Dublin, Kingdom of Ireland, 1587...
The boy was crouched behind a barrel, leather sling in hand. His stomach rumbled, even as his brain tried to tell it shut up, because it would be full in a minute.
The boy's plan was this; opposite to the line of barrels he crouched behind, was a baker. The man was not the charitable sort, and while he went to the church along with his sour wife, his relationship with religion was wary at best. He held no truck with beggars; only last week the boy had watched him backhand a would-be-thief with enough force to knock the poor lad's tooth out.
But the boy had no misgivings; even if he did, his nose was doing a wonderful job of drowning them in the appetizing smell wafting from the baker's oven. Hot, crisp bread; the thought made the boy grin. The only bread he was used to eating was stale, and thanks to the famous Irish rain, wet.
He took a breath and then cautious looked from behind the pine barrel. The baker, a big solid man, drew from the crude oven another loaf of bread, honey brown and lightly burnt at all the right parts.
The boy had no illusions about sneaking off with the bread; years of work dissuading thieves had left the baker with senses keen as a wolf's. So, tongue stuck out in concentration, he swung the sling once, and let the smooth stone within it fly. The crack of the sling as it released the pebble made the baker whip his face at the sound, much to his later regret; the pebble struck him above his eye, and the baker howled as his own blood blinded him.
The boy saw his chance and took it. Faster than a fox, he snatched up a duo of loafs, and made a dash for it, barely missing the blindly swung fist of the baker. Few folk were awake at six in the morning, and the fog that sat over Dublin like a second skin swallowed him in earnest. He had spent the last two years of the decade he had been alive running in these streets; he fancied himself an impromptu expert on them, at times. At other times, however, he had to admit that the streets had secrets of their own.
Like tonight. Even as he dashed through the streets, he became aware of... a presence. He dared not stop yet, but it made him nervous; the fog was falling too heavily onto him to be entirely natural. He felt it upon him as a massive weight, felt it snaking over his tattered form. He shivered.
Out of nowhere, then, a figure emerged from the fog, tall and cloaked in black. A hood concealed it's features, but the boy was hardly going to be trusting of a stranger in the fog. He turned sharply, expecting to dash by the figure, but the fog itself seemed his enemy; it pushed him against the hard cobbles, nearly crushing his hard-won bread. He yelled, trying to squirm free, but to no avail; the fog seemed to weigh more than bricks.
He felt soft foot falls behind him, as the black clad figure walked around to stand before him. It knelt, and with a gloved hand, pushed back the boy's black hair from his gaunt face. The boy found himself staring at an unremarkable, if somewhat cadaverous face. The skin had an oddness to it that he couldn't pick out in the darkness; a strange, sickly tinge to it.
"Hello, child." His voice was calm; it radiated tranquility and peace, as if utterly devoid of violent function. The boy wanted nothing more than to punch it's owner.
"W-who-o a-a...are..." the boy bit his tongue; at times like these, he hated the stutter that welled up inside him, chaining his words to his mind and not letting them out. The more pressured he was, the worse he stuttered. And the pressure on him was quite great at the moment; the man was obviously a practitioner of some dark art, to make the fog obey his will.
The figure chuckled. "Ah, you're the boy I hear them talk of in hushed tones. Possessed by the Devil, are you?"
The boy said nothing. His stammering had earned him the distrust of many people. Some said he was cursed because he used to say wicked things. Some said the Devil possessed him, devouring his mind and words. He'd managed to reply that the Devil ought to have better things to do than messing with his words; most people hadn't liked that.
He was pulled to the present as the stranger tried to tug a loaf of bread from him. He resisted furiously, and the figure sighed.
"I'm not taking it all, Devil child. Just one," the figure whispered. "I have a daughter. Just a bit littler than you, but you're a strong lad. She's frail, she is."
He resisted. "I-if you w-want it, g-g.. go steal it." He managed to say.
The man shook his head angrily. "I can't do that. I'm an honest man. I have a, a reputation. But I need this, little child. I swear to you; I need it."
The boy didn't let go. "D-do what you... m-must."
The man roared abruptly, ripping the bread from the boy's hands, as he punched him in the gut. The boy resisted, feeling the bread rip into crumbs; he took another three punches before he scrunched into a fetal position, letting go the bread.
The man, suddenly devoid of violence, gave him an almost playful flick on the ear. "Good lad. I'll be taking these, then."
So saying he took both loaves and stood up, walking away.
"Y-you said... you'd on-only take o...one!" yelled the boy in staccato at the man's back.
The man, without pausing, looked back. "One for my daughter, yes; another as a lesson to a certain unpleasant child."
The boy lay there on the cobbles, catching his breath. As the figure disappeared, he felt the fog ease, letting him rise. He didn't know how what dark art the man had employed to push him to the ground or to vanish, but he did know one thing.
"One d-day," he growled through gritted teeth, "You'll find w-what a per..perfect Mr. P-Pleasant I really am."