“Mother, that man’s face is… quite disturbing.” The small, impeccably dressed child, clutching a sugarplum from a merchant’s stall in the bustling Aelport Market, pointed a pudgy finger. The target of his rather direct observation stood before the counter, a figure of manifest disquiet. He was, without question, an aberration. His features were almost entirely obscured by the deep hood of his coarse wool cloak and a high, stiff collar. Yet, the few glimpses permitted – a sliver of jaw, the curve of a neck, the mangled lobe of an ear – revealed skin ravaged. It was a landscape of mottled red and uneven texture, crisscrossed with angry, deep scars. His visible ear, a lopsided ruin, merely underscored the general calamity. His gaze, when it met the child’s innocent stare, held no malice, but a glacial stillness. A profound gloom clung to him, a pallid aura that seemed to absorb the market’s vibrant light. The child’s mother, a woman of evident standing by her silk-spun tunic, gasped. Her hand shot out, yanking the child back with a sharp, whispered admonishment. They dissolved into the crowd, leaving a palpable void. Barnaby Blight, for it was he, remained utterly still, his shadowed gaze fixed on the point where the child had vanished. His shoulders hunched slightly. *Did I stare too long? A simple nod, perhaps, would have sufficed. Or a curt bow, though such gestures rarely improve a first impression when one’s face invites gasps.* His internal monologue was a familiar, self-flagellating waltz. He shifted, the worn leather of his boots scraping softly on the cobblestones. The merchant, a portly fellow with a flour-dusted apron, fidgeted behind his display of dried herbs and salted fish. Barnaby pushed a few meager items across the counter: a hard loaf of bread, a wedge of questionable cheese, and a pouch of coarse flour. “These, if you please,” he intoned, his voice a low, gravelly timbre that seemed to stir the very dust. The merchant, eyes darting, nervously tallied the sum, his fingers fumbling with the copper coins. The transaction concluded, Barnaby tucked his purchases into a threadbare satchel. He then consulted a tarnished silver locket-watch, a common piece, bought secondhand, yet a treasured possession. Its simple hands marked the hour, an insistent reminder of time’s relentless march. ‘Late spring, and already this oppressive heat,’ he thought, a profound sigh escaping his lips. His cowl felt like a hot embrace, a necessary torment. The heat only exacerbated the perpetual itch and sting of his disfigured skin, leaving him fewer avenues of concealment. In the chill of winter, a heavy scarf and cap offered sanctuary. But his face… that was an altogether different beast. Rough fingers absently grazed the edge of his exposed jaw, near where the cowl chafed. *Tsk, the infernal irritation.* Every season of warmth brought this torment, his skin flaring with an angry flush beneath the scars. It was a constant, unwelcome companion. --- Barnaby navigated a labyrinth of narrow, reeking alleyways, the air thick with the stench of refuse and desperation. He eventually halted before a leaning, forgotten door, its warped wood a testament to neglect. This was Wretch’s Row, and this, his hovel. A place as desolate as his own soul. Though small and perpetually dim, the single room held a surprising order, a faint, clean scent of dried lavender masking the underlying damp. Immediately upon entering, he discarded the heavy cloak and cowl, the accumulated heat a sudden oppressive wave. His first destination was a cracked earthenware basin in a secluded corner. *Swoosh.* He splashed his face with cold, brackish water. Nothing quelled the stinging and itching quite like that brutal shock. Water streamed from his hair, clinging to the uneven terrain of his skin as he lifted his gaze to a shard of polished obsidian, serving as his mirror. His perpetually heavy, dispassionate expression crumbled, replaced by a gaze of profound, weary sorrow. “…” Over eighty percent of his face was a ruin. Red, bumpy, deeply furrowed, as if etched by some cruel hand. His lips, once full, were now twisted, a permanent sneer that wasn’t his own. His ears, misshapen, defied symmetry. His eyebrows were mere wisps, and his hair, once thick, now receded in a patchy retreat. “Hideous,” he whispered, his voice catching. “When will this blighted hair stop abandoning me?” His name was Barnaby Blight. He was four-and-twenty years of age. His face, his very being, bore the mark of the Shadow Blight, a rare, congenital affliction that had cursed his birth. Three years prior, his parents, impoverished minor gentry, had succumbed to a wasting sickness, leaving him to face the world alone, his monstrous visage an insurmountable barrier. “Even if I am a beast,” he muttered, “I’d at least wish for a full head of hair.” With such a grotesque, deformed face, Barnaby no longer felt he truly lived. Two years as an outcast, with no solace, only the gnawing worm of resentment. Naturally, he had severed all ties, spoke less, and retreated deeper into himself. The longer his solitude persisted, the more potent his eerie aura became, a self-fulfilling prophecy of isolation. “No matter. A simple