well, there's a war brewing and they're all over. I can keep them from recognizing you as whoever you are-- what's your name, anyway?"
He paused, debating what to say. Eventually, he settled on, "Dracon." The less people who knew who he was, the better, and it would be best if he could keep that to himself. Drac would understand, and wouldn't mind having his name borrowed. Assuming Jarmee ever returned home and saw his brother, which he doubted would happen.
The second I get home, they'll make me lead the army to become King. I don't want to be King, so I just won't go back. Ever... "Dracon? As in the Prince?" Hall asked. She shrugged then, smiling to herself. "I suppose it makes sence. Everyone knows that the youngest of your lot, Jarmee, is a coward. It must run in the family. Everyone said that you were talented and brave, but it1s hard to tell until actually faced with battle, eh?"
Jarmee glared at her, but she wasn't watching him. Instead, she paced back and forth, as if talking to a crowd, and continued, "Just like that younger Prince. Rumor says he's no good, got no talent, rumor says he's nothing more than a lazy, egocentric, no-good common thief in a Prince's outfit. I guess you two are more alike than anyone realized."
"I'm not at all like that!" Jarmee protested. Now she turned to look at him accusingly.
"Your name also isn't Dracon. Who you are is written all over your face," she smirked. "Now let's talk about fees, shall we, Jarmee?"