Bitter, she thought as a swollen tongue put words to lingering discomfort.

A mouthful of crimson spit stained the dried cobblestones in front of the outcast as the stricken youth shambled to her feet in the disused alleyway. She licked the split lip and examined her blotchy, pale-lilac skin with a bare hand before bracing for another attack.

Surrounded on all sides but two with teetering wood and stone walls, the young half-breed's eyes darted about to assess her options. Seeing little alternative, the outcast waited for the young master’s advance.

“Give us your damned money, you lowlife freak!” A brash, roguish human with patchy black stubble demanded from the battered outcast. “Hand it over!”

Another bloody mass of saliva splattered as it landed, this time, all over the abrasive human’s flushed cheek. The offending liquid dripped down onto his posh, fitted velvet clothing that marked him as a teenaged lout of some local importance. It was clear that this spoiled brat had no real need for her money and was simply looking for a way to exert power over others and alleviate his boredom. And there was nothing more repulsive than a bored nobleman’s son preying on the weak and downtrodden.

The young master swiped the warm spit away with a disbelieving hand as his erstwhile victim grinned with unrestrained malice from ear to ear. Her wicked, white smile was a sharp contrast to her raven black hair and other attractive, yet frightening, features. She had an animalistic ferocity from her long, pointed ears to her glacier-blue stare that bore into her aggressor as he approached. A brief flicker of timidity flashed on the brutish youth’s face as he swallowed hard and collected his wits to deliver another blow.

“How DARE you!” The human raised his arm to prepare a forceful slap for such insolence from the outcast. “You begged for this, you wretched—”

His arm caught helplessly in the outcast’s fiendish grasp as the lilac-skinned youth blocked his telegraphed attack. Sharp, angry fingernails dug ruthlessly into the tender flesh between his forearm bones, which elicited cries of pain from the unprepared assailant. His desperate pleas brought a pair of armored bodyguards to shuffle in from the exposed street. Their armor jingled and clinked with rhythmic, metallic beats to announce their arrival.

“Guards! Destroy her!” The young master pleaded more than commanded. The razor-sharp nails dug deeper into his flesh and the outcast youth growled just audibly enough for him to overhear. “Are your ears merely for decoration? Destroy her!”

“But sire, your arm!” One guard pointed while the other reached tentatively for his sword at his side. Warm liquid dribbled down the length of the lout’s raised forearm, and he winced as his captor leaned in closer to speak. The outcast’s warm breaths sent a shiver down his neck and arms, raising goosebumps as he trembled in a stomach-churning combination of fear and rage.

“All I want is to leave peacefully.” A silky, melodic whisper echoed in his rosy ear. Under different circumstances, such a voice would have been pleasing to the young master, but now, its music was torturously cruel. “Permit my safe retreat, or I swear by the twin suns, I shall rend your worthless arm out of its socket.”

The brazen fool strained against the outcast’s grasp as he tried to free himself from her pincer-like grasp. She simply squeezed harder and allowed her prisoner to drop to his knees in agony. The half-breed stooped low to keep her lips close to the young master’s ear as she continued.

“Do you understand me?” The outcast’s voice hardened as her resentment mounted. This young man was, in fact, quite stupid, but surely not foolish enough to risk his own life over a mere back-alley brawl. “You’re in The Dregs. This far from a healer’s hovel with such an injury spells certain death for you, whelp.”

He hated more than anything that she was right. A thousand miserable curses ran through the young master’s head as the outmatched bully raised his unoccupied hand and waved helplessly to his guards to stand down. As soon as they backed off, the outcast planted a bracing kick between her quarry’s legs and hauled off further down the disheveled alleyway at top speed.

“Ahhh! You horrid b—"

Agonizing cries reverberated the rattling timbers of The Dregs as the outcast raced towards parts unknown. She panted intensely as the distance between herself and the embittered noble youth grew. At least she was familiar with the disused back alleyways of Old Sarzonn and was well prepared to duck and dodge any pursuit with surprising agility. With any luck, those stupid guards might not find her.

Back in the alley’s opening, the two ineffectual bodyguards offered assistance to their injured employer with limited success. Anytime the young master tried to stand, his hands returned to the tender place between his quaking legs, and he doubled over in pain anew. The newer hire of the two guards fought mightily to conceal any laughter that his young master’s pain elicited. He’d come to discover that the noble lord’s son was a needlessly cruel tyrant, and this “lesson” had been long overdue.

“Young Master Skelfrig, stay still,” the more level-headed bodyguard insisted as his partner departed abruptly to hide his sniggering and rouse the city guards from their patrol. “It’s best not to move your, um… And you’re bleeding, sire.”

“I know that, you clod!” Master Lamont Skelfrig admonished his useless guard and issued orders between gasps of pain and sniveling tears. “Unhand me! Find that putrid abomination and kill her! KILL HER!”

Claps of thunder in the darkening skies overhead warned of an impending storm. With it, the rain threatened to douse the outcast and the guards as the chase ensued. It was monsoon season, after all, and this rain was well overdue. Within minutes, the dusty, dirty cobblestones and thatch-roofed, wooden buildings of Old Sarzonn would be awash with vibrant colors from the stains of oncoming rain. The deluge would come and go in unpredictable waves for weeks, making hunting one lowly outcast impossibly difficult.

Good. The young outcast thought to herself. Fresh rains scatter scents. Their hunting hounds will have a much harder time finding me if my smell is washed away.

The roaring sounds of imminent rain merged with a call from hunting horns near the southern tip of The Dregs. Gray-coated hounds and their metal-clad masters bellowed to match the intensity of the mounting thunder. Despite her best efforts, the overwhelming forces of the city constabulary closed in on all sides, save for one. The outcast pressed on, darting through alleyways and busy streets with her hood drawn over her hair and ears.

