The Child of Wrath.

The conversation with Lottie had been interesting. According to my friend, the mystery woman was a human who went by the name of Emily. She was apparently new in town and had been looking for work. She must have made a good impression as Lottie asked me to make sure she got to The Alchemy Emporium safely. I was more than happy to do so. I knew the Adams sisters, not all that well, but enough to know that they would look after the woman. I wasn’t motivated in the least by the possibility that this woman was an Outworlder, a race so rare that there hadn’t been any confirmed sightings in at least a century. Not at all.

Things had progressed smoothly. I had caught up to Emily as she strolled through the streets, gawping around like she had never seen a town before. Every few steps she would pat a pocket, clearing making sure something was still there. I had winced, knowing full well that this was one of the worst things you could do in a town like this as you were practically shouting out the location of an item you considered important (and therefore usually valuable) to any nearby pickpockets to cared to read such things.

And sure enough, not even a minute later, a small figure barrelled into Emily. The Mouse-kin thief then darted into an alley; Emily’s letter of introduction clasped in their little hand. I had expected some swearing, maybe a little grumbling, then for Emily to turn round and head back to Lottie’s garden. We were only a few minutes away and getting a new letter would only require a brief explanation of what happened. So, when instead of doing the sensible thing, Emily had sworn at the thief and given chase, I was dumbstruck.

I had two choices. First, I could walk away. This wasn’t really my problem. I didn’t know this woman at all. What I did know was what could happen to people, especially unwary people, that wandered into the backstreets without a plan or a means of escape. It was never pleasant. Sure, the town guard liked to claim that everything within the walls of Kybor’s Rest was under their control, but that just wasn’t the case. After years of constant monster attacks and political pressure, the guard were spread far too thin. No, in the winding world of the backstreets, the gangs ruled.

I wouldn’t let anything happen. Not this time. Breaking into a sprint, I hurtled after the pair. Both were fast. It wasn’t long until I was panting, hard, and doing all I could to keep up. Unfortunately, mages generally aren’t known for their physical prowess. On more than one occasion I thought I had lost them. If it weren’t for the constant tirade of insults that Emily threw at the clearly terrified thief, I probably would have.

That was what led up to this moment. Me slowly approaching the brute as he chokes the thief girl. He is far too occupied to notice my approach. Tears leak freely down the thief girl's face as the brute leans in towards her and says, “Wots one of Kerrigan’s little rats doin in Nightfang territory? Didn’t she warn you what happened to little rats that got lost?” The woman whimpers in response. A shark-like grin spreads across the man's face, predatory, and without an ounce of mercy or pity. He chuckles darkly, then leans in further, running his tongue through the trail of the woman’s tears as she shivers in revulsion, tasting her mystery.

I have seen quite enough. With a lunge, I close the rest of the distance between myself and the man, light glinting off my needle before it plunges into the meat of his arm. The enchantment triggers, pumping the contents of the needle into the man’s system. The reaction is immediate. His grip on the girl loosens, and she slips from his grip, slumping against the alley wall in a limp head. The man staggers, turning to face me, outrage plastered across his rapidly slacking features.

He stumbles, reaching for me, but I step back nimbly and avoid his grasping hand. Staggering, he continues after me, movements getting weaker and weaker. I almost miss it, the sign that saves my life. The momentary flash of predatory glee in his eyes as his hand shoots forward, faster that I would have thought possible. I have just enough time to twitch backwards. The dinner-plate sized hand that would have closed around my skull closes around the elongated snout of my mask instead, utterly destroying it. I reel backwards, mask torn away from my face by the man’s iron grip.

The man stands facing me, my mask crushed in his hand. Red pulses of power begin rolling off the man in waves as I stare in horror. With a rip of fabric, the man's muscles bulge, growing and rippling before my eyes. Every child in the world knows the stories, cautionary tales designed to teach children of the dangers and the signs of those who have been touched by the corrupt twins of the Seven. Most think them to be myths. Today, I am stripped of that comforting illusion, stripped away by the man that stands before me. A Child of Wrath.