The old wagon creaked, letting out groans of frailty as it inched along the gravel path. Pulled by a spotted and elderly carthorse, it was driven by a young farmer, carrying with him a variety of harvested goods. Bales of hay, oats, milled grains, and earthy roots filled the wagon’s trunk. Something else resided in the way-back as well, something that didn’t belong back there at all. A young man, parched and starved, was curled up between the piles of produce, dressed in a burnt set of nightwear with countless wrappings adorning his arms and head. Having fallen asleep, his snores were interrupted by fits of coughing and wheezing, a result of his lack of hydration. The dry sounds of rest blended with the tranquility of the forest around them, which hummed with the tunes of freshly awoken birds and the rustling of greenery.

It had been a full day since the fall of Sylrel. Ander, having escaped the blaze by a hair, had no option other than to continue down the small gravel road into the forest. Without a map, guidance, or even a general sense of direction, there was nothing he could do but pray the path would eventually lead to civilized lands. The road itself was seldom trodden upon by travelers or merchants. Nor even the soldiers moving towards the northern front from the capital. It was a miracle in and of itself when he came across the young farmer. The man claimed to have business in Sylrel, but after the revelation of its downfall, and Ander’s subsequent emotional breakdown, he offered the lad a ride to Ver Del.

Ver Del was a small trading village to the southwest of Sylrel, known to few for being a hub of largely traveled roads and paths. It was the very same village Mr. Alchov had expected a delivery from, but alas, Ander could only assume the man never received his shipment. At the mention of their destination, vivid memories of the fires consumed him, bringing him to weep before collapsing into the arms of sleep. He had walked a few dozen miles before resting for the night, waking to find the farmer stopped before him, looking him over with a worried gaze. As he should have, considering Ander’s soiled attire. The blood from his burns had seeped into his brown cloth tunic, mixing with the dirt and soot already stained on it. On the topic of his burns, they had grown yellow and purple, tender to the touch while seeping with pus and oftentimes blood.

Before loading into the wagon, the farmer had insisted on tending to his wounds. He had with him some water and cloth stowed away in the front compartment of the cart, and thus used it to clean his head, and parts of his arm, saving the rest for the boy to guzzle down. There wasn’t much cloth to go around, and thus the farmer used it on the young Idris’ head burns and the more serious ones of his right arm. It didn’t cover everything, but it did offer relief. The middle part of his arm, which was the least covered in marks, did have something rather peculiar stamped on it. It seemed as though the rune in the center of the grate door - the rune of Sylrel - had made contact with his arm just above the elbow, permanently marking him with the crest of his decimated home. He would forever wear it; a badge of survival, and a badge he would soon come to despise.

An hour passed as the morning stretched to midday, and after running over a sizable rock, the young man was jolted from his sleep. Ander looked around, rubbing his dry eyes as the light from the sun bore down on him. The feeling of its warmth across his skin agonized him, just like the sensation of the iron door or the flames of the courtyard. He yearned to cry again, his emotions still as raw as ever. But he didn’t, he had too few tears left to shed, and so instead he shifted himself upright to collect his bearings. In an instant, quiet panic set about him as he patted himself down, digging a hand into his pocket before relaxing. The portrait was still there.

“Do you know anyone in Ver Del, young man?” The farmer, having picked up on the sounds Ander made in his awakening, called out to the boy.

“...” Silence is all he replied with, looking far out into the distance ahead. The gravel path had stretched into a wider, clearly more trekked-upon road. He had to imagine they weren’t far from Ver Del, seeing as the farmer had departed the town for Sylrel just that morning.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” he said, meek. “No, I don’t believe I do…”

“I’ll drop you off in center square, I’d bet you could find some help there,” the farmer reassured him, chancing a friendly glance back at the pale boy.

“Thank you…” His voice barely carried over the creaks of the cart, echoing with the aridity of his throat. A day without water, or food for that matter, was just another ailment to add to the tally.

Reclining back into the bundles of hay, he watched the passing trees flutter with life. True to his assumption, it wasn’t long until the outer homes of Ver Dell appeared to him, along with the modest men and women who roomed in them. Children, always the curious creatures, followed the cart that carried the injured man, eyeing him up with uncanny glares. He shrugged them off, his lack of water and the consuming hunger of his stomach were much more pressing than the eyes of misfits.