Outnumbered. Not hopelessly yet, but more so as time wore on. What with all the frantic caterwauling from dogs and horns, reinforcements were surely on the way. Her only hope was to find a safe place to hide and wait for these foolish humans to abandon their search. No sooner had she reached a crossroads between Cheapside and The Dregs, than the clouds released their payload of warm, cleansing rain on Old Sarzonn.

The poor battered youth was soaked through in seconds as the downpour drenched everything for miles. She tugged at her sopping-wet hood for protection but found that it did little more than stick her black hair to her skin uncomfortably. Shivers reminded her that these relentless rains did far more than simply hide her trail. If she stayed outside for too long, a chill in the unpredictably hostile air could work its way into her body, bringing dangerous illness with it. The risk was too great; she had to find shelter, and fast.

I can’t afford to be caught, or made ill by monsoon rains. The outcast weighed her options carefully and glanced around for a suitable place to hide. She’d made it all the way north to Cheapside, despite numerous backtracking diversions through winding alleyways, and stood not four blocks away from Merchant’s Quarter. This was an exceedingly expensive place to be, but she had little choice about what to do.

A glow from a nearby tavern window lit her path as the outcast trudged through sheets of harsh rain. The wind-battered sign above the door read The Blanched Hart, with a hand-painted image of a rearing white deer on a field of lush, viridian grass. As she approached the entrance, a strange burning sensation pulsed through her body, starting at her heart and flowing through each limb like sacred fire.

Magic. Real magic. A minor show of it, but essential, nonetheless.

The outcast tensed every muscle as she stopped under The Blanched Hart’s overhang and allowed the flow of ether to work its miracles all over her body. The heavy oak door swung open on creaky hinges, and she strode through the entryway with marked trepidation. No one paid her any notice as the soaked youth removed her hood to reveal the result of her trickery.

For all practical purposes, she appeared human. Her glamour had worked perfectly and allowed her to “pass” as one of them. Her hair was still the sopping-wet mass of raven locks, but her rounded ears had the right shape, and her dark skin had the appropriate hue to pass for a sun-kissed foreigner in the unfriendly human city of Old Sarzonn. The only lapses in her illusion were her icy blue eyes, which she lacked sufficient skill with magic to hide. This had the unfortunate side effect of making her appear exotic and special, which might attract unwanted attention from rowdy, uncouth tavern-goers.

Ruffled locks of raven hair dried as she wiggled her fingers to remove the offensively clingy rain. Once dried, her bangs could be brushed in front of her eyes to offer some concealment. It was a weak disguise, but at least it was something. A barmaid strode over to her table to take an order for brambleberry wine and ridiculously expensive raddilbak stew.

“Tell me something,” the disguised outcast asked of the friendly barmaid. “Is it real raddilbak?”

“Oh no, honey. Just a gimmick,” the barmaid replied, lighting a glass-shrouded candle on the outcast’s table with a small flint-steel striker.

“A shame,” the half-breed scoffed lightly. “I’ll have it, all the same.”

A dingy silver coin dropped into the barmaid’s outstretched hand as the disguised outcast made her purchase. The coin had an etching of a dainty doe on one side, and the Queen’s Mark on the reverse. This ludicrous sum would be enough to secure enough food and drink to wait out the guards who would be making their way through Cheapside soon. It was unfortunate that this caper required such a high sum to work, but survival remained the outcast’s chief goal at the moment. Fresh, hot stew and a decent drink were a bonus.

Aside from the uncomfortable, lingering wetness of her clothing, the outcast sighed with relief and warmed herself by the central fireplace in The Blanched Hart. She listened carefully to the rueful comments from disgruntled patrons about the influx of “undesirables” from the east. Apparently, Outsiders from the Eastern High Wall had filtered into Old Sarzonn recently, spreading wickedness, discontent, and disease. The human settlements to the west had already had their fill of the Outsiders, and erected boundary walls of their own, sandwiching Old Sarzonn between the two territories.

Though distasteful, their comments were largely accurate. The disguised figure sitting alone by the fireplace wasn’t a “true” Outsider, as her mixed-race heritage pre-dated the recent conflicts between the two nations. Rather, she was definitely a lesser class of undesirable, a fusion of two warring factions that both called her an “outcast.” It was still distressing to hear that her people on both sides were involved in such needless conflict, and she stared off into the middle distance, trying to make sense of it all.

During her period of reflection, the disguised figure listened in as a local bard took the small stage in the back corner and began singing an inspiring warning song to the tavern patrons. Each verse was accompanied by fanciful, luminescent images of villains and vagabonds that danced around her as the bard continued. This tune garnered handfuls of copper and silver coins that rained from the hands of appreciative music lovers as the bard boldly filled the room with song.

Gather ‘round and hear the tale

Of villains gross beyond the pale.

Their foulness stains a bloody trail

Of lowlifes, lutes, & liars.

Listen well, oh lords & lads,

Beware the evil of nomads.

And fill the jailhouse up with scads

Of lowlifes, lutes, & liars.

And ladies, mind your stags and pearls.

Protect your sons and little girls.

These fetid folk are wretched churls

Of lowlifes, lutes, & liars.

There’s no fix for such inmates,

Just rotters, rogues, & reprobates.

Pay heed to what this song relates

Of lowlifes, lutes, & liars…

At the end of the rousing song, the creaky door swung open once more, and a Star Guard of five armed men from the holy house entered the tavern. Each one dripped with fresh rain and disdain as they barged through the entryway and began badgering any patrons in range of their grasping hands.

“We’re looking for a young woman,” one man declared above the voices of the surprised patrons. “She is a Deceiver.”