It was through the rich markets and lavish homes that he passed, venturing deeper into the depths of the city as the environment became noticeably less lavish.
Homes of age and wear; denizens of the sector dressed in old, torn clothes.
["Copper Gate"]
It was the middle ground between the wealth and the slums; a dull stretch of homes of shoddy stone, roads of shattered cobble, though not a bad place.
The youthful adventurer pulled his hood up as he moved along through the quiet, but occupied streets of Copper Gate, earning the gaze of beggars devoid of hope and children ignorant of their misfortune.
It was past some homes and through the cutting of a few alleyways that he found himself at his desired destination—home.
A meager cottage of aging wood, neighbored by welted plants and an old tree that hung over the roof, bearing solemn, silver leaves.
He walked in through the front door, announcing himself, "I'm back, Uncle."
The floorboard whined beneath the weight of his step, creaking as if one stomp too heavy would bring the floor down. As he closed the door behind him, he slowly walked through the hallway before turning into the doorway to his left.
Quietly, he opened the door, peeking his head in.
"Hff…Hff…"
Coughs left the withered man that laid on the bed; a pale figure with but scraps of hair left atop his head and arms as thin as twigs.
"...Bastian…" Like a whisper of wind, weak enough to be overshadowed by a gentle breeze, the sickly man called out.
The adventurer entered the room, walking past the bed and he closed the beige blinds that showed the nightly scenery, veiling the glow of the moon. Searching through his pockets, Bastian placed the ivory box down on the wooden table at the end of the room, looking for something on the tabletop.
"You're back late today. I take it you've been having grand adventures of your own…?" The ill man asked with his weakened voice, hacking and spitting up into his own hand.
"Don't push yourself,," Bastian said worriedly after grabbing a small vial from the table as he rushed over to the bedside, helping his relative to sit up as he propped the pillows against the man's back, "Here, your medicine."
He used his thumb to flick off the cork that sealed the glass bottle, bringing it up to the lips of the withered figure. There was a look of disdain in the sick man's eyes, though not for anybody else but himself; a disgust that made his lips quiver, as if resistant to partake in the medicine.
"Uncle, please…" Bastian urged.
"Am I meant to survive like this for the rest of my life? Surviving off of this concoction like a baby off its mother's teat? It feels like an eternity ago that I was out there…climbing the floors and fighting grand foes…alongside your father, my brother…" The sickly man reminisced painfully through his hoarse voice.
It wasn't the first time he had heard the regrets of his uncle, though it didn't get any easier seeing the pain written on the man's face, who dreamed of leaving the bed that became his home.
"You'll get better, I know it. For now, just take your medicine–please," Bastian urged, holding the bottle up.
Though hesitantly, the man accepted it as he grabbed the vial with his bony, pale hands, bringing it to his lips as he sipped its contents. As the medicinal concoction was swallowed, it was nearly spat back out as the sickly man began hacking up once again.
"Come on," Bastian supported him, placing his hand on the man's back. It felt hollow; flat and weak, like brittle.
The man he looked at, who looked nearly a century in age with wrinkled skin, dry like leather and pale enough to almost be transparent, was someone else from whom he recognized. A shell of his former self; the uncle he knew was withered away, perhaps lost.
"...You needn't waste your coin on buying me this medicine, Bastian. I've told you this…" The man said as he settled down from his coughing fit, inhaling and exhaling with a slight wheeze, "You can achieve so much more than this, I'm only dragging you down…"
"Stop that. I'm not going to leave you behind," Bastian assured the man, patting his back endearingly, "Not like father did."
The very topic of his own parent left a sour taste in his mouth as contempt laced his voice, though the same couldn't be said for the sickly man.
A breath left the thin man's lips as he looked up at the ceiling, "Do not blame your father, Bastian. He is a man of great ambition, he seeks to reach the top of the tower…we both did. It's our dream that he's carrying onward, for both of us. I wouldn't want him to waste his time on a dying, old fool such as myself."
"But that's not–he could at least visit, or send you medicine!" Bastian exclaimed in protest, swinging his fist at the air before calming himself, "...I just can't buy it. Who would abandon their own brother like this? He's not any father of mine, you're more–"
Another cough left the man's lips as he looked at his nephew, "Hff…Please don't, Bastian. He has his reasons, nothing he does is out of disdain or selfishness. Please remember that," he held his own head, "I think I'll rest now. Thank you, Bastian. I do appreciate everything you've done for me, if only I could repay–"
"Don't think about it, Uncle. Just rest and recover as best you can," Bastian said kindly, placing his hand atop the frail one of his relative's own before taking his leave from the room.
For a moment, he stood with his back pressed against the closed door, only looking down at the aged floorboards.
'Every time I see him, more and more do I forget who he used to be–"Duncan, the Cobalt Bolt"; he's the adventurer that inspired me to take on the tower for myself. My very own uncle, one of the front line adventurers on the tower, alongside my father. I was so proud as a child, I looked up to him with all my heart–that lightning he was famous for, to which he dyed his own hair a bright-blue to match. He was my hero, now he's…No, I can't think like that. He's still fighting,' he thought.
In his mind, memories of the past, unburdened by the shadows of the present, hurt more than scathing flames. It was only a few steps away that he found himself in his room, sitting himself on the edge of his bed.
After a long day of wear, he untied the string of his black cloak before pulling it from his shoulders. A sigh of relief left his lips as he ruffled his head of light, hazel hair.
As he set his hand down, he felt a light crunch beneath, patting the fabric he had laid on the bed.
Lifting the cloak, he found the sealed document given to him by Bilo.
"Oh, right," he mumbled, picking it up.
Though he held it for a moment, simply inspecting the beige paper, he set it back down without opening it. A subtle murmur came from his stomach, prompting him to quickly stand up from his bedside:
"Crap! I forgot—Gaston!" He recalled to himself.
The errands he ran had distracted him from his earlier promise to a friend, though luckily he had yet to unlace his leather boots.
He set out, leaving his dagger on his bedside table along with his belt of many pouches. Still, he was darkly dressed, wearing black trousers with multiple pockets and a long-sleeved, matching shirt with a gray vest of protective leather over it.
'Hopefully I don't make him wait too long—I am paying though, so I guess I'm allowed some lateness,' he thought.
Night had already fallen over the city, though he found it more soothing to walk its streets under the veil of the star-filled sky. Even far from any establishments, the sweet, potent stench of booze lingered in the air.
Though it wasn't any surprise why, as one of the very few escapes from life that those without wealth had was alcohol; drunkards loitered the streets, some even passed out on the cold cobblestone, snoring without any shame.
"...Brrr…Didja see the jugs on that hostess?" A drunkard grumbled.
The man that lent his shoulder to the drunk responded, helping him walk, "For the hundredth time, aye, I did."
Bastian continued on his way, tending to mind his own business, which was a lesson most learned quickly living in the Copper Gate of Velmusia. The path he took was a tad unorthodox, leading to him cutting to an alley between a church and a housing area, leaping down from a wall with a spiked, black-steel fence attached to it. It was what acted as separation between the poorer sector and the thriving heart of Velmusia–its market, and most notably during the night, its taverns.
He continued on, slipping his hands into his pockets as he perused the courtyard he found himself in before following a set of steps that led down. Trees of emerald leaves and luscious hedges neighbored the steps, leading to a promenade with a colossal fountain at its center.
'Almost there. I could use a good drink or two, and some grub,' he thought.