The Outsiders

The Outsiders: Prologue

Khristopher De Caldwick

I was quite different than the rest of the cauldron.

The Caldwick Cauldron of St. Abigale, Hestonia was known for its white-haired citizens, but I studied my books with raven hair down to my hips. Most peoples of the Cauldron had bright, unblinking red eyes while I read about humans with a violet gaze. With their sharp, hooked noses and wide, hooded eyes, everyone had similar features. But I stared at the detailed diagrams with sharp mono-lid eyes and a small nose with a less-than-prominent nose bridge.

Though all the Cauldron paraded through the hollow hallways with high ceilings standing at 195 centimeters, I sat on my designated chair at only 175 centimeters in height.

Snow White, Caldwick's Prince, The Peace De Resistance of Hestonia: With such formalities, I was known by many names.

While the castle bustled with working white haired, pale skinned, red-eyed pedestrians, I sat in the library with a book in my hand. Full of inquiry and knowledge, I spent half of my undead life in the cavernous room. From my tutoring hours to my personal time, the library was my second home.

All peoples of Caldwick had a job: to read, to study, to maintain the castle we resided in. All people had a purpose but me. Everyone treated me like a fragile trinket that broke if not watched every waking moment. While the rest of my sweating peers helped the gardens and groves prosper, I wondered about the possibilities of our kind.

My people's kind as in the kind that drank a red bodily fluid as sustenance, that lost all of our melanin from an everlasting lethal bite. The kind with beady red eyes and cold white skin and hair. The kind the humans deemed folklore. It was dreadfully annoying.

Humans believed they were the only species that could walk on two legs and remember distinct patterns like it was hard. Though my kind vowed never to expose ourselves to the humans, how I craved their awestruck faces and bewildered eyes. There were three supernatural beings of humanoid backgrounds: the people of the Wolven kind with their mutts and canines, the people of the undead sort like myself, and the Winged Sprites with their wings and mind-reading.

With a small, inquiring smile on my lips, I closed the book. Walking out of the library, I passed pedestrians. Though we couldn't produce sweat, the people carried crates of meat for the evening feast and bails of blood with rigid breaths. Waving at them, I felt my grin falter. Pain was only bliss when consented, but overworking people was anything but the sort.

Then the thought if visiting the two people who genuinely believed I was more than the fragile vessel of Caldwick sprung into my mind. As I thought if the two lovely beings, a small smile formed off my pallid lips. Waving a goodbye to the working peoples, I dart through the corridors. Snatching my crimson cloak and my black linen gloves, my violet eyes fall onto the large exit door. Gesturing for the door, I slipped the guard a key to the blood chambers and left without a trace.

Verdin vines and their pointed leaves dangled from the large archway. Peering over my surroundings, I pulled on my cloak and gloves before I dash into the small field. Careful not to blow my cover, I lie low on the pasture, shifting with every gust of wind. As I run, my some-what perceptible vision lands on a small wooden shed. With a small grin, I zip for its familiar wooden doors before I was lifted from the ground.

"I thought you were indulging in the library, Khristopher."

"I was. I'm just not doing it right now, brother."