You find yourself in a world that doesn't take likely to other races. Unfortunately you belong to the Chatlel. A race that mortals usually refer to as the curse bearer and bringer of mishap. Not that those words mean anything, they are just theories and lies, made up by people that fear your true power. A power that is yet to unravel.

One day you wander the streets as someone knocks you over and your hood falls off your head. Being a creature of distaste you are being shouted at. They are demanding you leave or better yet perish. Some people are starting to chase you. Out of breath, you're stumbling through alleys and narrowly dodge their hands. You know calling for help is useless and yet you pray to something unknown that you may survive.

As if you called for it, suddenly a pair of hands reaches out as you pass a stranger in a cloak. You struggle against him but his grip is firm and- to your surprise- he pulls you under his cloak, shielding you from the pursuers relentless chase. They zoom past you and the stranger. Your heart races against the burn in your lungs, beating quickly against your ribs.

"That was a close call... Are you alright?" The strangers soft voice pulls you back to reality in a flash and you look up, meeting his eyes. He smiled faintly at you