He was always hungry. The hunger had become a part of him, like the fear, the pain, and the dark, so that he rarely noticed it anymore.

He lay in the rafters, listening to the voices below and waiting for his moment. As always, he eavesdropped, just in case someone would mention some opportunity, like a gang fight that might leave a storehouse unguarded or a party he could sneak into. Also, he figured this was probably how he maintained his sanity. He couldn't have any real interactions with people without risking himself, so he listened, and he kept up a steady stream of private commentary.

It was almost like holding a conversation.

"Those stinking humans!" The orc was clearly deep in his cups, but the listener could easily make out every word. However, he doubted both the speaker's smell and sense. "Swaggering round like they own the place, who do they think they are? They might be big fish up above, but down here, they would be nothing if Mothok's lot weren't protecting them." Right, as if Mothok wouldn't be first in line to roll his guests over if they were that easy.

"Naw, they might be humans but they're more like us than the other soft folk in the Overworld," another said. He must have lost a fight to one. "Their guild takes anybody. Human, that is. Feeds them, arms them, then sends them into death fights. The survivors grow strong enough they're allowed to use the portals here."

The listener perked up. Now this was useful information. He didn't mind fighting for his life, since he'd been doing that all along anyway, so long as he could get a meal out of it. And what the orcs were saying matched with what he'd seen and heard of the humans who called themselves Mercenaries.

The real question was, would they take him? Or would they take one look at him and reach for their blades?

He was hated in the Underworld because he was half-human, and more to the point, he was without power, resources, or a backer while looking mostly human. But he would probably be hated in the Overworld because he was half-drow. Then again, since his brownish skin and indiscernibly pointed ears apparently screamed his human heritage to everybody at a glance, maybe he could just pass as human up above? Or would his white hair give him away?

He suddenly remembered seeing one Mercenary with rainbow-colored hair. The Overworld people did incomprehensible things like that, everybody said. Because the humans had stolen all the good land and exiled the other races to the Underworld, they were able to enjoy lives of luxury and ease while everybody else scrambled to survive.

He had heard such complaints so often he had stopped paying them much attention, but he hadn't before considered stepping foot himself into the supposed land of plenty. Perhaps because of how his father had reacted to him, or perhaps he'd just assumed he would be immediately thrown out of such a place... but it occurred to him they would have to find and catch him first. His Skills kept improving, and if they were generally as weak as everyone said...

The journey would be dangerous, of course, but then so was every day here. The humans might take one look at him and attack, but then so did most of the residents here. The Mercenaries might reject him. But then so had everyone here.

Though he was decided, he waited another two hours until the only customer was asleep and the only guard in the restroom. Then he silently dropped down, snatched everything edible he could find in one pass, and ducked out before he could be discovered. He waited until he was in a safer place, where he couldn't hear anybody nearby, before stuffing his mouth.

From behind his bony ribs, his stomach throbbed with pain. It was strange how he was most often reminded of his hunger when he was eating.

He'd long ago discovered a crack to the Overworld, though he'd regretted it and then avoided the spot, which attracted hunters, scavengers, and opportunists. But he didn't know how long it would take him to search for another, and besides, those places between were likely all the same. He would just have to chance it.

He found more food and only a little trouble on the way, but he didn't relax. The Underworld was most often deceptively deserted like this when something dangerous was passing or had just passed through. He crept forward, straining his ears and senses, waiting for the moment and direction of the strike. Then he felt the slight tremors, heard the calls... and he didn't relax, but maybe he unwound slightly. It was a rockworm, an ambush predator that liked to keep returning to the same area until driven off. His light steps should tell it he wasn't even worth a mouthful, and with the area's residents distracted...

The crack was just where he remembered, an empty space in the air emitting unnatural blue light. A single guard was posted nearby, far enough not to attempt to block passage, likely meant to warn if anyone or anything came through from the other side.

He didn't hesitate. Striding forward, clutching a blade in each hand, he was hyper-aware of the distant sounds of the clash, the guard watching him motionlessly, the evidence of his own existence despite his best efforts to be silent and invisible...

And then he was through, and everything was terribly wrong. His eyes were on fire, his skin was burning, but paradoxically he felt cold. The innate grace that had saved his life on more than one occasion failed him, as he stumbled in near-total disorientation. Worst of all were his ears, which he clapped his hands over, feeling assaulted by the noise, a wall of sound that would not stop slamming into him. He'd fallen to the ground sometime and curled into a ball, which would normally be suicidal... but he was still alive and uninjured, surprisingly.

Through his impromptu earmuffs, he finally understood the words spoken in Common: "...just a kid!"

"Just looks like a kid, you mean."

"So give him a truth test."

He squinted his eyes open slightly. Argh, too bright! And back shut again. Just then he felt something approaching too fast to dodge and braced, but the something swept past him, only stealing some more of his heat.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He must be used to the low light in the Underworld."

"That proves it then, he can't be human..."

"Oh, shut it. Hey, kid! Can you hear me?"

Unfortunately. He nodded.

"Are you human?"

So that was why he hadn't been killed yet. For the first time in his life, looking like a human had helped him. He nodded again.

"I'm going to need a verbal yes or no, kid."

If being cursed his whole life as one didn't count... "Yes," he rasped out and was shocked at the sound of his own voice. It wasn't at all like how he sounded in his head. The return of the something distracted him, but strangely he didn't sense danger from it. It was like a huge spirit phasing through him, indifferent to the chill of its passage.

The two voices were arguing, something about taking this to the higher-ups. His Common wasn't quite good enough to understand everything they said ('jurisdiction'?), but he snapped to attention when he realized they were debating where to take him: the Watch or the guild. "Guild," he said, trying to shape his words to be less grating. They fell silent instantly, helping his headache. Encouraged, he kept talking aloud. "I came here to join your guild."

He regretted everything when he was blasted with a deafening roar he belatedly realized was laughter. "Aw, you see? Good thing I didn't let you take care of him, hey?"

That was how he was brought to the Adventurer's Guildhall. His first clue of the misunderstanding was when he heard, "How'd a kid like you end up in the Underworld anyway? I swear, if it was those mana-cursed Mercenaries..."

But after thinking it over, he mentally shrugged. From what he'd heard, adventurers were lily-livered or soft, self-righteous or hypocritical. He didn't particularly care so long as any of that translated into food. Perhaps if they were all like this human, who'd helped him by blindfolding him and stuffing his ears, they wouldn't even try to kill him whether or not they took him in. He wouldn't count on it, though.

"What is that?" he asked when the something kept coming for him. At least his cloak seemed to block most of its effects.

"What's what? You mean the wind? Don't worry, it's normal up here."

This was normal? And humans dealt with it all the time? Perhaps they didn't lead such coddled lives after all. "And that?" He pointed to one single identifiable source of suffering.

"That's the sun."

Wait, he'd heard of this one! Wasn't it supposed to be a good thing? Were they all mad? Or maybe it did something more than feel like a constant attack on his eyes and skin.

When they arrived at their destination, he could see the riot of colors even through the cloth covering his eyes. He couldn't help having second thoughts of his possibility of fitting in. But then he'd never fit in anywhere.

At least the human he was following seemed to be someone important, judging from the confident strides forward that went unchallenged. Many humans even stopped and stared, though he appeared to be their unfortunate target. Fortunately, they sounded curious rather than hostile, whispering, "What Skill is that?" and "Is he really blind?"

They approached a desk with a seated human woman, and the two humans began to speak in slightly less overloud voices, which a mild adjustment to his left earplug let him listen in on. Thankfully, the male human simply communicated the relevant details, and the woman agreed to contact someone higher-ranking. If this were the Underworld, he would be terrified of earning anyone's attention like that, but his reception so far made him think perhaps he was being accepted as a fellow human.

His confidence was shattered by the human man who entered. His [Danger Sense] came alive, warning him not only was this human very, very dangerous but he would be cut down instantly if he tried to escape. With no other option, he followed his death to a private room and sat where directed. To his surprise, the man did something and the lights in the room dimmed. Away from the horrible sun, wind, and noise, the Overworld suddenly seemed much more bearable... except for the invincible threat in the enclosed space with him.

"Take those off," he was told and promptly obeyed. Blinking around, he was once more surprised by the useless amount of color in the Overworld. Even his probable killer was wearing practically prismatic armor. Was it too much to ask for a grim reaper all in black to send him off? "Well, then. What are you?"

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This again? "Human," he tried.

The real human studied a glowing blue stone, which had turned slightly paler. "And what else?"

Ah, there it was. It hadn't been much of a life, but it was still a shame to lose what little he'd ever had. "Dark elf."

The stone turned white. He cursed it silently, but instead of dispatching him as he'd expected, the human just said, "How old are you?"

He frowned. "I don't know."

White. "What is your full name?"

He almost glared, but he wasn't about to quicken his death. Actually, he had no idea why he was being asked these questions, though he supposed he should feel flattered somebody this powerful was bothering with him before killing him. Grinding his teeth, he forced out, "Blake."

A pause, then: "What is your complete Skill Set?" Seeing no other choice, he reluctantly listed out everything and was a little disappointed by the nonreaction, just: "Who is your human parent?"

"My birth-father." The expectant silence made him wonder if this wasn't the reason for the interest. Perhaps they were hoping to use him somehow against the man? He suddenly found himself eager to speak. "He was somebody important, or so they told me. A lord... Lord Enright?" No reaction. "He traded with my mother's people through representatives. One time he came himself, and my mother was offered to him as hospitality. Drow conceive rarely, and it was only one night, so I came as a surprise."

Despite himself, the words took him back. For once, the listener became a speaker. "I was... celebrated. They thought I was a fortuitous sign of a fruitful alliance. When my father revisited many years later, they presented him with gifts, more gifts, and finally, me. He reacted badly. Sharp words were spoken, sharper blades were drawn, and I ran and hid."

More like he'd burst into tears, caused a scene, and then couldn't show his face from embarrassment. He was aware he'd left the original topic, but seeing his attentive audience, continued: "Nobody found me. I was good at hiding even then. When I eventually emerged and went to my mother for comfort, she told me she wanted nothing more to do with me. Important people had died, and I was being blamed. I went to my other once-loving relatives and ended up running for my life. I've been surviving on my own since."

The silence stretched again, but this time he didn't have anything to fill it with. Perhaps sensing this, his listener said: "Why do you dislike your name?"

He had to ask? "Because the last time I heard it was from my uncle, who tried to kill me," he all but snapped. "The time before that was from my mother, who abandoned me. Before that she introduced me to my father, who rejected me. I would consider it an ill-omened name, but I'm not that superstitious."

"You sound well-educated."

"I was intended to impress my father."

They'd said he had an elven mind with a human's fast adaptability, the best of both worlds. The adults had been so proud of him, before his father had taken the news of his existence as a personal betrayal, rather than a boon.

Ah, there was the old bitterness, though it hardly hurt anymore. Somehow, after pouring out his life story, Blake felt... not better, but cleaner. Like he'd drained the poison from an ever-present wound, though he might still be dying. He supposed he was glad at this end of times to remember how it had begun.

"So you came to the Overworld to join us?"

The abrupt question shocked him so much he said unthinkingly, "Yes." The stone suddenly turned black. Panicking, he said, "I mean I originally came to join the Mercenaries."

White again, phew. But strangely, this elicited the strongest reaction he'd seen yet from the human, who scowled. "Them? Why?"

"I heard they feed you."

"So you'd join the adventurers instead for a loaf of bread?"

"Yes."

They both eyed the white glow. Blake's heart was beating hopefully. Not just over the prospect of food, but life: this stranger's questions definitely suggested he was being questioned for recruitment rather than summary execution. "Look," the human said and sighed. "Do you know what the difference is between adventurers and Mercenaries?"

"The Mercenaries use the Underworld portals?"

"No, the difference in us as people."

They were both human though? He shook his head.

"Now, I'm not just being biased here when I say adventurers receive better training, better opportunities, and comparable pay." The stone glowed steadily white. "With that said, why do you think some people become Mercenaries instead?"

"They know someone in the Mercenaries or were pulled in by recruiters?"

"Yes and yes. But a third reason is because adventurers are expected to maintain a certain standard of conduct." He had a sudden sinking feeling. "For example, if any of us becomes a wanted criminal, we'll be thrown out and handed in, not protected. If we're suspected of a crime, we'll be investigated. Meanwhile, the Mercenaries mostly care about raking in cash. If you stab your fellow Mercenary in the back, they'll probably just shrug if your victim was lower-ranked, or maybe they'll charge a fine. We won't stand for that sort of behavior."

Blake just waited. After a moment, the human continued, "Despite what some believe, we try not to judge those who've lived hard lives before or been forced to make hard choices. The most important thing is who you are moving forward. We're willing to offer a clean slate; are you willing to be an upright citizen from now on?"

The question didn't seem rhetorical, so he asked, "Meaning what?"

"Do you swear to avoid causing harm except in defense of yourself and others? And especially to avoid killing anyone?"

"If I have food?"

"Assume you do."

Blake couldn't help looking at the other strangely. "If I have food and nobody is attacking me, I don't see why I would want to kill anyone."

For some reason, this answer rendered the human briefly speechless. It must also have been the right one, since he was led back to the desk woman and referred to as "a highly Skilled but under-socialized rogue who seems to just want food."

"Oh," the female human said, "I know the perfect team for him."

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"Hey!" The youngest female human he'd ever seen bounced up to him. "Oh, you're all skin and bones, no offense. Do you ever eat?"

"Do you have anything to eat?" he asked.

Her whole face seemed to light up as she smiled at him. Nobody since his exile had smiled at him like that so unthreateningly. The earlier humans had still tingled his awareness as dangerous, but this girl didn't ring a single warning bell. Oh, she had a sword, but he felt he could probably slit her throat and disappear out the window before she could finish drawing it. The male human following after her looked even slower.

He suddenly realized why the lecture and questions on his intentions: here, at last, were the promised weak humans.

Not long after, he discovered a whole herd of unbelievably weaker humans just outside the doors. But both this and that accursed sun paled in comparison to the revelation Tom, the male human, had food he had made himself and was willing to share.

Blake had never in his life tasted anything so delicious. Not even in his memories of before. Perhaps the Underworld was as lacking in flavor as in color?

If this was what had been robbed from them, no wonder the other species hated humans.

In turn, he appeared to impress his designated teammates, even though he tried not to draw attention. This possibly backfired when a smiling Bessie said, "You should meet our friend Rena! I know you seem to know what you're doing, but her advice is worth gold, seriously. She's memorized like a million Skills and can tell you exactly which ones you'd best work on."

Yeah, no. In order to advise him, this stranger would have to somewhat know him. He was curious enough to tail Bessie on her next visit, however, and observe this Rowena Loress from afar. He'd probably have done so even if the other wanted nothing to do with him; despite having real conversations now, he still enjoyed sneaking and eavesdropping whenever possible.

Everybody needed a hobby, right? Or so he'd overheard.

Rowena did a believable impression of appearing completely harmless, but he wasn't fooled. In the Underworld, Scholars were said to be like spore-spiders: some might be weak and easily killed, but their deaths inevitably left a mark, with those responsible succumbing not long after. Shadowing her, however, proved disappointingly easy. She simply sat in the same spot day after day, only rarely leaving... to fetch another stack of books, usually.

He had never known anyone to act this way before. Then again, the Underworld didn't have very many books. The Scholar probably read more in a single day than the entire collection owned by the dark elves, who might be considered prolific readers compared to the other species. He tried flipping through a tome to understand, but his eyes quickly glazed over, not to mention the difficulty of reading while constantly scanning for threats.

That sold it, Scholars had to be another species.

Meanwhile, his 'team' would not stop trying to convince him by way of praising Rowena's prowess. He couldn't exactly tell them he was seriously considering it, he just wanted to finish his casual stalking first. Somehow he didn't think they would understand.

"Wait," Bessie said, "I still have the suggestions she gave me!"

"You do?" Hannah said. "I thought you were decided?"

"Sure, but have you ever seen such pretty handwriting? Even the paper is nice, though I guess I've ruined it. Ah, here." She smoothed out five pages. "I knew I wanted to be a spellsword, but not how. Rena gave an overview of my best five options: casting barehanded, as I've been doing; using mage gauntlets, boosting only lower-tier spells; using a sword as my spell focus, ridiculously expensive and reliant on the sword; alternating between short-range sword and long-range spell; or trying to gain an affinity for metal magic." She tapped a separate page for each one. "Then when I picked mage gauntlets, she offered some more specific Paths. I must've lost those, though."

