the back alleys are familiar.

when abby thinks back as far as he can, he remembers the bustling city. the vendors calling out in unfamiliar tongues tucked in among the tall concrete pillars and archways, and the way his unkempt claws would tap tap against the cobblestone street. he remembers the soft, colorful glow of the lanterns and the firm grip of helga's warm hand ushering him through the crowds. the centuar percussionist was the closest thing he ever had to a mother, (though she was more of an eccentric aunt than anything), the rest of the traveling troupe like rowdy older siblings. there were four others: [insert names you haven't come up with yet]

he remembers the clink and the weight of the small coins that would fall from the hands of generous passerby into his own as they performed, and the bartering of trinkets and baubles crafted by the deft hands of their corven seer. besides the casual pick-pocketing and thievery, they never got much money from these trips into town. abby still loved each one.

when the time came to move onto another city, they would again load all their things into their wagon and head off, snatching up food for the journey ahead. he'll never forget all of the stories and songs he heard when going along the roads, or next to a roaring campfire, knawing on the thin bones of speared salmon well into the night.

despite their empty pockets and their threadbare cloaks, abby felt near noble when strolling the streets with his motley crew of musicians. he was loved, and in a way, he belonged.