"The White Church decrees this so. In the betterment of ourselves in search of enlightenment to god-hood, we should accept our mistakes and be penitent, even if it means sacrificing something in return. Only then shall we complete penance, and be one step closer to enlightenment."
-Section from the Decree of Penitence, by High Bishop Carson the Sorrowful
Lower Alandriel was once a safe haven for everyone, free of discrimination and poverty, solely being a place to live. However, with the plague came despair. That despair ruined everything it touched, which so just happened to be the whole of Lower Alandriel. Eventually the White Church got involved, and bodies began to pile up quickly.
Metre high clumps of carcases stacked up against a local store or even taking up an entire street. The process of burning and burying the bodies was too slow compared to the constant renewal of the corpse's supply.
Soon enough, burnings and burials went from a daily occurrence to an almost hourly one, with no hope in sight for it to end or even get better; only worse. For Lucan, or Lanyon you could say, it was saddening to see the place he once grew up in be destroyed in such a manner.
It had been two weeks since Daniel's disappearance, and Lucan could only wonder if the boy had ended up in one of those corpse piles to be burned and buried, with no chance of even figuring out which skeleton was whose.
Occasionally, a body or two in the piles would wriggle and writhe with the last scrap of strength left in their miserable lives. Yet, it was incredibly surprising if a body partially stood up and slithered away from, as if nothing was the matter. And that was exactly what happened.
A partially clothed, and seemingly young, boy crawled out of the pile and started meandering towards his destination: a street not far from the entrance to Alandriel. All that poor boy could focus on was a relatively large estate you could barely see the tip of above the peaks of the other buildings.
It was strange, Lucan thought, that the boy would not try to go to the closest sign of civilisation but rather an out of the way house, the Birch Estate, which no-one except him, Igo and a few others visited. It was going well for the boy, until the trail of grime left by him shuffling on the floor caught the eye of a noble couple making their way through the entrance of Alandriel.
Following the trail to the boy who caused it, the couple's expressions soured immediately upon seeing the filth that caused it.
"Oh, dear, look what the cat has dragged in!" the pompous man exclaimed, pointing at the boy on the floor with his iron-capped cane.
"Honey! You shouldn't use such vulgar language. That sort of talk is reserved for those unfortunate souls that live in such a dreadful place like this. Although, honey, I shall agree on that statement of yours." the embellished woman retorted, "Shall we see if we can put that poor soul out of his misery, I daresay."
The couple gracefully strode over to the boy, constantly looking over their shoulders to the others watching as if to say this is how someone should act, rather than what your kind does. The two nobles were now looking over at the boy, who noticed their shadows looming over him and looked up to them, hoping for anyone to save him.
"Honey, this... thing seems hardly worth saving. I think we should move on from this nonsense!"
"Now, now, dear, lets deal with this rationally now. I shall do the deed. Move along Florence, get back home to the estate- I will follow soon after."
"Oh, honey, you spoil me so," the woman moaned, before turning back to a small carriage that held mountains of luggage and a feeble maid who was trying to push it along, "Hurry it up, Mary, or no porridge for you again!" she shouted, her face crumpling into that of some strange creature, before turning back once more and softly saying, "Good luck, Oscar. I shall see you shortly."
And so, Lucan was left with the sight of an overdressed woman with her worn-out maid walking up the main street to Upper Alandriel, an a man full of hubris staring down at the boy, which the boy also reciprocated. A boy, wearing a familiar set of clothes and, despite being bloodied and dirtied, a clear head of blonde hair, which was whitening at the tips.
Then, that man launched his cane into the boy's face, twisting it and pounding it as he pummelled the boy. Muffled screams and grunts followed, as streams of tears flowed down paths on the boy's cheeks that seemed almost cemented onto them by the constant use of them. Upon a close inspection, most of the boy's limbs weren't attached correctly at all. They were, in fact, a jumble of limbs at the wrong angles forced onto the rest of the body with small red stiches. Or were they really stitches? As the amount of times the boy convulsed by the beating performed by the man, the 'stitches' were far more clearer.
Those 'stiches' were actually small strands of solidified blood stapled into the skin, and that was what was keeping it together. Yet, blood cannot be manipulated that way unless you have an art specifically for that, such as a Blood Art. But even then the detail and dexterity required to do that with the art is only seen among the highest ranks of the Guild, and the shape of the blood does not follow and set shape seen in any of the Blood Arts.
It is as if the user of those Blood Arts had unlocked their full node and was using the Blood Node ability, the free manipulation of all types of blood. Yet the only person who could do that would be Ender. If Ender was involved, who could this boy really be th-
"...-igo..." the boy muttered so quietly that anyone without some manner of enhanced hearing wouldn't of even be able to be audible. Even to someone who had that ability, whatever the boy said would be unrecognisable. Unless it was to a person who knew that name. Igo. There is only one boy that age, with that hair, with that appearance who knows Igo enough to beg for help from him. Daniel.
A shadow streaked across the street, from where a suspicious man once lay on top of a small fence, to the the boy being beaten. That noble who was stamping his cane down upon that helpless thing on the floor suddenly realised that he was missing that very cane. It had been cleanly cut through by that shadow, with one half of it falling to where the boy was, now unconscious, and the other still in the hand of that noble, staring half-dumbfounded half-outraged at where the other part of his expensive cane now was.
That shadow had to be an art. What else could it be? In Lower Alandriel, even though almost everyone had an art, they were certainly not of any use. The diversity of the arts was almost none, with those bearing it only having utility ones. If someone had an art that was even remotely useful in combat, there would only be two places they could be in: Upper or Middle Alandriel, which was commonly referred to as the merchant's district.
And that art was more than combat related. It was shadow itself. And there was only one person who is said to be able to control shadow and darkness itself with their art. The Rogue. And that individual was now next to the noble, picking up the boy on the floor.
"Hey, y-you, were you the one who did this!" the noble man demanded, staring at the man who darted across the street with intense rage, "I will let you know, I am in fact-"
"Quiet."
And there was quiet. More than quiet even. Complete and utter silence for all who heard that statement, bar the crackling or corpse fires and the bustles of city life far from where they were. For that man who uttered the order, let slip a fraction of the power he was hiding. And the noble was met with the full brunt force of that power. So, of course, that noble was now doubled over, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, and froth streaming out of his mouth. On that day, for the first time in over two decades, the man known as the Rogue re-emerged.