Wait for your landlord to leave
From Create Your Own Story
Tiptoeing towards the front of the house, taking care to stay in the shadows, you see that your landlord is not alone - he's hired three gigantic, club-wielding bodyguards. They don't look like they've come here to chat.
You creep back behind the house, taking deep breaths to try and calm down. Yes, your landlord is here. Yes, he knows you've been paying him in dog poop. Yes, those armed thugs can beat you to within an inch of your life. Yes, you are outside, half-naked and freezing. But there's no reason to panic, Laura!
You wrack your brain for a solution that presents a relatively low risk of either death or dismemberment, and it occurs to you that if your landlord can't find you, he may just get frustrated and leave. Hiring goons is no fun unless you get to see them hit somebody, right?
You turn a thought to your possessions, currently lying scattered across your floor, and feel a pang of anxiety - but it's not as if you have much of value anyway, you remember. Your weapons are old and crudely fashioned, your armor is next to worthless and you don't think he's smart enough to even consider checking beneath the floorboards. You resolve to wait it out.
In the quiet of the morning you can hear the men stomp up the stairs to your room. You ineffectually urge your heart to be still.
For several minutes you hear the sound of muffled voices coming from your bedroom - you wonder what a landlord stupid enough to think someone like you really owned gold and some goons who look incapable of speech altogether could possibly have to talk about. There's a brief moment of silence, and suddenly what sounds like a heated argument breaks out. You can make out some of the shouting, and soon you realize that one of the thugs, presumably out of boredom, has just emptied his bowels in the middle of your floor. You groan and wrinkle your nose in disgust.
"You say there girl to hit! I no hit no one yet!" thunders one of the thugs.
"I told you, I don't know where she is!" roars a second voice you recognize as your landlord's. "I pay you money to come here, and you shit all over my property!"
"No hit no-one yet!" the thug bellows, once more. "Club getting sad! Club want to hit!"
The heated conversation continues, while you pray that the thug and his club lose patience and knock out your landlord. Alas, the talk eventually dies down, and you hear the sound of boots in the staircase again. You sigh with relief and:
