The Hlaf-blood shivered and tried to huddle closer to the fire which he had made for himself. He crouched miserably and wished that his parents had never met. What had possess them to have children? Hadn't they realised how he would be treated. Hadn't they cared?!
There he was, an intelligent being with a desire to learn and gain knowledge and what work could he find? Absolutely none! Whenever he turned up in response to any adventurer's recruiting posters, all the questions centred on how good a thief he was. A thief, him! He'd rather starve than take other people's belongings. His father may have been human and his mother a gnoll, but they had brought him up properly.
But would anyone listen to his ambitions? Of course not! Whenever he mentioned what he considered to be his true vocation, adventurers just laughed. What was so wrong with wanting to be a mage? It is a worthy career; the power to proptect and heal one's collegues and harm one's enemies. He admitted that he wasn't very skilled, but how could he gain the experience and money for reagents necessary for experimentation and training, without the help of a group? Skill would come with time, if someone would only give him the chance.
Take that last group in Fentham, Chasing Breeze, or something equally obscure. A bunch of badly equipped rabble, who didn't even know one spell! And what did they offer to any propsective recruit? 50 gps. 50 GPS! Naturally, he was the only one who had turned up for an interview. At least they hadn't asked about his thieving prowess; he'd explained everything first. They had listened (admittedly, with very little sniggering) and then gone off into a huddle. Thanks to his Half-blood hearing, he was able to listen to thier discussion. The phrases which crept up most often were "But we really are desperate!" and "But not that desperate!". After several minutes of this, they finally deigned to allow him to join their group. What generosity! An hour later and he was wishing they had turned him down.
For a start, they were almost skint, so despite being in one of the few villages that he could have bought any spell reagents, there wasn't any moeny. Their oh-so-skilled thief then gets them thrown out of town. After a lot of pleading, the village elders allow the group back in, excpet for him. He's a Half-blood, therefore he can't be trusted. Bigotry strikes again. So, while his new collegues are in fairly clean, comfortable and (most importantly) warm lodgings, here he was trying not to freeeze to death.
The Half-blood sighed, tried to crouch even nearer the small fire. Oh, well. A few more days and he'd be in Chimsob. A big city like that should be much more welcoming. He couldn't wait!