The weather kept most everyone inside for nearly a week, a seasonal sand storm raging across the continent and shutting down most activity until it had run its course. A young rogue was restless in his slumber, making feeble attempts to sleep until the sun finally pierced through the clouds again. He spent the days before pacing his subterranean dwelling, fighting the voice of hunger that pleaded him to plunder his food stores more than he absolutely needed. It was a downhill battle that he found himself losing after hardly a day, and in retrospect he wished he had made earlier preparations so it all could have been avoided. All determinations broken, he found himself with nothing to eat and so he slept the remainder of the storm. His connection to the world was still dark from the sands that blocked out the sun.

He found neither relief nor comfort in his subconscious as he slept. The groaning complaints of his digestive system plagued his dreams with irrational desires and emptiness in all he experienced. Memories of the days before the storm offered little when it came to pleasant thoughts to offset the shadows of his mind. The day before it began in particular had been especially dreadful; most of his last minute pilfers had been undermined by paying crowds that wandered the market for the same reasons as him. It had been a string of rather poor luck preceding bad circumstances.  He shudders as he revisits one set of nightmares in particular, his mind unrelenting in its reminders of just how alone the boy was. Of course he had friends (just as he had enemies); he was an honored acquaintance of one of the gangs in his area of the city. At times they would join together for heists. Of course heists for boys of their age would amount to getting away with a bundle of bread or a small cart of fruit; it was never anything spectacular in the scale of things. The issue was nowhere in friendship, but something else lacking in his life. He'd grown up with no parents or guardians, his earliest memories being those of living day by day on the streets. He'd never felt that warm and comforting embrace of safety that so many took for granted. His dreams taunted him with what he would never have.

The sandstorms had settled by noon the next day, allowing the sun to shine through and burn the surface of the desert planet to remind the people of its existence. The searing light that seeped through the cracks in the makeshift entryway stirred the boy from his mock hibernation. He brought up an arm to shield the light, grunting his way into reality and sitting up from where he had slept to look outside. The light came from an old shutter window that looked out at the alley at ground level, serving as both a viewport and an entry to his claimed place of living. He had converted an abandoned storage room into a shelter years ago, having made it a sort of goal to clean and make it a bit more habitable. It was a slow and tedious process due mostly to the restricting dimensions of the window. The previous doorway into the room had been sealed to keep other home seekers out of what he had claimed for himself, as well as keep hidden during times of escape. There wasn't much to show for all his years of collection aside from the sturdy crates and shelves that predated his arrival. A broken mirror here, a chest for his belongings there; the room was still rather empty. He'd solved the problem of getting water rather quickly, a pipe of the plumbing running across the ceiling that he had tapped into for his own use. It was a bit of fortune he was thankful for every time he used it. He thanked it today for keeping him hydrated through the storm.

Rolling off of the fabric stuffed sacks that comprised his sleeping arrangement he sprawled out with his back on the stone floor. Considering the angle that the sun shone through the crack, he knew he had half a day remaining that he could use to find something to eat. Once night fell on the city the markets would close, leaving him to go hungry even longer than he had already. A longing stare was sent to the crates where he had stored food for the storm, his gaze willing a forgotten piece of jerky or bread to come into view. He sighed when it promptly failed, standing to prepare for the day. At least his stores had lasted him as long as they had, he thought to himself as he dressed. A ragged cloak draped over his form past the shoulders, concealing close fitting clothing he had modified slightly for those daily sprints out of the market. The cloak also concealed his dagger, undoubtedly his most prized possession after its many years of unfailing support. One could never be too careful on Klido after all, especially in the outskirts of Schindli. He was quick to leave after proper preparations for the day were complete, slinging his leather pack over his shoulder under the cloak and emerging into the sun. For Wylan, it was time to survive.