A few minutes after passing through the start of the town, he felt the cart rock as they reached their destination. It wasn’t nearly as urban as Sylrel, lacking any looming structures. There were plenty of people, however, all strolling about, minding their morning business. He shifted to hang his legs off the side of the cart, unable to bring himself to stand proper.

“Here we are!” The farmer called, having stalled his horse. “You sure you’re fine on your own.”

“*Grunt*,” Ander heaved as he hopped off the cart, readjusting to the sensation of standing on two legs. His long hike from yesterday had worn him down, making his knees ache, springing blisters on the back and sides of his feet. “I’ll manage.”

“Thank you, sir. I think… I think you may have saved me back there.”

“Don’t mention it, lad,” the man gave him a thumbs up as he took up the reins of his horse. As the wagon began to creep away, he shouted out his final goodbye. “You oughta find something to eat, kid. I’ll be seeing you around!”

And with that, the farmer departed, blending into the rows of merchant wagons and pedestrians. Compared to the folks around him, he stuck out like a sore thumb. The center square seemed to be a place for the middle if not even the upper class. Thus, with his torn nightwear and wounds, it was clear how one could assume he didn’t belong. Passerbyers sent cautious stares in his direction, avoiding him as they passed with their small children. He began to stagger down the length of the street, looking about for any semblance of food, or water. On the side of the road was a small trough filled with liquid, currently being drunk by a stationary horse. He had half a mind to dunk his head into it and join the stallion in drinking his fill, but upon second thought, he held off.

Soon enough, as he continued to walk, he picked up on a sweet aroma permeating the air. It was the very same delightful smell he would be greeted with in Mr. Alchovs’ shop, that of an operating bakery. Reminded of the late man, he steeled himself not to tear up in public, not that his image could fall any further. Following the smell, he was led to a small store with a glass partition where assortments of goods were displayed. Roars bellowed from his stomach. He had to eat.

The door to the bakeshop swung open as he entered, looking around at the people within. He was relieved to see that they hadn’t noticed him, all seemingly intrigued by their own devices. The one man who had noticed him was the shop clerk, who put on a worried expression as he eyed the boy.

“By Essa! Are you alright, lad?” He leaned over the shopfront, concern bleeding in his voice.

Ander paced forward, trying to hide the worst of his form from the man. He knew just how unlikely it was to get a free meal from the man, but after having received such kindness from the farmer, he did have hope.

“Hu… hello,” he croaked, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Umm, ahh. Would you by chance have any, ahh, any water?”

“Well sure I do, mate. And you look like you could use some, don’t you,” came the man. Ander tried to smile at the man’s comment but instead entered a coughing fit which he just barely subdued.

“Hey, you stay right here, I’ll be quick and grab you some,” the clerk pounded an open palm onto the wooden counter before trancing off into the backroom. Once again, juxtaposed to his battered and unsavory presentation, his request for aid had been delivered by a random stranger. Even in the state he found himself in - a zombified husk barren of emotion, having buried a great amount of his raw pain deep down in his soul - he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of hope brew within him. With all the wickedness of the world, who am I to fall upon the good-hearted folk?

“Oi, what’s that?”

The voice came from behind him, booming over the hushed dialogues of the store. He turned to his right, being greeted by the image of a man standing above the folks, pointing a finger in his direction.

“P-Pardon?”

“On yer arm! What’s that?”

Others began to murmur as the man repeated his question, contempt growing in his voice. Just then, from the small door to the side of the shopfront, the store clerk reappeared, carrying with him a mug of water. He entered the room with a small smile, but after his eyes fell upon Ander, the grin collapsed entirely. The sounds of shattering glass echoed through the store as the clerk dropped the container, making Ander wince. Nervousness brewed inside the boy. Beneath his skin, there resided two halves: A dead shell of sorrow, and a raging storm of emotion and pain. Uncertain of what had happened, cracks began to form in the husk, and the sounds of a brewing storm echoed in his head with vivid memories, sounds, and burning flames.

“Is that - That’s the crest of Sylrel!”

“Sylrel?”

“Surely it’s not.”

“Omen!” As more denizens of the shop stood up to point at Ander, a young woman cried out a single word. “He brings bad omen! He wears the mark of Sylrel.”

“He brings an omen of the gods; out with him!”

“The gods brought Sylrel down. He seeks to bring such trouble to Ver Del!”

“Out, out with the damned!”

“Out we say!”

The store clerk had no mind to intervene as men rushed forward to grab Ander, snatching him by his arms, and lifting him off his feet as they continued to shout.

