This was his life now, wasn't it? Though it is not like Belenus Lost had anything else to compare it to. His mind would always draw a blank when attempting to think further past the day he woke up as himself(As opposed to any other day he woke up as someone else?). The days spent on Arca's streets were long and tiring. His experiences were filled with cold nights and often in the rain where sleep was a blessed sight should it ever come(If one looked at the dark bags under his eyes it should be apparent what usually came). Though the mornings were not better. He filled with dread as he would pat down his clothing making sure all his belongings, how little they were, were still his belongings and checking if all his body parts were indeed in all the right places -- or where he had left them the night before. That was when he slept. In the few moments where Belenus opened his eyes to a dim, dirty, and smelly street he wished he was somewhere else, and could swear he knew the warmth of a bed. In the end it drifted away and all he was left was the cold.
Currently the sky above him and the city of Arca filled with clouds casting shadows over the faces and bodies of the citizens and on the cobbles of the streets. And Belenus stood at a corner, near a tavern(Though he doesn't drink. Can't afford it!), holding up a sign made from planks of wood. It read:
Will work.
That's all. No 'Will work for food', 'Will work for shelter', 'Will work for a bath', or 'Will work for a better pair of shoes(though not necessarily new)', though he sorely needed all of those things. It was just 'Will work.' Albeit the sign wasn't entirely original, it was at least spelt correctly. He thought that gave him some merit. For honesty's sake, he had been tempted to scribble more under the words, in his nearly unreadable chicken scratch. But the sentient compass, named Found, which laid hanging off a gold chain around his neck, advised against it by twirling its pointers frantically when Belenus had moved to write – on his behalf, Found had already been irate with him do to what he had to do to get the planks of wood. It thought adding: Will not murder, rape, or pillage with a scrawl of a winking smiling face beside it would tip its master's moral compass(Figuratively and literally depending on one's impression of Found)to bad places.
The tavern wasn't even open yet, but he figured that the early bird gets the worm and usually there were always a few people passing through the streets during the day, albeit shadier and weirder in this part of the city. The odder the more interesting the work is! He would reason with himself, and to Found whom was always forced to listen. Though, he suspected that those all thought he was some hapless drunkard who can't tell time. He couldn't blame them. The image he was presenting was not the most cleanly, then again the streets were his reluctant home.
He sighed forlornly, and shifted his grip on the wooden planks with his bandaged up hands(Which should give a good explanation on where he had gotten his 'sign'...).
What he wouldn't give for a warm bed...
