The Upbringing of A Theif

Back when I was a child, there were no tales of pirates patrolling the oceans, no land of demacia or a noxus to counter it, there was no such thing as the shadow isles.

         I grew up on the streets of a city long forgotten, it’s name was Pilt. The streets of Pilt were paved with gravel, which dug into your heels when you didn’t wear shoes, a fact which is taken advantage of nowadays. My mother and father would watch as I went around the city parks, asking the silliest things of which only children may come up with, and often sat around wondering why everyone else looked fatter than our family.
As I aged, I met a boy by the name of Orlon, which is how I learned about poverty. His family allowed the two of us to play together, provided I put on shoes while visiting their home. I overheard how my mother tried explaining that our only way of income was by begging pedestrians for change. I was allowed to visit nonetheless, provided we play outside. Soon, and only without my knowledge, my family began the art of pickpocketing, which I quickly picked up on, and perfected my technique, buying myself impressive clothing to fit in with Orlon, and began hiring myself out to those affected more heavily by other theives. Over the years, as my mother, and soon my father, fell ill and died, and Orlon left for unknown lands, I learned the value of fighting back from the most attentive targets, and blossomed into a deadly precise thief.
I was quickly gathering the attention of those who wished to utilize my gifts, and over time learned of an island attended by the blessed, and their supposed pancea comprised of herbs and magic. I was intrugued, the possibility of curing all ailments meant a hefty bargaining tool. This was much too good to pass up, and began gathering the funds to travel there.