“Omen!”

“Throw him out! Out the cursed!”

“Omen, I tell you!”

“Be quick with your life, boy! Bring no harm to our home!”

The men kicked open the front door, and with a small swing, they tossed Ander face-first onto the cobblestone path. His form rag-dolled as he hit the ground, wheezing and coughing after the impact. He rejected the cries of pain and exhaustion all about his body. More harsh words came his way, kicking the boy verbally even when he was cast to his knees. The cracks in his detached state broke open entirely, manifesting tears from his eyes as he began to weep, the storm of pain and misery tearing him apart from within. The onlookers did nothing but walk by, wanting no business with the boy, especially after the people of the bakery marred him as a dark omen of the gods.

“Omen?” He wheezed, trying desperately to contain his cries. “Cursed? Damned? I was right, who am I to imagine people would accept a husk like me.”

“Hey, boyo. Over here!”

From across the street came a raspy voice, followed by the sounds of a hand knocking against wood. Ander, having been consumed by the dark thoughts buried deep within him, didn’t even hear the voice as it called to him.

“Hey, lad! Can you hear me, lad?”

But again, the words were ignored by the boy, who continued to shake on the ground, doing his best to restrain his tears. That was until a small pebble made contact with his head, letting out a sharp *doink* as it hit him. He looked up, crimson painted in his eyes and cheeks with tears streaming down his face. Ahead of him, leaning against the stone foundation of a shop, was an old man. He was dressed in an amalgamation of clothes, all sporting distinct styles, yet universally worn and old. He was partially bald but wore an endearing smile as he held a second pebble, ready to throw it at the boy if he was ignored for a third time.

“Did you hear me, boyo? Com’ere!”

Resisting the urge to crawl on his hands and knees, Ander stumbled to his feet to drift across the busy road. His sobs took no recess, still making him shake as he limped towards the old man.

“Siddown, would ya?”

Upon reaching the other side, Ander collapsed against the wall, sliding down to compress himself on the floor. The fall he had endured had re-awoken the injury buried in his left knee, the one he had sustained during his escape the day prior. Even sitting beside him, he didn’t dare look up at the man. There were a great many reasons for this, chief amongst them being the copious tears falling from his eyes. Every few seconds he would let out a sob, followed by him shuddering as he suppressed the ardent urge to give in to his traumatic thoughts. Eventually, something did pull him out of this trance. Something made contact with his left arm, the same direction the old man was sitting.

“Here, eat.”

The mention of food made the boy perk up in a flash, looking at the man through the sea of tears welled in his eyes. In the elder’s hand was half a loaf of bread, not a large loaf, but enough to fill up his palm. It called out to him, every fiber of his being pleading with his mind to take the food. The piece was gone in an instant as the boy shoved it into his mouth, gnawing at it with his parched lips.

“There you go. Eat up, boyo,” the old man said with a smile, watching the young Idris shred the bread apart with a rabidness unseen in his fellow man.

“You need a drink as well? The bread’s a bit stale, so I can only imagine it’ll leave you quite parched.”

By the time the man ended his sentence, the loaf of bread was long gone, torn apart by the starving boy. Ander was again tapped by something, this time a large cantine seemingly made out of the bladder of a boar. The old man removed the cover from its lid, pushing it into Ander’s chest as he spoke, “I got a second one, you drink the rest.”

With wide eyes and quick hands, Ander swiped the cantine and began downing its contents, taking breaths now and again as the water was slowly depleted.

“You mind telling me your name, lad?”

Ander, with his satiations subdued for the time being, glanced over at the smiling man. He looked old, but not at all decrepit. He could only assume he was a beggar based on his clothes, and the small bowl placed before his feet. Nonetheless, words couldn’t express the gratitude he had for the man, and thus he replied.

“A-Ander… Sir.”

“Ander, huh? Well, nice to meet you, Ander.” The man offered to shake his hand, which he accepted. “The name’s Etro, Etro Calapass. I take it you’re new to Ver Del, boyo?”

“...” Ander, fighting off the memories from consuming him again now that his mind was off the need for food and drink, didn’t reply to the man. The answer, however, didn’t need to be conveyed.

“I actually saw you ride in on the back of that farmhand’s cart. A nice one, that boy is.”

“Was I not an omen to him?” Ander looked down at the ground as he spoke to no one in particular. “Like I was to those patrons? Is an omen all I am? Is what happened to my home nothing but a curse from the gods?”

