OOC Prompt: Cliche: Where there's smoke...
Thorn’s unusual qualities had been discovered before. In a superstitious age, skin that blistered at sunlight was a sure sign of the devil’s touch. The first time he was caught and exposed, the guards held him still with his shirt ripped open and stared as the skin slowly bubbled and burned. The priest ordered him tied to a frame in the market square, stripped to the loins and hanging from ropes. By sundown he had been sure his skin must be smoking, and he had passed out from the pain of the rising blisters on every inch of exposed skin. The few bits of mud thrown by villagers had been welcome spots of relief, cooling and sheltering.
When he heard execution awaited him the next morning, anger had roiled up through his exhaustion. Writhing in a sudden fit of rage he had somehow managed to squirm free of the knots at his wrists and ankles, now slick with blood and pus. He wanted to leap at the nearest guard, to pummel his face and scream, but some measure of wisdom restrained him. Before they could catch him he was away, into the shadows and then the woods beyond to nurse his wounds. The mud and moss soothed the blisters, but his temper continued to burn.