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.”

“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 the number of stares 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.