“You ain’t no curse, lad,” The old man tried to dissuade Ander’s thoughts.

“What about you?” Ander looked at Etro, tears threatening to take hold of his eyes yet again. “Am I… Am I an omen to you?”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said, boyo? You ain’t no curse, and you ain’t no omen either,” the old man had a disjointed way of speaking, yet the message was still understood.

“Then wha-what was that?” Ander pointed across the street at the bakery, watching as the stares of those behind the glass dug into him.

“That was the action of a pack of fools, lad. Nothing more. I assume you’re from Sylrel, ain’t ya?”

“I was…” he buried his head in his knees, speaking through the muffle of his soiled attire.

“Here in the gutter, one hears bits of all forms of gossip,” the old man put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “I’m terribly sorry for what happened there, lad. A tragedy that was.”

“Please,” the boy picked his head up, looking Etro dead in the eyes. “Don’t talk about it… don’t bring me back.”

“Then talk about it, I won’t,” Etro smiled, patting Ander’s shoulder. “But I will ask this: how were you treated by that young farmer, the one who drove youse into town?”

“Him,” Ander looked towards the center square, the last place he had seen the man who brought him here. “I would say I-I was treated rather well.”

“Hmm, how’d you manage to find him?”

“He had business in Sylrel today… I assume he wasn’t aware of what happened.”

“But you told him, no doubt?”

“Tha-that I did, all that I had witnessed… Again, may I ask that we don’t speak of this, s-sir?”

“We ain’t,” Etro slid back, giving the boy some space. “All I’m saying is that to the fools, that burn on your arm’s an omen, but to the decent folk - the kind folk - it sure ain’t. Maybe there ain’t as many kind folks as there are the foolish, but you’ll find ‘em. Let the wicked say what they want, the righteous will treat you better.”

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“But what if I don’t meet any good folk?” Ander rubbed his right arm, staring off into the distance. “More than that, wh-what do I do now? I lost… everything.”

“Not everything, lad,” Etro tapped his shoulder. “You’re breathing, ain’tcha?”

“Y-Yessir.”

“Got any plans to stop doing that?”

“Breathing?”

“Yeah. I said, do you have any plans on not breathing no more?”

“N-No,” he replied, confused at what Etro was getting at.

“Listen, boyo. I’m an old man, maybe as old as they come. I’ve lived a life not many could, and many times, I didn’t think I could live it either. A lot’s been lost in my days, and I’m far too slow and far too stiff to try and make things right. But you,” Etro reached over to point a finger into Ander’s chest. “You have something that I don’t kid.”

“What’s that?”

“Ya got hope! You may not see it now or for a long while, but you’ve got in ya what you need to keep on going. I don’t wanna imagine what you lost, nor do I think you wanna relive that neither. Whether what happened was the work of the gods, or not, you’re still breathing, and there’s a reason to that, ya hear?”

“Mr. Etro, I-I don’t understand. What is it you’re trying to convey?” As the man went on, Ander found himself lost in his confusing words.

“I’m saying you’re alive, boy, so don’t waste it!” Etro’s voice grew as he spoke plain to the lad. “What you got on that arm there, it won’t ever go away, and people will judge ya for it because of their own wickedness. But you just gotta keep on living. You can’t break down, or give up, ya hear?”

“I, I,” Ander looked down at his burns, more specifically the ones lacking bandages. “Even when I’ve got nothing left to give.”

“So long as you’re breathing, you’ll always have something to give,” Etro placed a gentle hand on Ander’s left shoulder, looking the boy dead in the eye. He could feel a few hard indents in Etro’s hand, and as he picked it off his shoulder, he revealed to the boy a few copper pieces. They were minted in the currency of the Aeon: the coins used universally across the nations under the Pact of Aeon. Ander looked at the coins, then back to the old beggar.

“Take ‘em,” Etro pushed them into his chest, nodding as the boy put on a worried face. “Consider this reparation for what those dullards did to you.”

“I, what about you?” Ander hovered a hand over the copper pieces, wanting to be absolutely sure Etro didn’t need them.

“I’m an old man, boyo. Who knows if I’ll live another day, week, or hell, even another year. All I’ve gotta worry ‘bout is eatin’ and drinkin’, and I’ve been doing fine for quite a while. But you,” Etro again shoved the coins into Ander’s chest. “Yer gonna take these coins here, walk to the lower-town, buy yourself a coat to cover those marks, and get yourself back up on yer feet. Ain’t no time like the present to give it your all.”

