He loved snow, more than he loved rain. Rolling oneself in snow was a pleasure that all of these rich guys living in mansions could never know and he felt richer than the richest of them when he did. The sun on his face, the wet, cold snow on his threadbare clothes, the flakes clinging to his golden hair, the general taste of winter in his mouth... What more could he ask from life ?
Besides, it was Christmas – and boy, did he love Christmas. Those rich people ate more than they could and threw an enormous amount of food in the streets, where he just had to pick it up to offer himself a feast. Everyone was in a more generous mood and it was not unusual that a well-dressed lady, pitying his dirty looks, gave him some money or even a whole cake. And the sights were amazing : decorated trees, lights everywhere, stars and sometimes even fake snow, when there was no real one. Ah, he loved Christmas. And winter. And approximately everything.
He had taken an habit to go and walk in the swell neighbourhoods. Not only were the sights incredibly handsome, the houses were also inhabited by people who had so much that they had no idea what to do with all their wealth. The hunt for food was always excellent, especially around Christmas. Funnily enough, during the rest of the year, people were less keen on giving what they had, perhaps because the time of forgiveness and generosity was over. Oh, well. He was not starving and he was generally not too cold, he had nothing to complain about.
He ran a hand through his messy hair and smiled to his reflection in the shop's window. Blue-green eyes, a roguish smile, a tall, athletic figure – no wonder nobody could resist him. The old butcher gave him some ham leftovers, a nice lady handed him a loaf of bread, and well, that was the first feast of the season.
That was a day to roam around these fine neighbourhoods, he could feel it. Today was his lucky day. Well, in his opinion, there was no such thing as an unlucky day, but today was especially gorgeous. He would just have to avoid those two old harpies, Azmael and Borusa, who spent their eternity playing cards, discussing boring philosophy and swallowing gallons of insipid tea. Once or twice, he had seen a young man his age with them and was still wondering how on sanity's name one could satisfy oneself with such dull activities. This young man was probably born and raised in this atmosphere and knew little to nothing else, or so the tramp thought. Pity, really – this boy was handsome, in a bookworm kind of way.
Ah, Christmas, thought the tramp with a faint smile. What a beautiful time.
Smiling, Theta Lungbarrow started walking along the streets, hands in his pockets and all the luck in the world surrounding him.