stew and then to sleep.” He carefully dabbed his face dry with a scrap of linen, then set a small, dented pot over a sputtering fire, preparing the paltry stew. Mealtime was a ten-minute affair, a silent consumption of necessity. Thirty minutes later, after performing a rudimentary wash, Barnaby lay upon his straw pallet, tossing and turning. The relentless itching of his face defied slumber. With a small, frustrated sigh, he turned onto his side and gazed at the faint moonlight filtering through the single, grimy window. His hovel was near the Guild of Toil, a stone’s throw from the opulent manor of Lord Valerius. He could almost hear the faint, sweet strains of a lute from the noble’s nightly revels. He imagined the glittering court, the dashing knights, the beautiful ladies. “How I envy them,” he murmured, his voice dim with a sincere ache. --- A few hours later, the pre-dawn hush still clung to the city. Perhaps the fifth hour, just before the first glimmer of false dawn. Before venturing out, Barnaby secured his rough cowl and pulled his collar high, obscuring his face. His eerie aura seemed to multiply, a tangible presence in the dim light. He arrived first at the Guild of Toil, a squat, utilitarian building near his dwelling. The foreman, a gruff, scarred man who knew Barnaby by sight, spoke in a rough, familiar tone. “Might be scarce work today, Blight.” “That is acceptable.” “Wait, then.” About thirty minutes later, the Guildhall began to fill. Most of the laborers were foreigners, stoic refugees from the northern marches, or outcasts from lesser towns. Among them, only a handful were native-born, Barnaby among them. Competition for the day’s wages was fierce, and many days he went unchosen. But today. “You, Blight! Wagon’s waiting.” Perhaps his youth, or the quiet pity the foreman held for his blighted face, always ensured Barnaby a place. He boarded the waiting, rattling wagon outside. Inside, the other workers flinched at his shadowed presence. Some averted their gazes completely, others stared fixedly out the wagon’s grimy opening. The wagon departed, oblivious. The task shifted daily. Today’s charge was at the construction site of Lord Valerius’s New Spire, a gaudy monument to the noble’s burgeoning wealth. Barnaby felt a grim satisfaction. *The daily wage is fair, and the meals are substantial. A not-unpleasant commencement to the day.* After a brief, brusque induction, his first task was moving stone. He hauled heavy sacks of mortar and stacked rough-hewn blocks on the nascent floors of the spire. Sweat streamed down his face, making it sting and itch with renewed vigor. But in the rhythm of the work, his mind achieved a rare, blissful emptiness. He was competent, powerfully built despite his gaunt appearance, and focused. So much so that even his coworkers, in hushed tones, spoke of it. “That blighted one… he works with a fiend’s strength.” Then came the midday meal. Hungry as he was, it was an acutely uncomfortable time. He had to remove his cowl to eat. As expected, eyes slid towards him, lingering with morbid curiosity or outright distaste. He was accustomed to this tableau of revulsion, yet the occasional, murmured word still pierced the callus around his heart. “By the Mother, that wretch’s life is utterly ruined.” Barnaby Blight, sinking deeper into his well of gloom, slowly lifted his head. The murmuring workers hastily dropped their gazes, their coarse talk dying in their throats. His eerie presence, fueled by his quiet despair, had intensified. *Eat quickly, then depart.* His meal devoured, Barnaby climbed to the highest completed section of the Spire, its unfinished rooftop. As if by ancient ritual, he spread his old, stained cloak on the ground, higher than a man, and lay upon it. The heat was unbearable, but the sky above was a vast, unbroken expanse of cerulean. Finally free of his oppressive cowl, Barnaby took a deep, shuddering breath, then exhaled slowly. Then, abruptly. *Swish.* He sat up and approached the precarious edge of the unfinished roof. Below, the people of Aelport scurried like tiny, insignificant insects. Watching them intently, he murmured in a low, almost inaudible voice. “If I were to fall, would Veritas grant me a cleaner slate in a rebirth?” At that precise instant, a sharp, cold sting pricked his wrist, where the locket-watch rested. Startled, he yanked it away, frowning. “What in Veritas…?” Nothing appeared amiss with the tarnished silver. Tilting his head in confusion, he glanced once more at the dizzying height, then let out a small, hollow chuckle. Lying back down on his cloak, he closed his eyes and muttered, “As if. I’d just end up a splatter for the scavengers.” --- Later, with the day’s work completed, Barnaby returned to his hovel in Wretch’s Row. His entire body ached with a profound, bone-deep weariness, but he felt no particular ill will. He had worked, and he had been paid decently. After a quick, cold wash, he slumped onto the floor, rubbing at the persistent itch on his jaw. His gaze fell upon his rough, slate-like 'Divination Tablet' – a cheap, if marginally useful, scrying tool. He hadn’t consulted it in days. “Haven’t had any decent roasted venison in a while,” he mumbled to himself, the tablet still dark. At that moment. “Hmm?” Barnaby noticed something peculiar. An unfamiliar symbol, glowing with a soft, ethereal light, had appeared on the tablet’s dark surface. It pulsed with a gentle, arcane energy. The glyph, intricate and foreign, seemed to thrum faintly. “What in the Hells is this?” The symbol was accompanied by script that coalesced as he watched: *‘Aspect Simulation.’