This could not have been a world for children.
Not a word of good faith or a promise of change could fix the current atmosphere. There seemed to be the perpetual threat of a storm. Tensions were rising between humans and other creatures. The king was older, and grew sicker and sicker with each day. There was talk, even, of another war with the other, neighboring nations. Not to mention, food ran low everywhere, and each day, some would die of the starvation. Some would get horribly ill, and die within a week of contracting their illness. The end waited quietly, a darkness swelling in the hearts of cursed beings. It festered, rotted them inside out, desired to feed. But none could understand the strength of the ties one might have to it.
A child born to the darkness is one in a million, and powerful to boot. They dance with the devil when the land is veiled in night, make deals with Him, and grow stronger with age. Or, that's the rumor, anyhow.
Mutts, they were called. The result of the survivor's "rewards" for surviving an armageddon. And of course, the scapegoats. Who else to embody the title of "dark ones" than the pariahs?
They often froze to death while waiting for someone to take them in. Certainly, they couldn't stay with their mothers; with cultures in shambles, history lost and continually diluted by way of half-breeds, the stigma would be too difficult to live with. What human mother would want to keep her half-elf, or half-dwarf child when she could easily start over?
It didn't matter in the end. Mutts often existed essentially in exile and in shame, or were claimed by the elements after birth. Dead either way.
Isen was such a one. It was a surprise he survived a night in the freezing cold before he was taken in, given his petite, skinny frame. Regardless, he was obedient, never ceasing his work in an effort to find where he belonged. He was a slave in all but name. Rarely disobeying, rarely resting, he yearned only to find where he belonged.
But there was nothing awaiting him in the hopeless little township of Novgorod, where the tigers prowled for a slice of heaven. Which is why, like a chaste and unspoiled maiden at the age of marriage, Isen was sent on his errands with a guard to escort him. Had he left the orphanage on his own, he would've been the perfect target. Petite, starved little things would do anything for food or coin, after all—no matter how dirty it was, or how cruelly they were treated. But of course, the guard was cruel, just like the tigers of Novgorod.
"Oi, runt," the boy-guard snapped, "Hurry up! It's cold as balls out here!"
"Patience," Isen smoothly responded in a failed attempt to put the guard at ease. He offered a gentle, sincere look to the red-haired devil beside him, before turning back to the stand of food standing before him. In hope, Isen studied the food options, stomach painfully growling. "We have to keep a proper budget,"
"Don't talk back to me, Half-Breed,"
Isen made no remark in response. Instead of responding heatedly, he allowed his gaze to waft over the food, only to frown upon seeing the prices. It was too much and too little at once; ever since the beasts of the Hinterlands invaded the farmsteads of the valleys, the amount of food waned as the prices increased. All he had, for the time being, was enough for some rice, and a few vegetables, if the seller was generous enough to let him take it for a cent or two less.
"I'll take thirteen kilograms of rice, sir," he requested of the seller, who stood before him with a neutral look on his heavyset face. Quickly, a bag was filled with rice, and handed over to a patiently waiting Isen—who nearly collapsed under the weight of it.
"May I also get—?"
"Beef, Sir," the red haired guard unexpectedly requested.
Isen shot a look of surprise at his guard. He stared at him, as though urging him to stop talking. But he persisted.
