Tap. Tap. Tap.
The streets reeked of rust and rain.
Decrepit buildings leaned into one another, their seams woven by shadows. Grey water bled from the rooftops, flowing through cracks that never closed.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A figure paced through that narrow walkway.
He didn't move fast, but he wasn't slow either. His stride was steady -- neither aimless nor cautious. His stature wasn't tall, but he wasn't exactly short.
Average. Just like his appearance.
A thin coat clung to his frame; a coat long worn into something between leather and rot. Torn cloth wrapped his arm, hiding the skin beneath.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His hair hung low, a dark brown slick with rain. It was uneven, like it had been trimmed with a dull blade. His face was drawn, cheekbones sunken with hunger. Faint scars danced across his jaw. His faded amber eyes held no rest, only the tired gleam of someone who stopped expecting warmth held.
He looked like a boy, trying too hard to become a man.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Step for step.
The sound of his strides faded beneath emerging sounds converging.
Voices.
The narrow street widened, spilling into a crooked square where rusted signs swung overhead.
"Two Shards for a loaf?!"
"Yeah I-"
"Tch. At this rate--"
People were gathered beneath the shelter of ledges and cracked lanterns. Traders, pickpockets and beggars roamed all around, pretending to sell things they'd already stolen. The floor was cracked with decay and darkened in use.
It was loud... but quiet at the same time.
The smell hadn't helped either. Burnt oil, wet cloth and cheap ale fogged the air with a scent similar to a passage of sewer water.
"Heard a man sold a fragment for fifty last week. Didn't live long enough to spend it though."
The boy stared at the procession, the edges of his amber gaze narrowing slightly. A few turned to look at him; recognition, faint and brief.
There was a slight pause, in his movements and in a few conversations. A few heads tilted offering a hello it seemed... or maybe something in between. The few others scattered around. They didn't offer that same courtesy, hence the pause didn't last long.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He continued on walking.
"Come on! I got a kid to feed!"
"I'll give you--"
His surroundings conversed on as normal. Traders haggled customers all around, greed sitting pretty on their tongues, whilst a few younger kids lounged on the floor; their faces marked with dirt, and their stomachs empty... hungry for anything.
This was everyday in the slums of Greyfair.
"I hear Jacob's cousin found a dormant relic..."
The boy stuttered in his steps...
That was different.
The scattered groups turned to the person who'd voiced such a claim, their bodies stuttering almost just like the boy mid-stride, mid-breath.
It was a pair of hood rats. Children, no older than ten. A multitude of eyes followed them.
A few smirked. Others scoffed, shaking their heads.
They had a right to.
You see, in Greyfair, the only way a gutter rat could ever touch a relic, let alone look at one... was if they'd stolen it from a corpse, or from someone soon to be one.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He kept walking.
Bast.
That was his name.
No title and no real home. A hood rat in his own right. Just that, enough for the streets to know him, but not enough to matter.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of his steps swallowed the murmurs behind him, the talks of relics fading through the light drops of rain. Somewhere a drunk shouted. Somewhere else, a deal was made.
The city was breathing; damp, tired, but alive.
Bast didn't look back. He didn't pay attention to the murmurs of back alleys. He'd heard it all before.
Relics. Fragments. Power.
Everyone wanted something.
All he wanted...
Grrr...
His stomach rumbled as he stepped.
All he wanted was to eat.
Dreams? Purpose? Those were for people who could afford to waste them. He'd learned quickly, the world didn't care if you starved, it only paid attention when you stole.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
So he kept his head down, and his hands empty. That was enough, enough to survive.
Usually.
The sound of his steps softened as the streets opened into a plaza bathed in a pale, flickering light. Straight away the difference was clear:
It was clean.
Bast stood in the glow of that pale, flickering light; a few people glanced at him, before they looked away just as quick.
For a moment, the quiet urge to chuckle rose in his throat -- a dry, breathless one -- but it faded as fast as it came, just like their looks.
Grrr...
His stomach roared once more, as his eyes travelled up. A towering structure of cracked marble and brass pipes stood tall. Its roof stitched together with arrogance and prestige.
It was an auction house.