The chill Roarkian wind whistled down through the Engine, circling the city as
it lashed the tents of the Gloaming with icy blasts, cold fingers sneaking
through gaps in the ramshackle wood and tattered fabric. Winter's encroaching
grip was not ameliorated by the waves of heat that rolled off the Blasted Lands,
and so it was with half-frozen joints that the beggars crawled down to the
Northern Gates to beg for alms.

Wrapped in threadbare clothing, the beggars watched as the nobles sweep past in
silks and fine cloth. Some disdained the cold, flaunting their self-control
(and, for many, clandestine use of fire potion) with lightweight summer
clothing. Others were wrapped in expensive furs and thick scarves, hoarding
their warmth like a miser's gold. All ignored the beggars, practiced eyes
skipping over their presence with less than even a sneer of disdain.

The beggars drew back into huddled, pitiful masses in the freezing mud that
coated the gutters at the approach of the nobles. They knew that, while the
clothing looked cut so sharp as to slice the unwary fingers that might grasp it,
it was the swift movements of the omnipresent guards that would truly harm such
a foolish wretch. Instead, the beggar's needy hands were outstretched to those
of the lower ranks - though none so low as themselves, of course - to those who
swept the streets and kept the shops and had less to spare for uselessness.

Intruding into this tableau came a new figure, in ebon robes of fine cloth yet
humbly cut to downplay her femininity. A lowered hood revealed the stark
vermilion hues imparted by viscanti heritage, likewise resulting in the short,
rough-formed horns that had been painstakingly polished to remove or hide every
nick or crack. Covering her face was a bone-white mask, bearing an eternal smile
of benevolence. Cradled between her bejewelled hands was a simple wooden bowl,
from which steam lifted aloft the promising scent of chicken and noodles,
incongruous against her apparel.

The eyes behind the mask glittered as she strode unhesitatingly towards one of
the cowering beggars. The others watched, fear mixed with jealousy; the chosen
one stared at the extravagant mask with an expression blending terror and hope.
This visitor, however humble her robe, was clearly far above the beggar's own
lowly station: should he offend her inadvertantly - should she so much as think
it thus - he would suffer, and rightly so.

Halting an arm's length from the cowering human, the viscanti held out the
steaming bowl, the hints of what might have been a smile crinkling the skin at
the edges of her mask. Hesitatingly, as if expecting the bowl to be withdrawn
and himself rebuked, the beggar at first grasped the bowl lightly. When it was
clear that it was, in fact, for him, he wasted no more time. Exclaiming "Soup!
May the gods bless you! I've been starving for days!", he seized the bowl and
brought it greedily to his lips.

Slurping down the tasty contents, the beggar failed to notice the strange
purplish hue that tinted the soup. Had he done so, little might have changed:
hunger is a powerful motivator, and he had eaten far worse things than soup
perhaps a few days too old. Nor would the deepening of the crinkles behind the
mask be any cause for alarm, for he was much inclined to look gladly upon his
saviour, and relief and gratitude weakened those instincts that had preserved
him for so long.

The warmth of the soup flooded him, truly expelling the cold from his body for
the first time in weeks. Flushing as the heat spread up his neck and into his
head, he gazed up with vacant eyes at the viscanti standing above him, where she
belonged. She was superior. She was useful. She was a boon to society, not a
drain. She should rightfully disdain him, who did no work and was no help. But
instead, she had deigned to assist him, to gift him with what she had earnt with
her toil.

What could he do but repay the favour? Nothing remained but to work against the
vast cost incurred not in this last act of kindness and enlightenment but over
the entirety of his existence, living off a grand city to which he owed so much.
He would be a true cog in the Engine of Transformation, striving to empower it
in whatever way was possible rather than hold it back with his inaction and
waste of meagre talent.

And she could guide him. Surely this was why she had brought him this gift?

"What am I doing here? I need to find work! Please help me to become a useful
member to society, kind lady."

She nodded once, curtly, silently gesturing for him to follow her as she turned
to leave. Willingly falling into place behind her, the beggar was nearly
overcome with joy at the idea that he might finally serve a useful purpose.

She paused before departing, casting her gaze across the wretches that remained
ignorant and useless. The beggar behind her saw nothing, gaze fixed on her feet
and his inner dreams. The other beggars glared at the chosen with pure jealousy,
fear having been erased upon witnessing the kindness the lady extended to the
beggar. Each of them wished that they were the one picked, the one saved from
this relentless life of hunger and poverty. Each wished that this act of
kindness might be repeated for their benefit.

A subtle nod, an unspoken promise that brought hope's flare to their frozen
souls, and she departed with the first of the Engine's workforce in tow.