The burly man standing in the doorway had a sailor’s tan, his skin weathered and worn from frequent winds on the sea. His beard was dyed red in the customs of the Skaavosi, his hair braided into locks that fell below his shoulders. His shirt was plain and stained from hard use, his leggings stiff from salt spray. But where his clothing was dull, his eyes glittered a dull purple in the way of his people, evidence of his heritage from the Isles.

It was those same eyes that met the boy’s gaze, that saw the Maes on his face. And too late, the boy noticed the chains around the sailor’s neck, saw the three interlocked rings of the Faith of Nhys. Too late, he lifted the leper’s mask to cover him, utter fear and cold shock running down his back. “I—” he started, choking on the words; he knew not what he ought to say.

“Vais’throk.” he breathed, the term all too familiar to the boy on these streets. Monster. Devil. It was a slur of the Faith, a brand of disgust and hate. A vein on the man’s neck bulged, his hand falling to his side where his blade lay.

“Wait, sir!” Kayla shouted in panic from outside, her footsteps ringing out on the wood. The boy bothered not to hesitate any longer, throwing back the chair in a sudden burst of motion. There was a twinge of regret in his heart as he threw the plate of food at the sailor, the mash and sauce splattering over the man’s eyes. With the moment of distraction that it gave him, he grasped his bowl and coins in one hand, the other hurriedly tightening the straps on his leper mask as he ran towards the kitchen.

Slamming the door open with a shoulder, he found himself facing two surprised cooks busy cleaning plates from the dinner service. “Blood and bones!” one swore, but he did not stay to listen any further. Hearing the footsteps of the sailor swift behind him, he bolted out the backdoor onto the street with his paces matching the racing drumbeat of his heart.

It was late out, the sun long since having fallen past the horizon, and there were few souls still out walking. A few merchants were packing up their wares, having stayed out trying to sell a little more to meet their quota. One man was smoking a pipe, sitting outside the door to the Crown and Lady. As the boy barreled out, he stumbled over the unexpected obstacle, throwing his hand out for balance and cuffing the smoker onto the stone tiles. His wooden leg scrabbling awkwardly on the smooth stone, he managed somehow not to fall himself as he made a sharp turn. He barely had time for a short “Sorry!” before fleeing down one of the back alleyways. The curses behind him only hastened his steps, his limping gait disappearing into the shadowy backstreets.

Mea Vatal was an old city, and the labyrinth of sloped streets was easy to become lost in. Without growing up inside of them, it was a simple thing to become disoriented and cut off from any main street. The boy took to them with a kind of desperation, hearing the sailor fast behind him as he turned and sprinted through backways. He jumped over potholes and bundles, ran past sleeping figures and questionable piles that he dared not look more closely at. Finally, he turned the corner, hoping that he had thrown off the sailor inside that maze.

Ending up near Kassa’s Street, he paused to catch his breath while listening for any footsteps. After hearing nothing for a few breaths, he made his way over near one of the older buildings, wood rotten and full of holes, the bricks cracked and loose from years of disrepair. This section of the town was farther from the port, lacking the funding and importance of the marketplaces. There was less risk of eviction here, so it was where he made to sleep.

A narrow crevice blocked by rotting crates was placed neatly in between two walls. Making his way through them, the boy walked over to the rusted ladder along the side. It was well hidden from a casual glance; he had only ever found it after hiding from some fruit sellers that he had stolen from years back. While the rungs were coated with red rust and creaked with every movement, it was still enough to support his weight. One hand holding his bowl of coins, he began to awkwardly climb. His wooden leg made it difficult, his grip on the metal weak, but laboriously he managed to make it to the roof.

Throwing his panting figure onto the stone roof with a gasp for air, his bowl clattered and spilled on the roof. He took a while to calm himself before slowly sitting up, feet dangling off the roof edge. He could hear the distant voices of men in the city, could see the flickering torchlight that was gradually snuffed out as people went to sleep. Turning to the scattered coins, he slowly began to pick them up, counting as he did so. “Thirty-six.” he reached despondently, knowing that he had felt several slip out during his sprint. Still, it was more than nothing, and all the money in the world was worth nothing if he was dead.

“Damn Faith.” he swore, remembering the necklace that the sailor had wore. The Faith of Nhys had been spreading through Mea Vatal, had been gaining weight in the past weeks. More and more men in this streets were wearing their chains, and he spat at the ground in disgust.

Getting up slowly, coins and bowl in hand, he made his way over to a small bundle, discreet enough to be missed if one did not know to look for it. It was a ragged cloth, the color long since having faded from the fabric. As he unrolled it, he took out a small leather pouch, stained and beaten by the years, its drawstrings frayed. Inside were his coins, and he carefully added today’s coppers. There were other things inside the bundle as well—some string, some sharp bones for picks, some good bits of leather; whenever he saw useful scraps on the street, he brought them back.

