Sparhawk was in the middle of eating dinner--a chunk of bread taken from a loaf he'd stolen the day before and some cheese he'd gotten his hands on last week. He preferred to steal dry goods because they didn't spoil nearly as quickly as other foods like meat or fruits. He also kept a small stash of eggs in case of an emergency and he was starving.
He had other foods as well, jarred foods, which kept very well in basement cellars--for example, the one he called home. Compared to other street kids, he lived like a king. He could easily defend his residence as well, because of sheer size, and his knack for being able to intimidate all the other kids that might want to invade or steal from him. Most days he would stake out prospective houses--his favorites were always small farms that housed an old couple, because usually he didn't even need to steal from them. He could just offer to work for food or for a coin or two, and that would get him enough food for a day.
That was another thing he had a small stash of. Money. He never used it if he could help it, though. He just saved it.

Presently, there was a soft thump from above. Another invader, he assumed. He put down his dinner and got up to scare off whoever might be snooping around. He climbed up a crate that sat underneath the hatch that led to the main floor of the house and quietly cracked it open to see who was there.

He saw a little girl, younger than him, at any rate. He could immediately tell she was a street girl. She was dirty, had messy hair, and her clothes were torn in some places and were too small for her.

He rolled his eyes and shoved the hatch open the rest of the way to hear slam to the ground on the other side.

He hoisted himself up with crossed arms and a scowl.

"This house is taken, sister." He told her in a deceptively quiet voice.