After the incident in Mehadi Swamp, Brittany devoted her time to mastering her occupation. She scoured Temuair for improved traps and snares to learn. She teased ancient tomes containing detailed descriptions of rogue weapons and armors from their shelves. In the Cthonic Remains, among other places, she hoarded experience and improved all that she had learned. Brittany grew socially, as well; her skills as a master gem and blade smith caused other Aislings to beckon in the streets for her time. The locals shortened her name to just "Britt," and she kindly accepted the nickname. But the time soon came where she felt she had learned all there was to offer in Temuair. How very wrong she was.

Brittany visited her mother in Mileth that summer, the way she often did when the weather was warm. Savannah marveled at her daughter's sudden growth. Indeed, Brittany had become a young woman. She was much taller than she had been when she began her journey, with hips that would make Duana jealous. It was more apparent now that she would keep her weight in her hips and retain her natural chocolate brown colored hair despite spending so much time in the sun. Savannah too was impressed with the skills and knowledge that Brittany had learned. The older woman suggested that her daughter should seek out the nearby Temple of Choosing. If anyone knew where more knowledge could be sought, it was Aoife, she explained.

Not to disappoint her mother, Brittany set off across the town and soon arrived upon the step of the mentioned temple. The rogue sucked in a heavy breath and hoped that this Aoife would not be as difficult as some had been in her journey. She moved to ascend the stairs when she was halted by a man's voice. Do not be afraid, he said, effectively capturing Brittany's attention. She peered down the staircase and located the man, who was braced against the fence opposite the temple doors. His hair, which included a scraggly crown and a young mustache, blazed like fire in the midday sun. He was dressed from neck to ankle in the robes of a mage. For the most miniscule of moments he seemed translucent, as if he had been formed by clouds that suddenly decided to become solid. Magic tricks, she thought amusedly, rubbing her eyelids gently until he was completely visible. She smiled down at him and asked for his name.

His name was Nefarus, he replied. He had been in this temple many Deochs ago and claimed he knew what events were going to transpire when the rogue entered. Brittany grinned and descended until she was mere inches from the attractive mage. If he knew so well what was going to happen, then he would have no problem escorting her inside! She grasped his unsuspecting hand and flew up the stairs with him before he could refuse. In the doorway, he stifled a small laugh and reached into his pack. From the pack slid a slender object: a flute. Curiously, though the flute was nothing more than a tube with holes bored into it, its black skin gleamed in the sunlight of the doorway. Nefarus offered the flute to his roguely counterpart, explaining that she would soon need it. She nodded and uncomfortably accepted the gift, insisting that she would buy his dinner afterwards.

She led him deeper into the temple, where Aoife stood waiting. Upon Brittany's bombardment of questions, The honey-haired temple woman motioned to the walls of the temple. There were no books, scrolls, or any other type of evidence that the building held learning materials. Instead, Aoife explained, the temple granted increased power to those who were willing to sacrifice. With that power, many Aislings were able to go forth and pursue their passions. Aoife recognized the Fae Flute in Brittany's hand and scrunched her nose. The rogue, ever adept at reading facial expressions (it was handy when haggling!), insisted that the instrument was an appropriate item to sacrifice. She motioned with an outstretched thumb over her shoulder to Nefarus and explained that he had said it was so. Aoife quirked an eyebrow as she peered where the rogue was pointing, for there was no man there. She diverted the rogue's attention by inquiring if she had considered rededication of her efforts.

Brittany shook her head adamantly. With a sigh, Aoife began the ceremony. The only other memory the Master could muster from that day was awakening upon the stone floor of the temple wrapped in new garments. Somehow she knew it was impossible to feel so drained yet so empowered all at once, but the feelings remained as she dragged herself back to her mother's loving arms.

During her recovery, Brittany discovered a new item in her pack. She lifted the hy-brasyl dagger from amongst the other trinkets, gripping its shining hilt near her face. She had seen the weapon somewhere before, in her studies of lore, but was convinced it was a legend until now. Her fingers delicately ran over the glimmering emerald orb at the tip of the handle and she trailed the weaving blade with her eyes. Suns later, she found herself in Tagor with plans of speaking with the wizard who originally provided her with the information of the blade's existence. She advanced along the path confidently; she had memorized that Matei's shack stood third on the right, just across from Areini's pet shoppe.

As she neared the structure she sought, a unique sound graced her ears. A rhythmic melody danced down the path and whirled into her, eliciting her interest more than any tome had in several Deochs. Brittany raced past Matei's establishment, opting to first locate the superb song. She rushed to the rear of the town, sliding to a stop in front of a decrepit house she had long thought was unoccupied. The music was deafening now; it filled the wooden house and poured from the cracks embedded in its door. She approached the rickety plank and knocked firmly. The music did not cease. She frowned, hopped away, and rounded the building until she found a window through which to spy. Through the open shutters she spotted a man sitting upon a chest, facing her. The room itself was empty except for a suit of armor standing at his left and an array of cookware spread before him. She gaped at him; he was a wiry, older gentleman. He was no doubt a warrior, judging by the scars lining his arms and his unkempt, waist-long hair. The two of them may have shared the same hair color if not for the presence of grays beginning to seep from his scalp. She was mused by the way he expertly wielded dual wooden spoons and clattered them upon the pots and pans scattered about. Occasionally he would stretch an arm toward the wall and pummel a phalange at the base of his breastplate, eliciting a thunderous csssh!.

The tune ceased when the man discovered Brittany peeking through the slits in the shutters. She squeaked and ducked under the pane when she realized she had been seen, berating herself for her overwhelming curiosity. Embarrassedly, she shuffled to the front of the house to apologize to the man for her behavior. She nearly bumped into him as she rounded the corner. The man shook his head at her apology, explaining that he did not take offense to her prying. In fact, he extended his hand in greeting. Brittany took his hand in her own and squeezed it politely, finally raising her eyes to look him in the face. Something about this man was strikingly familiar, and and by the time she released his hand, she knew what his name was. Her eyes flooded with tears.

His name was Jibsley Hamaru.