At first glance, there's nothing special about the little ragamuffin digging through the garbage. He's just a street rat, clad in a tattered leather cloak, bandages wrapped around his hands, boots two sizes too big. But look closer. Note the silver hair and the eyes that gleam red when the light hits them a certain way. Note the scars on his skin in patterned whorls and spirals. Note the bone claws and sharpened teeth. And note how he whispers to himself, talking to someone who isn't there.