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Part 1: A Thief's Upbringing

Born into the dismal world of the slums, Arden had a rough life growing up. His father was absent, and his mother struggled to keep food on the table. She worked as an apothecary of sorts, combining her herbal remedies with a bit of help from the spirits.

His mother was an animistic shaman, who had the misfortune of losing her familiar. Being so poor, she could never afford the materials needed to perform the ritual which could call her ally back from the spirit realm. To do so, she would never have been able to provide for herself or her son. Even in the best of times, saving such an exuberant sum was impossible. As such, she could only ever access the most rudimentary reaches of her abilities, and had no choice but to make the best with what she had.

Keeping your health is a struggle in the slums, and so his mother was never without work, but competing with the middle-class pharmacies and striving to be affordable enough to bring in customers forced her into long hours with little pay. And so, it wasn't unexpected that Arden took to the streets to help pamper their home's meager income.

He started small. Stealing a trinket here, a coin there. Just enough to help himself and his mother scrape by. But he was good at it. He had a natural talent for evaluating his marks, and he rarely got caught. And when he did, his other natural talent came into play - running. The bustling city streets did little to hinder his small stature, and even on the rare occasion when a guard spotted his transgression, he'd swiftly slink off before anything could come of it. Besides, the little scraps that he would steal were barely worth the chase he would put up, so he would always quickly become out of sight and out of mind.

However as time passed, what once was a necessity sprouted a habit, and eventually blossomed into an exhilarating hobby. With Arden's talents, his home now had a modest income. His mother could relax, working less, and, consequently, had more time to bond with her son. She knew of his methods, of course, but approved of them. She even taught him how he might apply the shamanistic arts to assist his work. In no time, he had mastered a few magical tricks that placed his thievery into a brand new tier.

But then his mother fell ill. Not the normal, run-of-the-mill slum illness, but something severe. She had made the mistake of underestimating the illness within one of her clients. When she attempted to banish it, it worsened and spread to thrive inside her as well. Now, she knew just what it would take to rid herself of the dire disease, but it had weakened her too quickly for her to take action. She became bedridden, unable to speak, and lost touch with reality, save for a few brief waves of lucidity. She passed just a day after her client.

Arden was shaken. He was fifteen at the time and had nobody else. His mother had been his only friend, his only provider, his only emotional support. His only light in the dismal world in which they lived. And now she was gone. He didn't know what to do, and so he did what he had to do - the only thing he knew. He fended for himself.

It wasn't long before his house was taken from him, and so he took up residence in the dark places of his world. He would stay behind the back alley dumpsters, in broken and abandoned storefronts, or out of sight on the roofs of rotted apartments. Anyplace that he could manage for a night or two. Thieving and fencing, eating and sleeping, and so his days went. Hollow and empty, while the year passed him by.
And then he heard its call.