In a time when local seers spoke of a coming hero from the humble village of Nidour, a young woman named Lanesia roved the countryside, much to the dismay of her sickly father. He needed her to cultivate the potatoes he grew, for he was homebound and crippled with old age. A sprightly rogue, who referred to himself as Charlatan, charmed the foolhardy Lanesia in many sinful acts, including heated nights at the Sharpen Inn, though such a relationship was short-lived. In less than a quarter-seasonís time, the distressed and with child girl was left alone to wallow in her own tears, determined that she could work off her sins by helping her father, as she should have from the beginning.

The old man passed away, however, before the child was born, leaving his lands and home to the only heir he had left, secretly displeased at her dishonor to the family name. Upon hearing the rumors of the seerís tales, Lanesia was well convinced that her child could be the legendary hero of Light whose birth they whispered would be soon, bastard or not, and set out to find a way to help fate along. As she prepared for the dangerous mission, knowing soon the child would be born, a brigade of knights from far northern lands stumbled into town, exhausted from a quest they were sent on regarding legendary gold charms of strength. Nursing one of the injured warriors, Lanesia played her luring game cunningly, and won the heart of a middle-aged, fighter, also snaring herself in his handsome brown eyes. Persuading him to let the other men return the magical items and join her in honorable family life, the knight couldnít resist, not only worried of offending a beautiful lady, but also satisfied that his quest was finished. Informing his companions that he would catch up with them within a few months, Lanesia and Thalas of Golden were married under the rights of the village priest, settling happily into her fatherís house only a week before Lanesia gave birth.

Being of sharper intellect than most brawny men, Thalas caught on to the fact that Lanesia had been with another well before they had been married, but, retaining his knightly honor, did nothing in the means of turning the child away. Instead, with loving arms, he accepted it as if it had been of his own blood, even thought Lanesia seemed slightly distressed to have birthed a daughter instead of a son. The joyous dreams of being the mother of a legendary hero nearly faded, but Thalas, endeared sparkling newness of the life, and reading his wifeís thoughts, swore that he would raise her as any son would be, and teach her the ways of honor. The midwife, however, sadly informed Lanesia that she would have to take rest for the following week, for the delivery had been harsh on her fragile form and torn some vital organs. Though dismayed, Lanesia agreed, and stared lovingly at the newbornís cobweb hair, oddly a light pinkish tint, though stranger birth defects were known to have come about these days. As she gazed upon the childís barely open eyes, and they seemed to swirl around with unseen promise, so inspiring, that she instantly was struck to name her Myrian, after the myriad of feelings she fell into when looking upon her, and the hope it gave her for the future.

The knights were a rare and distrusted breed at this time, not having established their order in any of the lands other than the coldest regions livable, so many of the villagers did not take a liking to Thalasí presence. The young man tried on many occasions convince Lanesia to move to the north, but she declined, pointing out that she had ties to the land, and her fatherís dying wish to serve. Returning to the north himself, as promised, Thalas was granted keep of his status, though he would be living elsewhere than his brethren, and swore he would make it back there in the future.

As Myrian approached the age of two, her thin hair of light rose slowly burned into deeper shades that seemed to fight with the flaring green eyes. After learning to walk, as do all toddlers, the shade turned more of a bright fuchsia, as was the color of her chubby baby face after placing her hands onto the cooking coals and discovering the true meaning of "hot". With trial and error, Thalas taught her obediently the codes of honor from the time she was just beginning to learn speak, her mother still insisting, to his dismay, that she don the skirts of her gender and not totally be removed from her identity. The farm was growing slowly fallow, but Lanesia didnít back down, and continued to work the land as hard as she could, gathering just enough crops for them to live by. None of this seemed to bother Thalas, however, for he was vigorously trapped in his daughterís bright smile, and educated her as best he could for her young age, as he would continue to do as she grew older. His joy increased when she would babbled bits of the verses back to him, of course not yet knowing their true meaning, but at least growing up with the words. Lanesia, switching shifts with her husband in the field when she would grow tired, tediously shared her knowledge of manners with the tiny mind, laying down discipline if the rules were not followed. As an alternate job, Lanesia mended clothes for local men, teaching her daughter the art of sewing as well, determined to make her as female as her father would male.

The soil would at last grow no more food in the summer that Myrian turned five, wielding her own toy wooden sword by this time and "helping" her mother with the preparation of meats that Thalas brought in. Still pleading with his wife, she finally agreed that they needed to move on, sadly hoping her fatherís spirit would forgive her. Packing up what belongings they possessed, the family rode northward, Myrian clutching the mane of her fatherís horse as they galloped on. The villagers at last sighed a breath of relief, thankful that the strange culture of knights was at last away from them, though they still feared the darkness that had set over all of the lands. The journey was long and rough, testing the will of both Lanesia and Thalas, as well as their protective skills, as the weather tapered off into coldness and they sky into blankets of clouds.

