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*.”