8th of Spring, 513AV.
Timothy hurried out of the market, clutching a small basket tightly to his chest. In Spring, people weren't as hungry and he could easily dodge the bony hands of those who'd have his bread and vegetables for free. Even though Timothy knew where the shady types were holding up, it never hurt to be on your guard and move quickly, not in the least to prove to mother that he could handle himself just fine.
She'd probably berate him for going out barefooted, but Timothy thought it much wiser to keep his shoes safely at home until he actually needed them. After all, anything that wasn't glued to your skin could be taken from you, particularly in Sunset quarter. Besides, it's not Winter anymore, Timothy thought to himself as he entered the slums.
The rickety wooden houses -piled upon the collapsed foundations of even smaller, dirtier buildings- didn't look like a slum to him. He lived in one of the creaky, drafty old places after all, and at least he wasn't as low as an orphan. He hated having to walk past the ashen building, it made him feel sad and he couldn't stand to meet any hungry eyes or they'd think him prey and steal all his food. Little though they had, Timothy would much rather live in the mud and stink in freedom than to be caged in that orphanage and he pitied those who were without father or mother.
Still, he slowed down as he approached the dull building. Living just across from the institution didn’t really help make him think less of the boys and girls who were trapped in there. Like any other Sunberthian with a soft spot, Timothy knew the orphans were taken good care of, as good as a few mizas could afford at least, but he had also heard that they only ate watered down cabbage soup. Perhaps that was why most of the children looked so ghostly pale and sickly thin. They could probably slither between the spokes in the fencing, or jump over it, and Timothy often wondered why they didn’t. Maybe they were afraid, just like all other passers-by –some of whom where lice-infested drunks who muttered curses under their breaths- moved in a slight arch around the orphanage’s entrance, as if to avoid the stink of rotten youths that lived there. Any other day, Tim would’ve done the same, but the sun hit his eyes, causing him to cast his gaze to the other side where his eyes found two grey orbs staring at him. They weren’t the eyes of a vulture but belonged to a boy with amber hair and round cheeks, standing slightly taller.
Timothy frowned, clutching the basket even tighter to his chest. Some slouching drunk bumped into him, sending him stumbling forward, towards the mysterious youth behind the fence. “Little P-p-petcher,” the man struggled to say before continuing his limping strut. Aside from a scowl, Timothy paid the man no heed.
“What you’re looking at me for?” he demanded from the boy behind the fence. A good five feet of no man’s land separated them and should the strange boy make any sudden moves, Timothy would have plenty of time to run away. As he gave the boy another look-over, he noticed a long scar underneath the dirty hair. His shoulders relaxed a bit. “Are you alright?” Maybe he’s just hungry…