The bonfire's light had drawn Lucas as it always did. When he found the small flame he felt the familiar warmth of the bonfire. He didn't want that feeling to disappear, and using a small vial he stowed the flame. Afraid it might be stolen he cut open his chest, and stashed the vial there, close to the spot where his chest thumped when he ran too long or became to excited. He didn't want to lose the warmth, he wanted to carry it with him, always. 

Sitting by the bonfire now, he felt that warmth more intensely. There were others. They seemed different. Since coming here, wherever this place was, Lucas still wasn't sure, everyone had either ignored him or tried to kill him. They never talked they just moaned. They reminded him of some of the slaves who had worked the mines for many years. Distant and unaware. But these people were different. 

He was squatting on a fallen log picking at a scab on his cheek presently. The skin around it was tender, and with time to let his broken thoughts wander an itch had awakened. His fingernails were cracked with dry blood and dirt, but it was their shortness that was giving him trouble. They were too short to get under the scab to peel it off. The activity bothered the nail, and a bright red trickled from under his inefficient nails, smearing on his cheek. He didn't notice. 

“Ugh, itchy!” he whined. 

He was used to being ignored. He had been most of his life, this time, however, his eyes went wide with bewilderment when the masked figure, Lucas wasn't sure if it was a man or woman, handed him a bowl full of stew as if his whining had been some sort of command.

“Fo-For me?” 

When the figure nodded he grabbed the bowl greedily, giggling, and attacked the stew. He was good at being quiet and sneaking about, he had learned early the finer points of being a street thief. He was not quiet now. He devoured the stew noisily, slurping and hooting, licking the bowl clean. His oddly clean teeth now dripped with the stews broth as he smiled childishly. 
 
The big man was talking.  Lucas found him funny. He didn't have a reason. He just was. He was talking to another man, he looked like someone important. He had seen many similar looking men on the streets and they always looked like they owned the place. This one looked sad. 

They were talking about fighting. The big one had no weapon. He said he didn't fight with steel. Neither did Lucas. He had a nice little bone dagger safely tucked away. But the man's boasts about fighting with his hands reminded Lucas of the guards who used to kick him when he tried to steal the boots off of a corpse. He never understood what the issue was. Lucas needed boots and that guy didn't need his anymore. 

The sound of clanging metal somewhere barely out of earshot caught hold of Lucas' attention for the briefest of moments, and he jerked his head towards the direction it had come from. The breeze happened along at the same moment, and the smell of the stew flooded his nostrils, distracting him from the metallic sound. 

Holding out his arm, bowl in hand, wide eyed with happiness, and a big toothy smile, he asked “More please!”