Four years had passed but the burns still hurt, especially in the morning on that time of the year. He had heard stories about wounded veterans like him who, after the Realmgate War, wandered from one city to another cursing their luck until cirrhosis or a back alley fight claimed them. Not everyone was welcomed to Azyr, after all.
“Stupid leg", he thought. Sometimes it was like it was going to bend backwards. “That damned spawn should have aimed higher. It would have saved me all of this...”.
He turned to bring his porridge bowl to the table and saw his old shield with the Hammerhal-Ghyra heraldry hanging on the wall. The lower edge had lost most of its paint because of that horrible fire, but he never found the time to patch it up. And to be frank, it made him nervous just by looking at it. It seemed like that golden mask was judging him.
He sat at the table and started to stir the porridge while he looked to the floor. Every day it was more difficult to go unnoticed. The iridescent blue hair growing on his neck could be concealed with some soot, but the hoof at the end of his left leg was something completely different.