“But, I…” Being forced by the man, Ander took the coins, putting them in his pocket. “How can I start now when I’m still so - when everything’s still so… raw?”

“Boy, listen close, this’ll here be the best advice yer gonna get,” Etro leaned close. “Idle hands are the wicked’s playground. You oughta keep yourself busy, or you’ll tear yourself to bits, not unlike what ya did to my bread, to be frank!”

As the old man began to laugh at his own remark, Ander scanned the handful of coins he had been given. A moment of thoughtful respite told him that Etro’s plan - buying a coat and apparel to cover his scars - wasn’t a bad idea at all. He did have concern over whether or not he would be sold one, judging by his experiences with the people of the bakery. Yet, there was also his experience with the young farmer, who despite being told of Sylrel’s downfall, still chose to help the lad. And now that he had actual currency to barter with, he found hope in his simple goal.

“I think you’ve heard enough of me here, boyo,” Etro patted Ander’s shoulder a final time before standing up. “Go get yourself something to cover up those marks. If ya got enough left over, find something real to eat. Oh, and if yer feeling bullish, there’s a poorhouse at the north stretch of Ver Del. Ya go there, ya work, ya get a meal and ya might even get paid. Being the old man I am, I’ve got little to strength to work, but I have an inclination that you’ve got a bit more in ya than I do.”

“You’re leaving?” Ander looked up at him, concern in his eyes. Etro couldn’t leave him, not after all of that. In the few minutes he had known him, the boy had managed to string a connection to the old beggar.

“Everyone’s gotta leave someday, lad,” Etro straightened out his clothes, flashing a smile at the boy. “I’m sure you’ll meet plenty like me. Now get outta here, ya got work to do!”

With that, the old man gave the boy a strange little bow and began pacing off towards the end of the street, carrying over his shoulder a small leather pack, with two canteens hung from it. Their interaction hadn’t lasted longer than ten minutes, but it was a life-changing communion nonetheless. He had been given food, drink, money, and above all, he had been given advice. Being in such a state of constant turmoil, the one thing he really needed was a steadying hand. The destruction of his home, the deaths of his friends, the loss of his family. They were still ever-present in his mind, bearing him down with the weight of a thousand mountains. But something else was present in his mind, something Etro had alluded to.

Hope. He felt hope. Not much, not much at all. But just enough for him to keep breathing, just as Etro had said he would.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

Following the advice of the old beggar, Etro, Ander made his way about Ver Del, seeking out what was commonly referred to as the ‘lower-town’. Sylrel, prior to its annihilation, had an area adorned with the same name. It was a place he hadn’t often visited, as it contained a cadre of more suspecting and untrustworthy individuals. But in his current state, with the small amount of funds he had, and the general notion to all around him that he had nothing worthwhile to steal, he decided it was best to try and move to the lower-town. His current goals were such: find a permanent covering for his scars, find a cheap source of sustenance and hydration, and then progress to the ‘poorhouse’ the old man had mentioned before departing. He had practically no experience bargaining, which put a large damper on him finding what he needed at a nice price point. And in addition to him looking as if he were next in line to death’s door, he worried he was liable to be fleeced by those he sought to buy from.

The lower-town, as Ander progressively found out, consisted of a few streets lined with small stalls and shops, a tad different from Sylrel’s district of the same name. As he crossed the invisible threshold marking the beginning of the lower-town, he did notice a few sly eyes falling on him, watching him as he paced down the length of the street. The smells of various styles of cuisines floated through the air, as did the scent of incense and wax, a strange combination to be sure. The various stalls all had their own uniqueness to them, like they were designed and crafted out of whatever was available. Around him came a great multitude of conversations, not all of them speaking with the same tongue. His tongue, the language of mankind, formally called ‘Elyonian’, was the most commonly spoken dialect of the known world. There were a few others, most belonging to the Alffs - both light and dark - as well as the Nymphs, Nyx, Jotuns, and Feylings. And of course, the ancient Ifrití, which the less said about them, the better. On the topic of other sapient races, he noticed the aforementioned Feylings conversing freely with the men and women of the lower-town, a rare sight in regards to their status as lesser beings.

“Vers saffen uns kafils, na?” One of the small creatures spoke with another, visibly heated as they argued in a foreign tongue.

“Nik! Nik! Nik saffen uns kafils!”