* Barnaby furrowed his misshapen brows in confusion. “‘Aspect Simulation’? I never invoked such a spell.” His finger, almost against his will, touched the glowing symbol. The tablet flared, then launched. A spinning vortex of light appeared briefly, before white text materialized on the obsidian surface. *—A character will be automatically generated through user analysis.—* *—User: Barnaby Blight / Age: 24 / Height: 182.8 cm—* Barnaby’s eyes, already wide, stretched further in astonishment. He had entered no information, performed no invocation, yet his exact details appeared, stark against the dark slate. His name, his age, even his precise height, all utterly accurate. “What in the name of the Seven Divines… is this some grand sorcery?” Instead of answering, the tablet displayed another message. *—Select a profession for the simulation.—* Barnaby’s brow furrowed deeper. “A profession? What manner of craft?” His tablet screen instantly filled with an extensive list of vocations. From specialized roles like Master Healer and Guild Enforcer to self-employed bards, scribes, and artisans, there were too many to discern at a glance. Skimming through the arcane scroll, Barnaby’s thumb, guided by some unseen force, suddenly paused on one particular entry. *—Royal Emissary—* He recalled the glittering court he’d imagined only hours before, the envy that had twisted in his gut. Without much conscious thought, he tapped ‘Royal Emissary.’ The screen shifted. *—You have selected the profession ‘Royal Emissary.’—* *—Proceed with character appearance customization.—* Now, it demanded he customize his very form. Letting out a gloomy sigh, Barnaby’s eyes suddenly snapped wide with shock. The reason was simple. “…My visage??” His exact, blighted face was displayed on the screen, rendered in astonishing, ethereal detail. The scars, the mottled redness, the bumpy skin, his slightly misshapen ears and lips, it was all terrifyingly identical. Startled, Barnaby recalled the children’s magical picture books, with their crude illustrations of heroes and beasts. This was nothing like that. This was a perfect, glowing, three-dimensional model, entirely faithful to Barnaby Blight’s own cursed features. “By the Seven… the arcane fidelity is astonishing.” How could this be possible? He had provided no likeness, yet it had recreated him so perfectly? Fascinated, Barnaby instinctively swiped, and the ghostly 3D model of his face rotated smoothly. He could even see the back of his head, where his thinning, patchy hair was evident. It almost looked as if he’d lost even more. At that moment, another message shimmered into being. *—Confirm your desired appearance customization and press ‘Confirm.’—* On the right side of the tablet, various glyphs appeared. Face shape, skin tone, eyes, nose, mouth, eyebrows, hair—everything. In essence, he could alter his appearance however he desired. Barnaby Blight, now utterly captivated, reached for the first option. “Let us first remove these cursed blights.” The burn-like marks, the mottled skin. He adjusted his skin tone, smoothing out the redness, erasing the rough, bumpy scars. In an instant, a clean, unblemished version of Barnaby appeared on the screen, still him, but pristine. It was merely an arcane simulation, yet his mood lifted, dramatically. “Very well. Next, what else? Naturally, a full head of hair.” He was not yet satisfied. Next, he thickened his hair, restoring it to a healthy, luxuriant mane, then shaped his eyebrows, giving them a bold, defined arch. He refined his face shape, subtly reshaping his jawline, then honed his eyes, nose, and mouth. He focused on defining the so-called ‘noble’s T-zone,’ referencing the idealized images of heroes and beauties he’d glimpsed in children’s tales. After approximately an hour, a profound transformation was complete. “Done.” The final result appeared. The face displayed on his Divination Tablet was still undeniably Barnaby Blight, yet simultaneously, it was not. Clear, flawless skin. Thick, healthy, dark hair. Bright eyes with sharp, alluring contours. A well-defined nose and perfectly proportionate lips, no longer deformed. Naturally, he had added full, long, bold eyebrows, perfectly shaped arcs above his captivating gaze. A ridiculously handsome man had been brought forth, from the ether of the tablet. At this level, he wasn’t just handsome; he was a different kind of monster, one that could disrupt the very hierarchy of beauty in Veritas. The new ‘monster,’ Barnaby Blight, a being of devastating charm and undeniable presence, smirked. It was a dark, uncharacteristic curve of his lips. *Heh, heh, heh.* The last option to set pulsed on the tablet: his voice. Multiple tones and inflections were available, each vibrating with potential.

Chapter 1: The Blighted Visage