Indents, man.

        Loria had been out on one of her foraging trips when he saw him: a boy, dressed in peculiar clothes, lying in the field. He had no wounds to speak of, but it was clear that he was not sleeping there naturally. She gently nudged him, trying to wake him up, but he gave no response. How strange; was he abandoned? Where did he come from? Perhaps the most peculiar part was his clothes; fine, strangely smooth, and yet pliable. When she was young—well, she was still young, only a lass of around seventeen—her mother had, at one point, a dress of fine silk. His clothes felt similar, but not quite like it. They were, unfortunately, horrifically ripped. Well, in any case, she wasn’t about to leave a child out in the wilderness; that wasn’t what her mother would do, and it’s certainly not what she would do.

        From Gilsi’s apothecary, cross a street, down a corner, and you would find yourself at the residence of the Mera’s. Loria’s mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother have, at one point, owned this mangy, decaying building. Now, it lies under the sole ownership of Loria, and continues to protect the many orphans of Baydale, the capitol of the mighty kingdom Adringum. Here, Loria had brought the boy she had found. She judged that the noise and clutter which presided over where the other orphans slept would only serve to disturb him, and so placed him in her room. She had gone out to a seamstress to try and repair his clothing, but the seamstress had refused, saying that she didn’t have enough experience with the fabric. Reluctantly, she sold them to the Textile Guild, who were interested in its strange properties. She hated the idea of selling someone’s belongings while they were unaware, but she needed money, and honestly, they were unusable anyways. She would be sure to apologize afterwards.

       Later, when she had gone to check on him, she had found him already awoken. She greeted him, but he only looked at her in confusion. He must not speak common; the question was if he simply spoke another language or if he could not speak at all. She then asked for his name, and he replied with a string of words. He  can speak. She noticed that “Rory” was repeated a few times. That must be his name. When prompted, he again replied with “Rory”, indicating that her guess was correct.

       After breakfast, Rory gestured towards the outside. At first, she was hesitant; he couldn’t even speak common, after all. But he looked old enough, and she shouldn’t be overly controlling, so she prompted for him to go. Outside, he looked at the sun, moving his hands in a bizarre way, then stared intently at a strange device attached to his wrist. She turned her gaze elsewhere, one of the kids having scalded themselves. When she looked back, he was gone.

       After a while, she began to worry. He hadn’t come back for a little while now. She ordered two of the older kids, a pair of siblings, to watch over the kids and went out looking for him. He couldn’t have gotten far, but she had no luck finding him in the immediate area. She grew more and more anxious, as she went farther and farther. Finally, she found him, slumped over, bleeding; left to die on the street corner. His wounds were not trivial; severe lacerations on both chest and arms and swelling on his forehead.  It would be unlikely for him to recover on his own—he needed a Doctor. The problem was money: physicians were expensive, a luxury for people of her stature. Most peasants went to the Wise Women, but she knew they were shams.

       Money, money, money—everything needs money. Right now, she still had money; money she had received from selling his old clothes. Enough money to pay for a week’s worth of food; money that she was planned to use to pay back the interest on her debt. But if she did not pay, then no doubt he will die. Her mother had taught her from an early age a principle she still upholds today: human lives are priceless. She would not break it now. There was no time to lose; she quickly began to awkwardly slide his limp body over her back, shuffling towards the local physician.

       Rory had been at the orphanage for a little over a month now. He began to adjust to his new surroundings. He had some advantages; Chronos held useful powers, after all, but he never forgot the lesson he learned that one day: Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes of time. That was the limit; after twenty minutes, Chronos would overheat and stop.  In retrospect, he would be quite embarrassed about that event. I acted so high and mighty, then ended up getting run over…

       Loria held little classes for the children between her shifts at the various shops and inns that employed her. She taught language to the little children, writing the older ones, and mathematics the oldest ones. Rory attended the classes on language with great fervor, but generally declined from mathematics, mentally scoffing that, “I already know Calculus; I don’t think I need to learn basic Arithmetic.” Loria simply thought that he found it too confusing.

       With a month of experience, he was a fine listener but still a poor speaker. Writing, now, he took like fish to the water. Even Loria was surprised at the rate at which he took to it. He scoured over what little books the orphanage had, but was generally disappointed; they were filled with tales of heroics, of rabbits and their cunning, of bears and their great pride—not exactly the historic texts he was looking for.

       Generally, he stayed away from the other children, but today, it seems he would have no choice. The eldest of the children, a pair of siblings, both with dull blonde hair but sharp features, confronted him. Rory had gathered that their names were Gilas and Sarra, respectively.

       “Hello? Help you?”

       “Come with us.”

       He blinked. Are they trying to bully me or something? I don’t think that works… In any case, he wouldn’t be in any danger no matter what they did. “Okay,” he replied in his most genial tone. When outside, the Gilas turned to him.

       “You need to earn your keep.”

       “Earn my keep?”

       “You’ve been eating our food, but you haven’t done anything in return.” What? Loria never told me anything about that. I would be happy to, though…

       “Loria, not much money?”

       “Yes, yes. She had to go into debt to pay the taxes on the place. She even paid for your treatment after you got run over by a cart like an idiot. Haven’t you noticed that she’s been out longer and longer now?”

       Well, working was fine with him. Loria had helped him out quite a bit now, after all. And he still needed her language classes; he couldn’t afford for her to be working all day long. He disagreed with the idiot part, though. That was an experiment. For science. “Okay. How work?”

       “There’s not much for us in terms of official work.”

       “Then what do?”

       Gilas smirked. “We steal.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

       That definitely sounded like something medieval street children would do. “Okay. How do?”