He kept his eyes peeled for any stands selling clothing, specifically coats. The more he thought of acquiring one, the more sense it made. Summer was just a few days away from shifting into autumn, and within a few months, the first snowfall would begin. If he wanted any chance of survival, he would need proper clothing. Looking that far ahead, he began to feel anxiety stir within him. Outside of his three goals, he had come up with no long-term plan. Could he really survive, all on his lonesome? The anxiety was infected with pain as more memories flashed in his mind. No, he steeled himself, focusing on the task at hand. I need to focus on survival. There will be time to mourn.

Near the end of the first street, there sat a large U-shaped shop, with multiple hangars set on the roof, filled out with a variety of outfits and, most eye-catching to Ander, coats. At the kiosk of the shop was a young woman, as well as an older man. The two were quite obviously father and daughter, running their shop in tandem as they addressed their various patrons. The portrayal of such a family did wonders for his dark thoughts, the weight of his burdens slowly creeping up his back. Yet again, as he had already done so many times before, he pushed down his agony, and prepared to approach the stall.

Scanning through the coats on display, he noticed they were all worn, or at least used to some extent. It did stir some uncertainty in him. On one hand, he needed something cheap to hide away his burns, which had already aroused quite a amount of stairs in the lower-town. Yet, on the other hand, it would be wise to invest in something heavy to help him during winter. Ok. I have quite the amount of time until winter. I should focus first on finding a covering for my scars - that’s a problem that must be taken care of swiftly. I will have plenty of time to save up for a sturdier piece as winter approaches. After a small amount of reasoning, he settled on a thin cotton covering. Being a brown piece, it would be hard to discern if it was clean or dirty, which he assumed would aid him in looking for work. In addition to this, it was cheap and appeared to be quite intact.

“Ahh, hello, ma’am, may I purchase this, please?” He approached the daughter running the shop, seeing as she wasn’t burdened with a customer at the moment.

“Three copper pieces,” she didn’t look at him while she spoke, instead gazing down at what he assumed was a transaction book.

“B-But, the price says two pieces,” he tried showing her the tag, but it made no difference.

“You buy it for three, or you get nothing. Deal?”

“I… I suppose I’ll buy it for three, then.” With a simple exchange of three copper pieces, he was free to dress himself in the thin layer, completely masking the burns on his arm. Of course, he did still bear some light burns on his forehead and left palm, but they weren’t as damming as the ones adoring his right arm. All in all, he was quite content with the outcome. Why did the people of the lower-town not have the inclination to call him an ‘omen’ and toss him out, when those of the bakeshop did? He could only imagine. Grateful for the exchange, he checked his pocket to take inventory of his remaining coins.

There were five coins left, more than enough to procure some food and water. He did so at a nearby stall, although with a bit more sympathy from the shop tender. Even with his new covering, he still looked like he had crawled directly out of hell to walk the earth as a Brimráll, or a Vetala. To conclude, he spent two of the remaining five coins on a loaf of bread, some hearty nuts, and a pale of water. The container was essential to him, as it could be reused beyond its first depletion, making it an invaluable asset for a multitude of scenarios. With the replenishment, so returned the wind in his sails, offering him a notable amount of energy to keep himself upright.

And in truth, that was all he planned to do. So long as he could keep himself standing, so long as he could continue to endure - one moment after another - he would have a chance at survival. And said survival hinged on his following move. Etro had outlined something for him, an opportunity to gain another meal and maybe even some capital through the local poorhouse. Formally referred to as ‘Labor Stations’, poorhouses were oftentimes sanctioned meeting halls made to collect, organize, and distribute day workers for a great variety of tasks. Sylrel, in its time, had quite a number of them. In fact, he had made acquaintance with the late Mr. Adrisaal through a poorhouse in his quest to save up funds for Ela.

Elara, he cringed, pulling at the right arm of his coat. As the day progressed, and his grip on reality tightened following his harrowing experience a day prior, the pain from his wounds became more apparent. Covering the burns was one thing, but finding proper medical care was another. His head burns were still fitted with the farmer’s ‘bandages’, but the ones on his left palm were left untreated.