Blake stared. This was the sort of information the dark elves traded for, and the Scholar just... gave it up? "Did you threaten her?"

Bessie's eyes bulged. "What! Do I look like a barbarian?"

"No, don't answer that," Tom said.

"I think he's impressed," Hannah said.

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In fact, he'd decided since Rowena Loress was some new species, different rules must apply to her. "Ah, I know you were reluctant to meet," she said, eyeing him nervously across the private library room's desk the next day. "Let me just say first that anything you tell me today will be kept strictly between us. I promise."

Coming from this being who happily spent her days staring at books, he could even believe it. Still, he loved nothing more than hiding -- though some things he needed more -- which included hiding his abilities in general and Skills in particular. Agreeing to meet Rowena had partly been because continuing to refuse had drawn too much attention.

Yet up close she seemed even less threatening than before, if that was possible. In the Underworld, she would be taken for an easy mark or possibly too easy, suspiciously so.

Partially for the irony of sharing first because his interrogator was crazy powerful and now because she was crazy weak, for the second time he laid out his Skill Set, and at least this time his listener was gratifyingly responsive. "[Danger Sense]? Incredible, you'd need not only long-term constant fear for your life but also multiple near escapes... oh, I mean, I'm so sorry."

They both stared at the finished list. Unfortunately, she'd recorded each Skill as he said it. As if sensing his discomfort, she said, "This is just to help me remember and sort my thoughts. I'll destroy it when we're done." Or he could just steal the paper from her before leaving. "Um... normally I would advise you on a choice of Paths, but there's one that just seems perfect for you. The Bloodshadow Embattled Rogue Path has a steep number of prerequisites: [Danger Sense], affinity for both Blood and Shadow, Intermediate and preferably anomalous rogue Skills, the same for blade Skills, and an Advanced sensory Skill. You already have all of that except the last, but with your elven heritage--"

He tensed, and she instantly followed suit. "How do you know that?"

"Um... isn't it obvious?" Seeing this answer didn't satisfy, she said, "Your origins, your hair, your ear cartilage... well, but for me what first stood out was your aura. It's extremely distinctive..." She fidgeted uncomfortably, then blurted: "I noticed you've been coming here a lot recently, and, um, focusing on me? If you have any questions or are researching something, I'm happy to help!"

He just stared back into her clueless, piercing eyes. Deepest depths, Scholars were scary.

"Ah, of course I won't tell anyone without your consent? If they don't already know... Right, well as I was saying, you would normally need [Advanced Keen Hearing], for example, but your Intermediate level should suffice coupled with your racially sensitive ears." It was only then he realized she had been speaking the whole time in a relatively softer voice in a likewise less lit room, which might have been part of why he felt more comfortable around her. "Speaking of which, I have suggestions for adjusting to life in the Overworld. [Precision Hearing] would let you filter ambient noise..."

He truly did not understand her. This incomprehension appeared to be mirrored, as after easily laying out a complete and personalized Path for him, she said, "The problem is... this Path practically requires mortal combat to advance," and waited with obvious worry.

"I think I will manage," he said dryly.

"But you don't have to, you know? You're no longer in the Underworld. If you never want to fight for your life again, you can."

A clean slate. He realized he wanted it. "If the fights are not deadly," he said, "I don't care if my Skills are weaker."

She opened and closed her mouth. "Um. I know all the others' Skills," she spoke hesitantly, observing him right back with equal curiosity. "You know with yours, you could find a stronger team."

He tensed. "You promised not to tell."

"I won't. Just, why? You couldn't possibly have gained such Skills without constantly striving."

But that was before. "Why do you help them?" he retorted.

"Because we're friends, and I like helping. But unless I am mistaken, you are different."

Unbidden, an image flashed in his mind of Tom's cooking. 'Hearty, nutritious fare,' Hannah called it. 'The best kind of home cooking,' Bessie said. But for him... it was something closer to a lifeline. Blake thought for a moment, and then answered the best way he knew how: "I'm no longer hungry."