Marrakesh

An alchemical disaster resulted in ravenous eldritch flame that scorched most of the scales from her flesh.
Shunned by many in her homeland of light and purity, she wandered aimlessly.

The plaguelands are not kind to newcomers.
Yazhua's domain was no exception. Sheltering from a storm of sickness that howled far from the Wyrmwound, Marrakesh's refuge was ill-conceived. The sickening winds took hold in her already-damaged flesh, and she was struck low by a fever for many days even as the storm passed.

They beheld her form, her skin mottled and twisted with scars gifted by flame, the heat of infection radiating from her body. They beheld how, even in her weakened state, she was resilient, baring her teeth and hissing at their threatening presence.
They beheld, as Yazhua rumbled deep in his throat and turned his back; acceptance. They took her in without a word.

Tereskaia taught her how to channel magic, to bring down the burning pain; taught her ways to soften the harshness in her skin.
She saw the pride Marrakesh had in her appearance, and showed her the practice of imbuing wings and fins with inks and dyes. She robed her in flowing scarves and fabrics, concealing the scars of her tortured body from the harsh grip of the plague winds.
As she grew in strength and health once more, so too did her prowess in alchemy. Arts forbidden in the land of light, she delved into the knowledge of ancients whispered through bones, sweeping ashes, flickers of spirits calling through blackened stones.

Marrakesh knew her place now, unlikely though it was, this clan of murderers and of conquerors. Her touch could stave off death, her salves a ward against the broiling mass of illness that swirled unresting beyond the mark of their lair.