The poorhouse, he focused his mind on the objective. It was the next logical step for a great many of his woes. Thus, with his markings veiled, and his vigor returned, he began to march in search of Ver Del’s poorhouse.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

The hard rapping of raindrops filled the busy hall, backed with the occasional sounds of thunder and harsh gales as the outside raged against the structure. As the day progressed, a storm had fallen over Ver Del, cursing it with a downpour just slightly after dusk. The town itself, being frequently trafficked by all kinds of folks and whatnot, had no reputation for being pristine in its sanitation. The cobblestone had aggregated a layering of mud and other debris during the activities of the day, resulting in a sludge forming with the beginning of the rain. Such was the unfortunate fate for all those cast to live in the gutter. But for those who were blessed to live inside or beneath a roof, be it enclosed or not, befell a different fate. As was the case for the day workers of Ver Del’s poorhouse, who were currently enjoying a much-anticipated meal after finishing their work.

Ander, worn from another day of effort, was currently sitting before a hearty meal, and a full cup of drink. He had snagged a secluded part of the hall, not wanting to be interrupted or nagged upon by his new peers. Upon entering the hall earlier that day, he had reservations over how well he would be treated. A part of him imagined that, due to him having a slimmer frame than most adults, he would be shunned from any actual honest labor. In all actuality, it was much different. He had lived as a member of the lower class, but never truly was he a denizen of the mighty poor. Food insecurity made it hard to maintain a solid build, and thus his companions sported size and strength matching his, if not even a little smaller.

Moreover, he had been blessed with the objective he pulled from the labor lot: milling and forestry. Even with his damaged hand, his weary muscles, and his general detachment from reality - an outcome of recent events revolving around the loss of everything near and dear to him - he had fared quite well during the hours of work prior to his meal. He could only assume that others around him had some semblance of competence when working with lumber, and thus their group were plagued by a lack of major difficulties or squabbles. Moreover, he had been given a small satchel to store his water pale and other necessities, a gift from the local mill owner as thanks for his deft work.

Yet, as he stared down at the cut of ham before him, and the glass of milk at his side, he had a greater appetite to stare at the food than consume it. Something had manifested in him as he went about the day, a sharp change from what he felt during the past dozen hours. Where he had once felt pain, torment, and above all, grief, he sat at the table troubled by none of these emotions. Almost like a scab had formed inside of him, containing all of the wickedness inflicted by the past in a delightful bubble. He had become truly detached, almost uncoupled from what happened in Sylrel.

Why do I feel… this way, he couldn’t even bring himself to tears over thinking of it. The thought plagued him, more so than his traumatic memories. He had lost everything. His mother had died. His father had died. All of his friends, loved ones, and peers. Elara had died. With that being said, why didn’t he feel anything anymore? His walk from Sylrel, his ride to Ver Del, and his experiences prior to the poorhouse had been so saturated with emotion. Had he simply run out of pain to experience, had it all dried up?

He thought this over whilst he cut a piece from his pork, eating it alongside a dish of mixed greens. The preparation of the boar was almost identical to his mother's during Elara’s party, down to the seasonings and grill char. Why do I feel… nothing!

“Oi, Ander!”

A voice called to him from afar, echoing from the mass of commotion near the center of the hall. He looked over, blinking his eyes to adjust to far vision. There stood a familiar man, backed by two others, all pacing towards him wearing matching grins. He recognized them as members of his lumber cohort, all of whom he had interacted with just a while prior. As much as he treasured the solitude he found in the corner of the hall, the addition of the three jovial lads wasn’t ill-regarded in his mind.

“Massius, Vern, Kallin,” he nodded to the three as they took up seats around him, armed with trays of food and mugs of milk, or in Vern’s case, cheap mead. A majority of the food on display was free to the workers, being a part of their salary for the day’s work. Yet, some of the cuisine did carry a cost, nothing more than a copper piece, but still of interest to the wealthier poor of the hall.

“Where’re you running off to, Ander?” Massius threw an arm around the boy. The trio weren’t all that older than him, being all in their late teens, and Vern in his early twenties.

“You forgot this, you dullard.”

“What? What did I miss?” Ander spun his head to face Kallin, who had in his hand a small leather pouch. He tossed it over to the young Idris, who fumbled with it as he caught it.

“You’re coins, fool,” Kallin shook his head with a grin. “You didn’t come to work for free, did ya?”

“Oh, and we took none of your lot, honest!” Vern added in, sending Ander a serious look. “We won’t fleece you. It ain’t common to come across someone who knows their way about work. We normally get stuck with nitwits and the like, but having you was an honest help.”

“Oh. Ahh, thank you, I suppose,” Ander raised his cup of milk, followed by the three doing the same. Upon taking a swig of it, he opened the pouch to inspect his reward. Inside was held five copper pieces, an adequate reward in his mind. For around eight hours of labor, it could have been worse.

