â€œYou stupid guttershite! I said the white whiskey, not the old tom!!â€ The man was raving, his pockmarked face flushed with anger. He ran twitchy fingers over his stubbled cheeks, wiping the sweat from his jowls as he bared his yellowish teeth at a young boy.<br/><br/>The boy was no more than twelve, and looked like he hadnâ€™t seen a comfortable living quarters all his life. His hair was ragged and long, cinnamon brown strands discolored by dirt and soot. His natural olive complexion looked darker with smudges of filth covering his face. He frowned up at the man, a heavy barrel sloshing with liquid in his arms. It was heavy and his hands and arms were aching, and stung with splinters.<br/><br/>He knew the man hadnâ€™t asked for white whiskey. He had asked for the old tom. He was just too damn drunk to remember.<br/><br/>â€œGo back down there and get me the right damn barrel, you streetraised idiot!â€ The man was stomping away now, going to attend to a customer at the bar.<br/><br/>Holding back a whimper, Oliver bent his knees and set the barrel full of alcohol on the ground before straightening. He stretched his back first, arching backwards in an attempt to alleviate some of the soreness. Next he examined his arms, finding them prickled with bits of wood. Scowling in irritation, he set to plucking out as many as he could as he weaved through the small kitchen and pushed out the back door once more. It was night out, and the sky was a deep navy sprinkled with stars like carelessly tossed diamonds. There was no moon, and everything was incredibly dark. His feet were bare and cold, but he was used to it.<br/><br/>When he reached the cellar doors, he hesitated. He really hated cellars. Heâ€™d once had to spend a week in one during the bad snow last year. They were ice cold and filled with rats. And dark. Very dark. He remembered lying there on the dirt floor at night with the other street rats. He would raise his hand in front of his face and wave it about, completely unable to see anything but blackness. No matter how close he held his hand to his face, black was all he would see.<br/><br/>But at least then heâ€™d had others with him then. Now he had to venture into the dark alone.<br/><br/>He hefted the doors aside, each landing in the dirt with loud clanks and clangs. The noise echoed back at him from the depths of the hole. Leaning forward to peer in, it appeared to be just that. A hole that sought to devour anyone who stepped too close.<br/><br/>Then Oliver remembered he didnâ€™t have to go down there alone. Reaching his hand out, he took a breath and stared at his fingers. Suddenly light leapt forth and shrouded the boy in a bubble of orangish yellow light. A small flame was hovering in his palm, flickering light and warmth about him. Taking a breath for courage, he plunged into the dark stairwell.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">--------</div><br/><br/>Oliver scowled and chucked another hunk of firewood into the fireplace. That stupid bloke had told him if he got the damn barrels out of the stinking cellar, he would pay him and give him something to eat. After heâ€™d hauled the second barrel up, the man had demanded he take the other barrel back down. And then heâ€™d only given him a single coin.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"> â€œTend the fire for the night, and youâ€™ll get a hot breakfast in the morning.â€ </span>The man had promised with a twisted smile.<br/><br/>Sparks flew up from the ash, some of them singeing his skin. He brushed them away impatiently. It didnâ€™t even hurt much anymore.<br/><br/>The bar had gotten busy with the nightfall. The air was loud with laughter and talking, and the clinking of glasses and scraping of wooden chairs punctuated all of it every few seconds. Honestly, the constant sound bothered Oliver to no end. If he had any other choice, he would be far from here. He really couldnâ€™t stand being in a place so full of adults.<br/><br/>Now he was sitting near the fireplace, so near his eyes were burning from the heat. He was curled up in an attempt to be as small as possible to avoid getting stepped on, his arms embracing his legs. Absently he rubbed at his right eye, trying to staunch the burning.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"> â€œHi dear Alice?â€ </span><br/><br/>For some reason this question caught Oliverâ€™s flighty attention. Maybe it was the resonance of arrogance or power it beheld, or the words themselves, he didnâ€™t know, but he found himself staring at a pair of Blood Folk.<br/><br/>Oliver frowned, recalling the lesson Sister Annette had taught him about the Blood Folk. They were different than her, like he was different. So the Blood Folk were like him, but not really. But they were strange. Not like normal people. He recognized them very easily, and he really had no idea why. Sister Annette had never taught him how to distinguish them from other people without inspecting them outright.<br/><br/>Then he realized. They didnâ€™t have life energies. Because they were dead.<br/><br/>Oliver wrinkled his nose at that. The dead people heâ€™d seen had all been...grosser. Maybe being dead wasnâ€™t a big deal to the Blood Folk. The girl sure was pretty. Oliver tilted his head curiously. She had brown hair like Sister Annette had too. Very pretty brown hair.<br/><br/>A wave of exhaustion hit him hard, and a yawn overtook him. Three days without sleep wasnâ€™t good, he decided. He was feeling really weak now, more so than normal. He folded his arms behind his head, his shoulders searing with pain from being moved so suddenly after being sedentary for such a long time. Ignoring it, he decided it was safe to stretch his legs slightly. He was getting pins and needles in the left one. Carefully he stretched them out, nearly sighing with the relief of actually moving his muscles again.<br/><br/>More comfortable than heâ€™d been for an hour, Oliver leaned his head back and yawned again, wondering if he would be able sleep somewhere tonight. Thatâ€™s when someone tripped over him.<br/><br/>It was fierce, sudden pain in his left leg. The toe of the personâ€™s boot had hit squarely where two muscles overlapped, and would likely leave a huge bruise that would ache for weeks. Oliver yelped and drew his legs toward him protectively, cradling his left leg in pain. But as he drew his feet back, he tripped them again, and the person staggered to the floor.<br/><br/>Oliverâ€™s face whitened at the appearance of them unfortunate person. A large man that seemed to bulge everywhere. His muscular arms were at odds with his huge gut and at the moment his eyes were bugging out of his head in an unpleasant way. He had a huge broadsword on his back, and wore every manner of fur wearable. Oliver drew back further as fury leapt into the manâ€™s bulging eyes.<br/><br/>â€œYou filthy rat!â€ The man was on his feet with a heavy stomp. The tables surrounding them had suddenly gone quiet. â€œYou did that on purpose, you stupid shit!â€ He reached out a meaty hand that Oliver ducked, and when the boy attempted to scurry away, he delivered a hard kick to Oliverâ€™s stomach.<br/><br/>Had he have eaten anything in the past few hours, it probably would have come up from the sheer force and placement of the blow. Heavenâ€™s knew it hurt. Oliver collapsed on the floor, clutching his stomach as he gasped and choked on air he couldnâ€™t seem to breathe.