Prologue // Punishment & Promises

Children's laughter rises up against a backdrop of industrial noise. It is mid-day and the bright sun gleams off freshly-fallen snow pock-marked with small footprints. That laughter turns to gleeful shrieks as a little platoon of orphans charges a snow fort across the street. The brave little fighters weave between pedestrian and carriage traffic, lobbing snowballs at their peers while shouting Andoran battle cries.

Hunkered down in the snow fort abutting a trash-filled alleyway, a little gang of faux-Chelish soldiers hurl snowballs back at the charging Andoran youths. Laughter turns riotous as the snow fort is besieged, with little fighters scaling the short walls. But this mock battle takes a turn when one errant snowball smashes through the window of the adjacent fishmonger's shop. Laughter quickly turns into shouts, hissed accusations, and cries to "retreat!"

As some children scatter, others caught slippery ice are left behind. One such child, a tiefling boy with skin the color of pomegranate seeds, cries out for his friends. "Wait! Wait!" They're a few feet ahead, already starting to scramble down the alley.

One girl pauses just long enough to shoot the tiefling boy an apologetic look. "Hurry up, Rorin!" She squeals before darting away.

Rorin finally gets himself off the ice, pushes up from his knees and starts to run, only to feel a painful jerk at his lashing tail. The boy yelps, slipping on the ice again as he wheels around, finding the broad-shouldered frame of the fishmonger looming over him, tail in hand.

"Not so fast!"

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One Hour Later...

Shalebridge Orphanage, Lower Aeries City of Almas

Andoran

Neth 10

4734 AR

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A gust of cold wind and snow flurries rush into the foyer of the Shalebridge Orphanage when the front door is opened. There on the icy stoop, Rorin stands with his shoulders hunched and head bowed, yellow eyes fixed squarely on his shoes. Beside him, an irate fishmonger stands with arms crossed over his barrel chest.

On the other side of the door the orphanage matron, Mother Wylder, stands unflinching against the cold in her fur-trimmed robe and silk slippers. Her wispy gray hair is held up in brass clasps adorned with cheap but glittering gemstones and around her neck she wears an amulet bearing a faintly luminous gemstone within which is a dazzling geometric pattern of pale light. She is sure it is prominently displayed between her delicate collar bones. Behind her, several barefoot orphans in tattered clothes are gathered on the stairs, watching the foyer through slats in the railing.

"Rorin!" Mother Wylder says after an awkward moment of silence, her stony countenance animating into a performative show of concern. "We were so worried!" She croons, stepping aside to let the boy and the fishmonger in.

"He busted one of me windows with a snowball," the fishmonger says quietly to Mother Wylder. "Him an' a bunch of other kids were playin' in the street." He upturns his gaze to the children on the stairs who scatter like cockroaches in sunlight. The sight elicits an amused smile from him.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, good sir." Wylder apologizes while gingerly ushering the apologetic Rorin to her side. She keeps a warm hand lightly set on his cold shoulder, while retrieving a coin purse with the other.

"Please," she says with a painted smile, "do take this as compensation." And from the purse she produces a single gold coin with such finesse it is like a magic trick.

The fishmonger's tone changes completely when presented with gold for a single window. He eagerly accepts the coin and tucks it carefully into the front pocket of his overalls below his jacket.

"I do hope you weren't too hard on poor Rorin." Mother Wylder says, to which the fishmonger shakes his head and laughs slightly.

"Na, I got meself into plenty of trouble like that when I was his age. He learn't his lesson, din'ya?" The fishmonger asks with a look at Rorin, who glances up to briefly meet the older human's gaze.

"Do apologize to the man." Wylder says with a hint of iciness behind her voice. "The Demon of Almas comes for misbehaving children, you know."

"Sorry." Rorin mumbles. Then, after feeling Wylder clutch his shoulder tighter, he repeats himself with clearer enunciation. "I'm very sorry, sir." He immediately looks down afterward.

Wylder, satisfied, flashes a brief smile to the fishmonger. "I assure you, Rorin and the others won't trouble your shop again. Do stay warm out there, yes?"

