Valen remembered Cuthbert's instruction on how to cross the roads. Given his damnable inability to read--due to childish refusal to devote himself to his studies as a child, or much or anything really--he'd forced his mind to great lengths of memorization. He could remember entire passages of books read at him word for word, but making out the letters on a page was impossible. It seemed unfair to him that greater worth should be put on those who could read what others wrote, as opposed to those who took the information and could do something with it. But that was an old protest.
"A church?" he asked. "God's bones, I've been in need of a place to lay my burdens. The thing a man carries on his soul," he mourned, "have no better rest than in the hands of a monk, and my tormented spirit has need of healing." Which was to say, they'd keep him fed, warm and in sanctuary against authority. The rest of it was just added particulars. And he wasn't fond of giving up his blood to anyone. The Registry had been chasing him since he was 15 and he ditched out on his family in defiance of the pureblood laws, he wasn't about to submit to anyone. He'd rather be sold to a slavey than dragged back there in silk chains to see the smug look on his father's face while he devised a method to control the rest of Valen's life. And what better place to hide than inside the confines of a church, among holy men with no loyalty other than that to god? They cared not a whit for the doings of unholy men and gave charity to those in need. Not peppered for answers as to the reason for his wounds, Valen felt not at all inclined to think up a lie to fill the story so he didn't.
That all got thrown out of the loop though when they came to the shop. The warehouse, Cuthbert had said. Holy Angels the boy was treating him to new clothes. Valen couldn't recall the last time he'd wore a cloak without holes in it, or boots with even the thinnest vellum on them. He'd long since abjured the belief wearing a dead man's boots would end his life within a year, and for the last twelvemonth he'd been taking clothes and shoes from dead men's backs whenever the opportunity presented itself.
"Iero bless you," he said. "For this kindness."
Though the actual process was boring in nature, Valen didn't need to take much time in deciding his choice of clothing. Queer in style, it was easy enough to blend in based on the sight of others in the streets. He didn't need the finest wares or the best quality so long as it remained sufficient until he could get other products.