Thalas returned at last to Hyward Keep, reclaiming his frozen vows of knighthood, and submitting his family to the squire for records. Myrian was dazzled by the wizards that traveled there with their illusions, the tales that bards sang of at the inn, and the amount of trouble she could get into within a day. Her roving mind disturbing her parents, now that Thalas was away more often at Council, Lanesia suggested that she be enrolled in the grammar school of the squires, though it took Thalas much work to get her clearance. The other young boys often teased tiny Myrian, and historical texts bored her vibrant six-year-old mind to death. Successfully getting herself expelled from grammar school before her first season of attendance, Thalas, chastising her thoroughly, for he had to take time off of his position now, made her work harder at home.

Fighting and crying over the prospect of literature and spelling, Myrian whined to her father about his harsh rule, only succeeding in get more recitals of manners or honor, and more jobs cleaning things around the house, since Lanesia had taken up a job in the Keepís fields. Though Thalas was a bit displeased at her choosing a lower class job, he soon learned to accept it, and continued teaching Myrian in the late afternoons, as she was to plant with her mother during the day. When the season was over, Thalas began again with his swordsman lessons to his defiant daughter, succeeding in dealing out a new punishment more often than fencing. When at last the wild little fire had been repressed, the deep cranberry hair of Myrian was tied back smartly by her mother, as she began more training with less argument. Though this was only due to the fact that she terribly disliked scrubbing pots and sweeping out the house, the young girl soon learned to truly enjoy her fatherís lessons, and in turn listened to her mother with more of an air of rebellion.

Sewing was one of the things the growing child of seven hated most in the world. She would pout and fight as she used to with her father, until her mother finally enforced the pot-scrubbings of the past, sending her grumbling daughter into chore after chore until she understood what was going to be done. When at last she had learned to sew her own garment, Myrian was dismissed from stitching unless it was to repair the clothing she was constantly ripping in her fencing lessons. Also finally proficient in writing the merchant alphabet, the young girl was actually praised time to time. Still insistent on being allowed to listen to stories at the local inn, her parents could all but sigh when she began to hear tales of the darkness outside their protective shield. Lanesia calmly explained to her daughter of suffering and pain, hoping not to damper the bright spirit, but Myrian was perplexed.

As fate would have it, at her eighth year, casualties of the beasts roaming near Hyward Keep began pouring into the walled city. Walking home from the inn, Myrian was assaulted with a wide array of injury and crying, jolting her eyes open in fear. With great speed, she ran home to her father, sobbing into his arms. Prepared for such an event, he quickly told her that the balance of death and pain as much a part of life as joy, and that Danaan would look after those who trusted them. Myrian asked him in a tiny voice what had caused the things she had viewed, and her father could only refer back to the stories of darkness in the land, sighing greatly that even their home here was not spared. With innocent resolution, Myrian made an oath that she would prevent people from crying as those at the inn had, and pursued her studies for the first time without argument.

Finding joy in starting fires after she turned ten, Myrian was punished several times for not using the flints where she had been told. Fascinated by the dancing flames, she was drawn to watching them much as a moth, and enjoyed starting at the lamps of the inn for long spans of time as she listened more to the weary travelers. Missionaries taught her of the elements and the forces, trying their best to spread the holiness of their word. Dreamily, Myrian thought of what they had said, hoping to one day take fire as an element of her own. Lanesia was shocked when she heard from her husband what Myrian wanted to be. Not only was darkness known for using fire in their onslaughts, but it was one of the two elements of the dark triad, and defiantly not something she wanted her daughter to be affiliated with. The young girl shook her head, relating back to her mother exactly what the wizards of the inn had given her for explanation when she had questioned their faith. Balance was living in both Light and Dark. It could be balanced for her to be good and claim fire.

Still furious, Lanesia was ready to enroll her daughter in the clerical school (granted she wasnít expelled again,) but her husband smiled and tried to explain that it was just a phase, continuing to train and educate his daughter with everything he could, pushing her for all she endured. Already, at age eleven, Myrian was being schooled in calligraphy and mathematics, though she had no liking for either. Mother continually drilled her on manners and proper speech, father taking pride in her so, that he now pitted her against local boys for sparring, only increasing her discomfort in the presence of them elsewhere. Outside the protective grove of her home life, she was teased and mocked by both girls and boys by now, on one side for her tomboy nature, and the other for being female. Though her temper sparked readily under her pale skin, she learned to repress it (after a few small incidents,) and studied poetry whenever she felt too angry to go back out.

At age twelve, all of her peers where taking their vows into being squires, or apprenticing to various tradesmen of the area. Though she longed to try her hand at leather-working, Myrian knew better than to step out of the expectations of her father, and continued to work with him on swordplay, even when she felt her aching muscles would kill her. She retreated away from her motherís disappointment and distrust, finding shelter in the busy world of her father, feeling sorry when he disgraced himself by asking her admittance into the knighthood. Thirteen, with the age of depression setting in, Myrian soon had no desire to become a fighter, or much of anything, feeling alone and unworthy to such things. Though Thalas meant well, he could never be a true companion to Myrian, and, as she was still an outsider to the children, no other youngsters were her companions, either. Feeling the deep sorrow that was eating away at his daughter, old Thalas decided it was time for her first journey, hoping that it might life her spirits.