Carefully, he took off the leper mask once more, setting it down beside the rest of his things and gently massaging his face. Unrolling the blanket and laying onto his back, he eyed the stars as he waited for sleep. So many of them, he thought tiredly. And all so far away. He wondered if he could grasp them one day, if he could hold one in his hand. Would it burn him? Would it sear his flesh? Would it burn the Maes off of his skin? Would it kill him? The fleeting thoughts disappeared as hs slipped into dreamless sleep, the night wind cool against his arm.

He woke to the sensation of water on his face, trickling slowly from the tip of his nose down to his lip, running out the corner of his mouth before dribbling to his chin. Groggily, he blinked open his eyes, rubbing at them with a wet hand. He stared in confusion for a moment before the answer came to him. Rain, he swore, sitting up in a hurried motion. Mea Vatal had not received any rain for months; the Faith of Nhys claimed it to be a good omen since their arrival. That it was falling now was even worse—they would press for some fool sacrifice to appease their angry gods. And what better scapegoat than the crow-cursed vais’throk that ran yesterday?

Indeed, he could hear shouting on the streets already. Peering down carefully, he saw bald Skaavosi priests chanting with heads turned towards the sky. There were perhaps ten of them, having gathered early in the morning before much of the city had even woken. Their skin was tanned and hairless, Skaavosi in origin much like the rest of their Faith. They wore white and black robes, their Nhys chains glinting wetly in the rain around their neck. Their voices echoed off the walls in the city, carrying far and over the pattering sound of the rain. “N’vra angers, see his lamentous tears. He angers that vais’throk walk through your city, that monsters are allowed to live amongst you. See how he weeps for you, how his great heart bleeds.”

“There are no such vais’throk in our Isles, no such creatures elsewhere in the world. Only your strange country is cursed with their blood, and see what blood and strife they have brought upon your people. Look what they have done to your king, what they have done to your Heartlander cities. Those fools did not kill the vais’throk and now they are ashes; will you make the same mistake?”

More priests were gathering now, adding their voices to the cries. They were drawing out more people from their dwellings with their speech, the crowd growing larger as the rain continued to fall. “They claim to have power! It is blasphemy! What arrogant man would claim right to the power of gods? By what right do they wield this power of theirs? What man deserves the strength to burn others alive, to freeze blood in the veins. What sole man deserves to dictate when others die, and run rampant across this earth like a plague? The vais’throk are no men—they are monsters!” The priest in the center raised his hands in climax, his bald head thrown back. His robes were more ornate than the others; clearly he held the highest rank here.

A man made his way through the crowd, shoving aside the others in front of him. The boy fought back a breath as he watched—it was the same sailor that he had met in the Crown and Lady. The man bowed before the priests, hurriedly whispering something into the leader’s ear. The boy felt a chill run down his back; he did not hear what was said, but he knew what it was. A scowl stretched across the Nhysian’s face as he turned to the crowd, his voice cold.

“Already a vais’throk is in your city. He eats your food, steals your gold, like a rat in the alleyways. See now how the gods hate him.” he spread his arms out wide, a sudden downpour accentuating his words as the rainfall began to surge. Already the cobbles were beginning to build up with water, flooding the random rags and bundles that littered the streets.

“He curses you! He curses your city! This rain shall not cease until he leaves—until he leaves this earth!”

Turning away, the boy hurriedly gathered his things. While not all men believed the words of a Nhysian, the Faith was spreading still. This city was never much to him, but it was at the very least safe. He had managed to grow up here, had managed to stay alive. There were some that had helped him, that had cared for a filthy cripple. With food, with the mask, with his leg—there were people that had given him aid when he had most needed it. Yet, as he wrapped up his bundle of things tight and clutched it in one hand, he knew that he would have to leave it behind.

This city was no longer safe for him.

The Nhysian priests had spread word of a vais’throk in their midst, and even those that did not believe their words dared not resist the fanatics that did. Any man with a mask was a suspect now; he could no longer beg on these streets without having his mask torn off and his face exposed. The sailor was sure to have told the Crown and Lady—to have told Kayla—all about him, so now he had no place for food. The longer that he stayed here, the longer he risked his life. Now was the best time to leave, when word had yet to spread and before the Nhysians could spread their men throughout the city.

And so his gaze turned towards the docks, towards those massive ships that had men running across the docks like ants even this early in the morning. Gritting his teeth with determination, he threw his bundle off the roof before descending the rusted ladder with a racing heartbeat.

Aye, this city might be safe for him no longer, but then he merely had to leave. And as fell to the ground, picking up the soaked bundle, he was grateful for the leper mask that kept all this rain off his face.

No one could see his smile behind that mask.