“It’s a shame really, a damn shame. Such a long historied life, and I barely even knew the man! Such regret...”

But regret was the last thing the moping youth was feeling right now. He held his hands over his pale blue eyes as he pretended to weep as the small funeral wound down, his worn sandals keeping out of the dirt of the small cemetery. He was lightly dressed, wearing only a ratty pair of brown shirts that went to his knees and a loose, tan vest. As those who had been at the funeral began to head to the old man’s small, lonesome house, the boy casually followed, eyes unsalted by tears, scratching at his short black hair.

He was no fool: even though he’d just blown into town, he happened to hear what was going on: to die heirless and without a will in a town this size meant his possessions were up for grabs. He wasn’t dumb enough to pretend he was related to the old man: the timing would be far too coincidental for any but an idiot to believe him. He just planned to take what he could from the house and be on his way. He lightly rubbed his stomach, trying to remember the last time he’d eaten something he hadn’t found on the ground.

Slipping into the house, he could hear the clatter of some of the random townfolk shuffling through, taking whatever they desired. The boy went to one of the empty rooms: the kitchen. Going through the cabinets and pantry, it wasn’t as well stocked as he’d hoped. He did find a small, stale loaf of bread with a bit of mold on it stuffed away into the corners of one of the cabinets, and a lightly bruised apple as well. Most of the other stuff required preparation, and the boy wasn’t in the mood. Taking out a dull, chipped knife, he cut at the bread, taking off the moldy bits, devouring the rest easily, his hunger making the stale bread easy to swallow. Already feeling a bit of relief at getting something in his stomach, he wiped the red apple on his vest before taking a large bite. As he chewed, he moved into the other room, wanting to look around a bit more.

Before he could go far, he heard a voice ask him, “What’s this?” Looking around, he saw another boy, but to call him a boy was a tad misleading. The street rat was dwarfed by the local. The wanderer noticed the large book in his hand, and the bookshelf nearby, guessing the old man was studious. Swiping the paper from Glenn, he looked over it, swallowing his food in surprise as he saw what it was. He coughed for a moment, trying not to choke, before he looked over it again in wonder.

Clearing his throat, he grinned at Glenn, explaining, “Looks to me like a map! Of the whole kingdom of Boroden by the looks of it, and a little beyond it too.” He tapped his finger on the map, pointing at the word within the borders of the shape displayed. He continued, lowering his tone, “No cities marked though...but that ‘X’? Oh, you know that’s got to be important. You thinking treasure? I’m thinking treasure.” In the back of his mind, he wasn’t sure about telling this stranger all his thoughts, but he didn’t seem to be the sharpest sword in the armory, plus he was the size of a brick house...the street rat could work with that.

Rolling up the map, the boy greeted, “What’s your name pal? You can call me Roan.”