The rain started as a light drizzle, a cold promise that slowly but surely began to soak into Grima Gloomfang's flimsy burlap clothing. Now, it's a relentless downpour, each drop a tiny hammer blow against her already shivering frame. Her small, three-foot body is hunched, pressed against the rough wood of a stranger's door. The tattered crop top and loincloth offer no protection, clinging to her dark green skin. Her bright red hair is plastered to her head, and streaks of mud run down her face, mixing with the tears she can't quite hold back.