“You get more as time goes on, I assure you,” Massius took a bite of his food, talking while he chewed. “They like to fleece you to begin with, but it gets better.”

“Aye, Ander,” Kallin tapped his shoulder, getting his attention. “Where’d you learn how to work with wood?”

“Oh, ah, me?” The young blonde staggered in his response. “I had an old acquaintance before I came here.”

“Who?” Kallin looked genuinely interested in Ander’s ‘acquaintance’, as well as his knowledge in regard to working with lumber.

“He owned a small mill, nothing big. Adrisaal was his name,” Ander took another bite of his pork, waiting to consume it until after he spoke.

“Adrisaal,” Kallin put on a nervous expression, sliding back from Ander on the bench of the table. “Are you, quite certain?”

“Yes, I am. What of it?”

“Nothing,” Vern wore a matching visage, sending looks between Kallin and Massius. “Nothing at all.”

The atmosphere had changed in an instant, Ander felt it. What poor could have come from the mention of Mr. Adrisaal, did he have a bad reputation in the local lumber industry? Sylvee, being a nation blessed with boundless forests, had its fair share of mills and forestry guilds. What would these men know about a small mill owner from Sylrel?

… Oh no… Sylrel. His mistake was made apparent.

“Ander, what’s that on your hand?” Massius, who was seated to his left, leaned over to inspect the young man’s hand. Ander tried brushing off the comment by stuffing it in his pants pocket, but it only made him that much more suspicious.

“What’s what on his hand?”

“Are those burns, Ander?”

“You also never told us what those head bandages were for, lad?” Vern sent another inquiry his way, spiking the youngest worker with nervousness as the lot descended on him.

“I-I, it’s nothing, a little flesh wound is all- Ahh!” In an instant, Ander’s head coverings were ripped off, shedding light on the burns adorning his right forehead. They burned as contact was made with the air, forcing the boy to hold his head in agony. “Why would you do tha-”

“He’s from Sylrel!” Massius, without a shred of the hospitality he had shown not a moment before, stood up and shouted the accusation. Silence fell amongst the hall in the blink of an eye as the sounds of a hundred forks falling rang out. Ander, twisted in a state of confusion and shock, could only cower as the other two men stood up and pointed fingers in his direction as well.

“This one’s from Sylrel!”

“He was there in the blaze! He’s targeted by the gods!”

“Omen!” Came a voice from the hall, not belonging to the three men. “If he’s from Sylrel, he brings omen!”

“Omen? From the gods?”

“Aye! Dark omen!”

“No, no, you don’t- let me go!” Ander tried to resist as the three men took hold of him. “What are you doing, I’m not an omen!”

“No one escapes the gods without an omen, boy!”

“He brings the wrath of Aranos!”

Men from across the hall rose from their seats, falling upon where the boy was seated with villainous glares. It was the bakeshop all over again.

“Be quick with him, throw him out!”

“Aye!”

“Aye!”

“Out with him!”

Dragged before the front entrance of the hall by the energized mob, the front door was kicked open, sending a torrent of wind and rain against him. They held him up by the arms, and with a small swing, they threw him out of the poorhouse onto the mud-riddled cobblestone of the night. He was soaked in an instant, with his satchel falling beside him in the mud. The suddenness of it all threw him for a loop, but as he staggered up, more was called out to him.

“The ire of the gods has no place in Ver Del!”

“Omen, he is! Omen!”

“Be quick with your life, boy! Bring no harm to our home!”

The slam of the poorhouse doors ripped through the air, severing him from the warmth and dryness held within. Drenched in rain and mud, covered in bruises and scars while again being tossed to the curb like a leper. The disconnect he had felt from his pain was shattered with his fall and thus began the copious waterworks. Was this the monster held in every man? Was the mere mention of his home enough to awaken a repulsive force within every person? Did all of his pain, all of his agony, and all of his loss amount to a dark omen to these people? Dark thoughts penetrated his mind as he lay in the mud, crying.

“*Sob*, *Sob*,” he pushed himself up, fighting the monstrous gales as he rose to his feet. Not five minutes ago did he have a nice prospect for the night. Now, he had lost it all.

“*Sob*, *Sob*,” his face was adorned with a terrible snarl, fighting the shudders of his despair.

“*Sob*.”

“Curse the gods! And their omen!”