The young Tiefling leaned against the alley opening, black eyes half-closed as she watched the butcher’s door. Alabaster fingers plucked at plum-dark strands of hair, which had escaped from the single braid she wore, to tickle her ears with each shifting breeze. She was waiting for the butcher’s wife to make her daily trip to visit the baker’s wife. The portly woman had more food in her cupboards than she and her husband had any need of, and Ganeth Stormriven was in no mood to feed his hellspawned daughter.

A metallic glint in the edge of her field of vision had Damaia stepping back from her position to press herself into the shadows as a city guard left his usual patrol route. She lifted her hood to hide her horns, pressing her tail tight against her left leg. The last thing she needed was for him to glance her way and see a Tiefling—a monster. The people in the community had made it all too clear what they thought of having an Infernal child in their midst. Harsh words had pierced her ears more thoroughly than any needle, unsubtle whispers had carried on the breezes that toyed with her hair, and drunken violence had forced her to learn to hide her pain. Such was a Tiefling’s lot.

She hated it. Every prejudgment, every slight, made her less and less concerned with the wellbeing of those around her until the only thing that mattered was getting through the days until she could find a way out. Something which all too often meant living outside the law, stealing what she could, what would go unnoticed, unmissed—like her.

Damaia smirked as, right on schedule, the butcher’s wife stepped outside. She turned and walked down the alley and around the corner to the rear of the wealthy merchant family’s home. Crouching, she tried the door, making sure it was locked before pulling out her tools. Years of having to fend for herself had the unfortunate effect of turning the child into an adequate thief, and it took little time for her to pick the lock and slip inside. Finding herself in the kitchen, she lowered her hood and walked to the counter, where she laid out a clean cloth to bundle her meal in. She was looking in the pantry for the most abundant of the food stocks when she heard a shocked gasp over her shoulder.

Tension gripped her shoulders as she glanced behind her, frowning at the woman she’d just seen leave. “Did you forget something, Mrs. Helder? Shouldn’t you be going to see Mrs. Lackman for tea about now?” Damaia grabbed a few of her favorite fruits and a block of cheese, taking them to the cutting board before opening the bread box and grabbing that as well. “Where do you keep the plates, then, since you’re taking tea with me instead?”

“Lord have mercy! Leave at once, demon child!” The expected venom hit Damaia with only enough force to make her shake her head. She found two plates and began to set to work preparing the simple meal for them to share. After all, she was not so uncivilized as to be an ungracious guest, no matter that she hadn’t been invited.

“I don’t think you people know what that word means. Do you have any milk? What am I saying, of course you do.” She set the plates on the little kitchen table and grabbed two mugs, pulling a canter of milk from the ice box. Before she poured, she set a slice of bread and a small hunk of cheese onto the cloth she’d laid out, wrapped it, and slipped it into a pouch she wore at her hip. A moment later, the mugs were on the table, and Damaia took her seat, gesturing for the butcher’s wife to sit opposite.

The woman stared at her in a strange mixture of fear, befuddlement and awe. The teenager’s audacity was both astounding and disconcerting to a woman who was used to having the city guards in quick dispatch against thieving. That was the only explanation, really, for why she ended up sitting down to tea with the Tiefling thief.

Damaia smiled at her unwilling host, lifting her mug in mockery of a toast. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Taking a quick sip of the cool milk, she plucked a slice of fruit off the plate, eyes never leaving the woman.

“What did you mean?” At the frown Damaia gave her, the woman started again. “You said we don’t know what ‘that word’ means. What is it you’re talking about?”

The teen closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. “Mercy. You people throw that word around all the time.” Shaking her head, she began to eat, letting her bitter words fill the quiet air. “My mother was a popular woman, back when you lot didn’t know what she was. Father was a retired soldier, she was his wartime bride. You adored her for her music. Yet when she died in childbirth and her heritage was revealed, suddenly it was a mercy that I would not be raised by her. That I wouldn’t have her Infernal lies filling my head.

“He turned to drink, you know? My father. He’s spent almost every centime we had on liquor. Blames me for us being poor now. But it’s a ‘mercy’ that I’m living with a drunk who hits me when he can’t afford more booze. A ‘mercy’ that my father refuses to let me eat his food.” She glared in defiance at the butcher’s wife. “You tell me to be grateful he raised me instead of tossing me out, as if keeping me justifies the things he’s done to hurt me. You called me a monster when I wanted to play with children my own age, but somehow he’s a merciful saint for beating me in drunken rage? You obviously don’t understand the concept of mercy.

“And when you find me in your kitchen, looking to see what food you can easily spare, you beg for mercy. As if I have any interest in hurting you. All I want is to survive long enough to get away from that man.” Pushing away the empty plate, Damaia finished her milk. “All I’ve ever wanted was for the world to show me the mercy you keep talking about. A friend, just one, would be a blessing. A smile, a kind word, anything really. But if the world thinks I’m a monster, that’s never going to happen, is it?” She shook her head and stood. “Thanks for listening, I suppose. Nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

The Tiefling was turning to leave when the butcher’s wife reached out, shocking her with how gently she grasped the girl’s hand. “What is your name, child? I never did ask, though I should have done.” The words caused Damaia’s heart to clench, not because of what they were, but because of how they were spoken. With kindness. She swallowed the lump that was suddenly making it hard to speak. It took her a moment to answer. She could have said Damaia, given the name her father had picked because it was the only Tiefling name he knew. But that name was never spoken aloud unless the drunken bastard was in one of his rages. What would she be called, if she had the choice of it? What name did she want to represent how she lived?

“...Call me Mercy.”

Born to the scattered remnants of the Paelion family, Amaress did not have a troubled childhood so much as a lonely one. Her parents refused to stay in one town more than a fortnight, making it nearly impossible for their daughter to form friendships with any people. Her only friend was a stray blind kitten she'd found drowning in a river. It was her feline companion who brought her comfort when she saw fear in her parents' eyes. A fear she never truly understood until the night the Drow attacked.

Ami was only 20 years old, a child by elven standards, when it happened. A small band of Drow attacked the family in the cave where they slept, killing her parents and laughing as they dragged the weeping girl below, into the Underdark, where she would spend the next 200 years enslaved by the head of their family. The things she was forced to endure do not bear thinking on, and guilt for things she did to survive plague her to this day.

At some point during her time in the Underdark, Ami met a druid of the Circle of the Land. The elderly woman taught her many wonderous things in secret before Ami's master caught them and gave her a horrible choice: kill her mentor with his poison dagger or be paralyzed and forced to watch while the old woman was subjected to any torture he might desire.

Taking his dagger, thinking it would be more merciful to them both to kill her friend quickly, Ami's heart ached. She looked in the old woman's eyes and saw the kindness there, and she couldn't do it. The Drow stepped forward, and she panicked. Turning, Ami slammed the dagger up into his chest and ran, her mentor shifting into a riding horse to aid her flight. The two of them fled to the outskirts of the city before the old woman fell to the attacks of the pursuing Drow. She bespelled Ami, forcing her to keep running and leave her dear mentor behind to an unknown but certainly terrible fate.

For the past several years, Ami has wandered the world above, haunted by her past. She aches for the friend she lost and lives in terror of the Drow finding her. Yet the lessons she learned from the horrors of the world below have left her unable to turn her back on those in need of aid, with a burning desire in her soul to destroy the evil that tormented her youth.