The night was dreary and miserable, the rain sweeping in off the ocean appeared to be unending and unrelenting, despite the harsh desert that the port city was nestled in. A young beggar boy, an escaped slave, sat curled up with his back pressed against the wall of a building. He sat in the muddy streets, filled with grime and filth from animals and humans.
He shivered and wrapped the soaked and filthy scrap of sailcloth he had stolen from a shipyard tighter around him. His shoulder length black hair was made lighter by the amount of dirt caked into it. His hair was loose and fell in mats and knots around his face. The meager rags he wore did little to stave off the nights chill.
He kept his brilliant pale blue eyes focused on the cobbled street in front of him, appearing to be asleep. He knew well enough that if he actually fell asleep, he may not wake up the next morning.
The streets of Umbar were rough... Thieves and assassins lurked around every corner and shadow, knives ready and thirsting for blood. Every so often a shriek of a woman pierced the air; whether she was being beat by her husband or attacked was unknown. No one cared, no one paid any attention. Each person only cared about themselves and when they may eat again, if they were lucky. People were killed or go missing and no one seems to take notice, they carry on as if nothing had happened.
The streets were ruled by guilds. If someone did not belong to a guild or gang, they were picked upon, beaten and even killed... Sometimes thrown in pits to fight to the death for others amusement.
This particular young beggar belonged to a guild of pickpockets... Which contained mostly children and youths. At 16, he was one of the oldest boys there. He lowers his hand to brush his fingertips over the crude handle of a shiv he had stolen off of a corpse. Satisfied it was still there, he wraps his arms around his legs and curls up into a ball, eyes still focused on the street.
He stills as a pair of elegant and rich black boots cross his vision; he did not hear the person approaching. He held his breath as the boots stilled right in front of him and turned to face him. He didn't dare move or look up at the owner of the boots.
Before he knew what was happening, He was slammed back against the stone, hand pressed to his mouth, blade to his throat.
His eyes widened in fear and panic. He desperately tries to grab at the shiv tucked into his belt but fails to find it. His attacker hissed and leaned in to whisper in his ear, the voice dark and laced with poison, "[H] I can't leave witnesses, boy..." The boy tried looking to the side, desperately trying to see what's around him. failing to see what the man had done, he whimpers. The blade was warm and wet against his skin, though not with his own blood. The boy peers, trying to see who the attacker was. He was just met with two cold, onyx eyes outlined by a black and silver mask. The man's face was shrouded with a black satin hood. He wore elaborate black armor with silver accents.
Gold, the boy, whimpered and closed his eyes, fearing this to be his end. the man in black paused, inspecting the boy up and down. He grins slyly before murmuring softly, "[H] Either you come with me and work for me, vowing your silence, or I slit your throat right here and right now... I don't like killing more than I should. choose wisely, boy." He slowly releases the boy's mouth so he could give his answer, keeping the blade to his throat, should he attempt an escape or try anything.
Gold swallowed nervously and drew a shaky breath before murmuring just as softly, "[H] I will work for you... Master..."
The man smirked and withdrew, muttering, "[H] Good boy." With that he grabbed Gold by his collar and dragged him along, pressing the blade to his ribs as a constant reminder of what disobedience could cost him.