The fishmonger nods, giving the boy a brief look before tipping his flat cap to the orphanage matron as he shows himself out. The moment that door shuts and Rorin is alone with Wylder, he jerks to turn away and head for the stairs, only to have Wylder grab him by one of his horns and yank him back over to her.

"You little infernal shit!" She shouts, slapping Rorin across the face with her heavy purse. Silver and gold coins scatter to the floor, eliciting a huff of exasperation from her.

"Look what you did! Now you've made even more of a mess!" Wylder yells, continuing to jerk Rorin around by his horn, hard enough that he topples over and lands on his backside.

"Pick up those coins, now!" Wylder screams loud enough that the frost-covered windows ring with the tone of her voice. The other children in the house might as well be ghosts for as silent and invisible as they've made themselves. Safer to let Rorin take the worst of it than make themselves targets.

Rorin, tears in his eyes and struggling not to sob, crawls onto his hands and knees and starts scooping up the coins.

"And if you so much as take one of those, I'll leave you out in the gutter where I found you!" Wylder yells, purposefully stepping on the boy's tail with one slippered foot. Rorin winces, but continues to work until the coins are collected. Then, sniffling back tears, he offers them up to Mother Wylder. She takes the coins, counting each, and returns them to her purse.

"If you are insistent on crying," Wylder says under her breath, "I can give you something to really cry about." The threat has no heat or energy behind it, her eyes half-lidded with disdain. She doesn't need to shout that threat, Rorin knows how real it is. He has a scar on his chin to prove it.

Rorin says nothing back to Mother Wylder, and she immediately switches her tone and kneels down in front of him to delicately cup one cheek in a weathered hand. He nearly flinches away, but knows better than to do that.

"I'm only so hard on you because I care so much." Wylder says with a sickening sweetness. "I want you to be an upstanding citizen that finds a good home, not some Hellspawn street trash."

Rorin murmurs, "Thank you Mother Wylder," as he has been conditioned to do. Mother Wylder smiles beatifically, rises to her feet, and turns to ascend the stairs. It's only then that Rorin notices someone else had been watching from the dining room. Gedrick DuClaire, the orphanage's physician.

Gedrick is a wiry human with dark hair down to his shoulders and a thinning hairline. His sunken eyes and a tired smile are gentle with sorrow. As he rises from his seat at the dining table, he discreetly beckons Rorin over and lingers in the threshold between dining room and foyer, watching the stairs for any sign of Mother Wylder's return.

"You're alright, boy." Gedrick says with a hush, gently cupping Rorin's cheek where a bruise is already forming. "She'll likely fall into a mood and tip back a tincture of laudanum before bed."

Rorin is not reassured by this ritual habit of the Mother's. But he says nothing to Gedrick, far too afraid to speak back to anyone older than him. Especially a human. Gedrick sees the fear in Rorin's eyes and his smile wanes. The sadness and hopelessness he sees cuts him to the quick.

"Do you remember Gully? The boy that was staying here the past year?" Gedrick asks, gently brushing his thumb over Rorin's bruised cheek.

"He ran away." Rorin whispers, still staring at the floor.

"He didn't." Gedrick counters quietly, glancing to the stairs again. That assertion brings young Rorin's yellow eyes up to meet Gedrick's far darker stare. "I... may have helped him get away from this place."

Suddenly, Rorin's expression changes. His eyes grow saucer wide, and after all this time there feels like there is a way to untangle himself from the chains he was born into. No one adopts a tiefling child, and Rorin knows it means he'd spend at least six more years here at the orphanage with Wylder. An escape—any escape—would be preferable to that.

Gedrick sees the unasked question in the tiefling boy's eyes. "I can help you too," he says in a hushed tone of voice, "but you need to promise me you can keep it a secret, and follow my instructions."

Rorin nods, gripping them hem of Gedrick's black robe tightly. "I swear it, lest the Demon of Almas take my tongue." The boy promises.

Smiling, Gedrick gently runs a hand through Rorin's hair and gives him a pat on the shoulder. "Good. Follow my lead, do exactly as I say, and we'll get you out of here like I helped the others."

Gedrick looks into the boy's eyes and makes a promise of his own:

"You are already saved."