---PLEASE IGNORE TYPOS AND LACK OF PUNCTUATION

Once upon a time there lived a disgruntled carpenter's mate, a euphemism for useless bastard only just fit to make tea and sweep up.

He knew what he was having been informed of the facts by everyone that knew him, his family in particular and he really couldn't care less.

Having no ambition, no goals, no girlfriend nor even a halfway decent education, he managed to stop just short of being an illiterate arsehole by the skin of his teeth, which frankly were in need of dental work.

This paragon of lost hope managed to scrape a living disconsolately trailing his employer about the Citadel from one low paid job to the next, in a permanent state of feeling sorry for himself and therefore such a low form of life that nobody noticed him.

Tim laughed aloud at the dismal picture he'd just painted of himself as a ragged urchin whilst he worked diligently as a street artist sitting on a barrel by the quayside drawing a picture of a ship being loaded against the impressive backdrop of the Citadel massif.

A curious fantasy to entertain about oneself he thought but it helped him to create the mood he needed to be able to give the right atmosphere to his art.

Tim was no stranger to the snares that poverty encouraged young orphans to fall into and he'd learned to don protective colouration to ensure his safety from predators of various kinds. The trick was to look too poor to be worth robbing or kidnapping whilst giving the appearance of possibly being more trouble than he seemed to be worth.

It was a delicate balance required to safely negotiate the Citadel's many perils but Tim knew them all having had the good fortune to see life from each end of the social spectrum having originally been the fortunate son of a prosperous merchant whose fortunes subsequently vanished thanks to the nepotism and intrique the Citadel was rife with.

Subsequently, Tim had found himself alone with no parents and bereft of all rights except his continued existence; begrudged as it certainly would have been by his fathers persecutors, had those assorted thugs and ne'er do wells; known as bailiffs been aware of the boys existence.

He'd had longer to learn to adapt to the streets helped at first by his well made clothing which he'd eventually had to trade whilst still in good repair to a laundry in exchange for more suitable clothes befitting an orphan trying his best to make his way through life without causing offence to anyone.

Using his innate clear way of speaking and his good manners remnants of his early upbringing Tim who was also a comely lad found it easy to make arrangements with various service providers such as the laundry ladies who liked him enough to have adopted him had they the income to spare from raising their own families.

Similarly Tim had been befriended by a printer who gave him room and board in return for his artistic abilities although 'room' was a straw palliasse beneath the type case and 'board' was bread and light ale for breakfast after which he was on his own. Tim could do a very convincing guard dog range of sounds that had earned him his place so the printer could safely leave the shop under the care of his 'dog'.

For most of his days the printer had no need of his skills so Tim found other similar positions in the hope of buiding his range of skills sufficient perhaps to find him a proper place of work some day. He would for certain be able to produce affidavits aplenty should he require character references for he was quick witted, intelligent and a hard worker quick to learn new tools and trades when required.

Unfortunately this could well lead to his undoing because word ofmouth let it be known that here was someone worth getting to work for you and he was approaching his 16th birthday, as far as he could work out, whence he'd automatically be eligible for the Watch or the Guard if they could lay their hands upon him by then.