The Orphan from Doolin

Seagulls cried out with selfish squawks in the overcast sky of Luc Moinne, a miserable city on the coast of Doolin. A marvel in architecture and industry completely paled in comparison to its decay from neglect and the inequality birthed of its own greed.
 
A young boy, brown of hair and pointed of ears would have been lost to the scenery of refuse and the busy motion of an active dock had he not been crying, motionless and dead to the world. The noise of his weeping would have been all but silent if it weren’t accented with the pain from his bruises and fractures. He stared blankly at the sky, filled with the masts of ships coming to and fro, representing journeys to places better than all that he knew. He mustered the intestinal fortitude to inch himself up, groaning and crying to himself even more. How he hated the other children for what they had done.
 
He slowly turned his head, tears flowing freely down his face to witness the true extent of his injury and humiliation, as he winced. His eyes searched, and upon seeing his most prized possession in this world destroyed he cried audibly and fell back to the ground, deflated in spirit.
 
His father’s violin, it’s bout cracked, strings snapped, and neck broken clean in two lay beside him. His only connection to his parents, the one thing besides himself his mother had carried with her, barefoot on the run from God’s know what to this forsaken city, had been destroyed. The eight copper bits the other street urchins had stolen from him meant nothing...they could have ended their torment there but the cruelty of children dealt an improper hand at life found little equal in an unfair world. They wanted to destroy that ray of hope life had taken from them.
“Be careful layin’ that way kid, might not get up.” A voice filled with bass and timbre interrupted the miserable sound of a crying orphan and seagulls. The boy looked up, to the upside down image of a tusked grin, a half-orc man looking down at him, hand out stretched.
 
“Get up Jazbet.”
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The Rusted Anvil smelled of sweet tobacco and sweat, spilled beer and fresh stew. It was lively every part of the day, because the docks never slept.
 
The Half-Orc dressed in the rough spun clothes of a sailor, denim bandana protecting a scabbed head overlooking the young half elf boy across from him. The boy wore no shoes, his feet bruised and bloody, wrapped in rotten bandages. His burlap shirt torn and stiff. He clutched the remains of his violin, eyes puffed with a profound despair.
 
As soon as the barmaid places a bowl of stew, that sadness was momentarily forgotten. He grabbed the bowl and shoveled the stew in his mouth, the sailor chuckling to himself as he nudged his bowl forward to the boy. Jazbet’s eyes widened and he tore into the other bowl with reckless abandon. His eyes showing a gratitude few witnessed.
 
After placing the bowls down, he did not wipe the food from his face. Social graces were lost on him and did no one favors on the streets of Luc Moinne. A hint of a smile threatened the boy’s bruised face before the realization of recent events were remembered.
 
“I hate them, Den!” He snapped. His hand slamming the table with all his might, to very little effect. The sailor lifted his brow.
 
“Who?”
“The other boys! Rufus and the others.”
 
The half Orc sighed, he was known to the urchins of the city as one of the few kind adults you could trust. So many smiled and offered you food, and behind closed doors expected favors that took what precious little soul a parentless child had left, others pressed orphans into gangs, some made the orphans disappear forever. Den the sailor was in port for no longer than a week, but whenever he was around he would have a tale for all the boys and girls that wandered the streets, they could almost remember or imagine what life was like before their predicament...lost into the tales of ancient crusades and heroes.
 
He fed them when others scared them off or abused their naivety. This meant that he knew the other boys and likely had some anecdote which would make them all except their lot. Jazbet didn’t want to hear it. He gritted his teeth as this all crossed his mind and the tears flowed freely once again.
 
“Why is life so unfair?!” He said through clenched teeth, his eyes closed trying to fight off the tears.
 
“Jaz, regardless of the hand we have been dealt...it’s our choice how we live our lives. Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone. You read better than any of the kids your age, damn better than an ol’ sailor like myself. Why not make some thin’ o’yerself? You could be a letter reader at a waystop, maybe even be one those that pens letters if you study hard enough. You got a future, and ain’t a whole lot out here that can say the same.”
But it was not enough. As Jazbet walked the streets of this putrid district, beyond the working lasses, passed the beggars, where the rats lay and even the stray dogs avoided...was his hovel. His arms embraced his father’s violin firmly before laying it down. In this heap of discarded metal and rotted wood, he kept a woolen blanket infested with lice and flea. He wrapped it around himself as the sound of rain and thunder threatened the air, the laughter of other boys it’s only companion.
 
But no one but urchins and rats claimed these alleys. He peaked from the rotting pile that was his home, and just before they turned the corner that exited the alley, he saw Rufus and his two friends...the gleam of copper in their hands. These were the boys that took all he had.
 
He followed them, skulking like a cat, his rotting blanket wrapped around him as the rain fell.
 
The boys had looked around to make sure none were near and turned into an alley deeper in the docks, Jazbet followed and as he came to, realized where the boys had gone. Climbing a ladder to the top of a tenement, the boys stashed their belongings before moving on. He had found their home. Careful to ensure the coast was clear, he waited until all was silent under the guise of the rains fall. He climbed the ladder and looked around. More pitiful than his makeshift structure in the alley beyond, these boys had but one blanket amongst all of them and likely used each other for warmth. The winters must have been especially brutal, various trinkets and a single pack, filled with apples and a picture of a family were all that remained.
“I don’t want to be an ordinary man...I want to be an extraordinary man!” He shouted to no one in particular, an affirmation to himself. He picked up the pack with violent expedition, ripped up the picture and upon tossing the stinking blanket into his pack heard a jingle of coin...he found a pouch containing a silver piece and eight copper. He shoved it all away and ran.
 
He ran, as fast as he could, as fast as his bruises and wounds would allow, laughing to himself as he made it to his lean to. His sweet taste of revenge preventing the guilt of destroying an orphans home, of all that remained of his family.
 
If these boys knew it was him, he would be dead.
 
Without hesitation, he grabbed the remains of his father’s violin and placed it into the lice infested wool blanket, wrapped as firmly as he knew how. He ran for the gates of the city, surely a silver was enough for him to hitch a ride somewhere else...and if not he would stow away and go far.
 
Far into that tomorrow,
to the lands of never here,
beyond all his sorrow,
beyond his pain, and fear.