georgeur

Tirion was raised in a shoddy cabin at the edge of Markev. His mother was a baker, barely capable of making enough money to feed herself and her child. His father passed soon after his birth, an illness that paralysed his body. During his early childhood he hated his mother, she was always angry, sad, or crying. Void of attention, he sought out any he could find. By the age of 11 he hadn't accomplished a thing, simply wandering around in his gang of orphans and beggars. They terrorised civilians going about their daily routines, not one of them gave it any thought as to how serious their actions could become. Every day Tirion came home, every day he fought and squabbled with his mother over his brattish actions, and every day he left the house to join his cronies on their juvenile adventures. However soon after he reached the age of 13, he noticed his friends disappearing, one by one. A disappointment that they weren't joining in on the fun, that's all it was to him. He yet again went out to steal a block of cheese, after all, he was hungry, and he and his cronies knew of a particular market stall, where people didn't pay nearly enough attention to their produce. Tirion idly walked by, watching everyone, looking out for who could spot him, and within a seconds notice swiped at the first thing within his reach, shielding it into his pocket. Once again victorious, once again returning to his friends usual spot. As he approached, he saw his friends hunched over each other, someone was screaming. Running up to them he skid across the wet floor and saw one of his friends he hadn't seen for a while, although he was a ghostly white, screaming, and clutching his arm. He'd later find out that he had been caught stealing, and this time the guards took his hand, to make sure it'd never happen again. Tirion left a trail of blood under his boots, and ran home. He did not leave his house again, for three years. Everyday he'd work in silence, enduring the heckling of his mother, fending off the suspicions he'd left after trampling blood into his own home. Three years can seem like a lifetime, especially for a child. On the day of his sixteenth birthday, his mother had begun to fallen ill, and within the week she was unable to walk. Tirion couldn't feel glad, although he'd cursed her everyday of his life, he was angry, angry at what cruel mother or God could yet again reform his world around him unto utter misery. He knew the house, but he was not home, perhaps he was never home here. As his mothers breath turned faint, he took whatever he had, and left to find somewhere he perhaps felt was home.