       “Usually, I make a commotion—”

       “—And I steal,” Sarra finished.

       “What I do?”

       “Well, I can only cause so much of a distraction by myself. With Sarra, we could stall for much longer. We want you to take over her job.” Perhaps the true reason, however, was that Gilas did not want to expose his sister to danger. Causing a commotion would at most earn you a beating and a laugh, but getting caught stealing could end up costing a hand or two. He wouldn’t say that, of course.

       Soon, they reached the market-place, a lively square footed in the area directly below the great palace where the King lived. The square was set up as a grid of lanes, around which the merchant’s established their stalls. Flares of bright red, blue, and green dazzled all who entered—a menagerie of colors which contrasted directly with its grim surroundings. Here, merchants of all kinds and ethnicities peddled their wares. Only one thing was common between them: they were all wealthy. Merchants who settled into a town were inevitably richer than those who traveled, and to be able to pay for a spot in the central plazas was a sure sign of one’s wealth and prosperity.

       As the trio arrived, they scuttled next to a tree, planning their misdeeds.

       “You see that guy with the apples?” Gilas said, pointing at a merchant who indeed was peddling apples. “He’s our target. We’re starting low, since you’re a beginner. I’ll go chase Sarra and you’ll go rob him. Meet us behind that well over there.” Rory nodded.

       As they were leaving, Sarra turned over to him.

       “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered, “my brother is just jealous of you. It’s fine if you don’t get anything.” He thought about it; in the end, he did look pretty pompous from the outside.

       Soon, they began their act. Sarra ran away, her dressed unlinked, and Gilas chased, pretending to be some kind of rapist. As they neared the apple merchant, Sarra winked at Rory, as she looped underneath the merchant’s feet. Gilas, of course, simply ran into him. Angered, the merchant started chasing him as well. Well, it’s as good a time as any.

       Rory activated Chronos. Familiar, alien sounds began to reverberate through his ears as sound itself stops. The world stilled, a frozen image of a once lively world. Rory began to walk towards the merchant’s stall. What do they want me to steal? Apples? No way, that’s not even worth the trouble. Probably his money. Has to keep it somewhere. He begun searching around, looking into the slew of odd containers that littered the other side of the stall. Finally, after almost ten minutes had past, he found it—a small bag, filled with the day’s processions, hidden under a false floor on the base of the stall. How the hell did they expect me to get this normally? He looked inside; the bag was filled with a generous sum of coins, but he didn’t feel it was enough. He looked at the merchant himself, still stuck in a ridiculous pose. Sure enough, he found what he was looking for; more pouches, each filled with more coins, all attached to secret areas stitched onto his tunic. This guy sure is paranoid. Rory sighed. The last hope of humanity is currently robbing some poor merchant.

       Having finished the job, Rory walked over to the well, de-activated Chronos, and watched. One of the men eventually caught Gilas, giving him a few kicks and then letting him go while comforting Sarra. After a bit, they regrouped, meeting at the well just as they said they would.

       “Where’s the apples?”

       “Apples?” Rory asked, confused. Did they seriously want me to steal apples?

       “The hell did you steal if not apples?” Gilas scolded, a superior glint in his eyes.

       “Brother! You can’t possibly—“

       “This,” Rory interjected, opening up the bags of coin he had pilfered.

       “W-w—how!?” Gilas sputtered. They were both shocked; that was more than 50 gild—enough to feed them for a month. How the hell did he have the time to do all that? Merchants always hid their coin in various hidden spots exactly to prevent this kind of event from happening.

       “I fast.”

       They were returning to the orphanage, coin in hand. Whatever hostilities the siblings held had melted away.

       “That much money should keep the debt collectors away for the next few months.”

       “Good.” Upon further reflection, Rory asked, “How give this?”

       “H-heh, that’s actually a good question,” Sarra answered. Loria didn’t exactly approve of stealing. Sarra had, up to this point, only stolen food, which they could just say was “given” to them by kind-hearted merchants. Gilas, however, had, on his own, stolen money before.

       “Just say it was an anonymous donation from a noble or something. Leave it on her table with a note. You know how to write, after all.”

       Rory nodded, already contemplating what kind of flowery message a noble would write.

       Loria was on her returning commute, the moon beginning to rise behind her. She sighed; she was working for longer and longer, but her debt only increased more and more. The due date for her next payment was in two days, and she might have to take another loan to pay it. She wasn’t an idiot; she knew that wasn’t sustainable. She was proud of her mathematical ability—she always hoped one of the children would take it up, finish the Talent Test with good scores, and get adopted by some rich family. She was disappointed when Rory failed to show interest. She had high hopes for him—he had taken to writing so well, after all.

       When she stepped into the orphanage, all the children were asleep. She had a sad smile; her time with them was limited these days. What was she going when she couldn’t handle the debt anymore? They’ll take the building first. Where will they live then? Then, she noticed it: a little cloth sack with a note.

       Dear Loria Mera

       Your struggles are not lost. I have taken care to observe you, and find your cause to be of the utmost nobility. A lady such as yourself should not work such long hours, however. I have taken the liberty to send you 73 gild for you to spend on your fancies. I beseech you, make your hands no rougher. Do not seek me; I have addressed this note with an alias.

       —Noman

       This was too good to be true—that was more than enough money to pay her interest. She could take less jobs, spend more time with the children, maybe even pretty herself up; no, no, children first. She couldn’t afford to do that. She tucked the sack beneath her dress, keeping it safe until morning when she would take a trip to the loaners, her heart warming just a little bit to that Noman, unaware that he lay just a few feet away.