Setting out in early fall for his first diplomatic trip to a southern city of sailors, he educated his daughter in trail lore and woodsman-ship. To her, the experience was at first frightening, but at the reminder of Thalas, she regarded it as a future reference. Within the many taverns of the lands, Myrian was drilled in proper presentation, manners, and her code of honor. On the wilderness, her sword was tested, as the land was plagued with danger in these dark times, though her father usually swooped down to do her fighting. At last having reached their destination, Myrian got her first taste of other culture and language that she could not understand, the only two she knew being her fatherís native tongue and the common speech of Temuair.

However, she was told sternly to wait outside when it came time for her fatherís duty, and muttered, annoyed at being left out once again. A young heart longing to prove herself, and desperate to be worthy, she soon left the comfort of the benches outside of Rucesionís Town Hall to venture around town, not familiar with city practices that she had left behind when she was a toddler. Sheltered in the solitary kingdom of knights and northern peasants, Myrian was interested to find how southern folk operated, hearing behind her in ominous tone, the echoes of her fathers words.

"Always retain your honor. Even if you are to die, it is something that cannot be taken from you if you chose to hold it so."

The old manís voice again restored her order, as it would continually throughout her life, even in times of temptation and peril. As was her nature, Myrian wandered into the local tavern, high expectations on her heart, and found to her great disappointment that a dreary cloud was hung about the room. Instead of jolly laughing, men were lolling about, pouting or drunk, seeming lost to the world. Cautiously, she asked the bartender what was going on, and he simply stared at her, thinking that perhaps she had lived in a hole all of her life. After a moment, he found it wasnít a cruel joke and told her the truth about the darkness of the world.

Specifically, he pointed out, two of the men present that day had lost their families. The other was just a pessimist, and the last purely a drunk. Stuck across the face by the suffering, Myrian could only stare for a few moments, fear creeping over her. The thought passed through her mind, that perhaps, in some small way, she could do something.. but it was quickly extinguished by realityís booming voice: how could she? Not only were her years far below any she knew that traveled on their own, but she was a coward, inexperienced, and, as she got the impression from most, foolish! The matter, she guessed, would have to be discussed with her father; he always seemed to know what to do.

Wringing out the depression from her soul, she ran back to the Hall, finding only a messenger boy poking around outside. Hurriedly, she asked about her father, but he merely shrugged, muttering something about his duty, and ignored the rest of her babble.

She waited patiently until dusk, and her father emerged, wearing a smile that meant things went well, and bearing a parchment. Myrian rushed upon him, spilling forth her ambitions and hopes for what she could solve, Thalasí face growing continuously more worried. When at last she stopped and waited for a response, all her father could do was stand rigid, trying to hold back a shower of tears. At first glance, Myrian thought she had hurt his feelings, and felt exceedingly guilty for bringing up such wild ideas, but Thalas soon laid his hand upon her shoulder reassuringly. Breathing words of encouragement into her, they journeyed home, the elderly knight this time testing the skills of his daughter in full.

Thalas hurried home to Lanesia, bringing the news of Myrianís resolution to her hungry ears, the words bringing her so much joy that she hugged her daughter, despite the growing distance in their relationship. She at last thought the prophecy had come true and her child would be the hero that saved them all. Uncomfortable, Myrian held her arms at her sides, Lanesia not noticing in her joyous tones. She proclaimed that her daughter should be trained by the finest, and finish her education totally, perhaps even becoming a priest. As the words got to her, Myrian began to dislike everything that she saw happening, and regretting telling anyone about her dream. Fearing that she would be locked into a holy position, when in reality, she wasnít too attached to religion (only knowing the Light to be her choice of path,) she confided in her father again that night, spilling her fears into view, and hoping he could convince her mother otherwise.

What he told her, however, surprised her beyond all; he would not tell her mother this, he explained, because she would not permit its happening, but, in a soft voice, explained to Myrian that she needed to venture into the world on her own. Quietly assuring her that it was a great step in the training of all young knights, she calmed down, determined not to disgrace him when he at last seemed to have a stream of faith for her. Thalas did not tell his daughter what had really made him do this, for he didnít understand it much himself. For the last season, he had dreamed what his daughter had told him, which was in Rucesion and saw two paths unfold before his eyes. On one, his precious daughter of eighteen years, inexperienced and confused, was left alone after he died in her loving presence, and ventured out against her motherís will to try and correct the wrongs of the land, succeeding only in her own death. As it was that she had been a mere farmer for her years. With the other side of the dream, he let her go forth early in life, and Danaan watched after her, presenting learning situations for her mind. To his dismay, the Thalas in this dream died alone, his wife in the field, and Myrian building her chance for the world.

Though he knew it meant sacrifice to do this, Thalas believed in destiny, something he passed on to his daughter, and felt that it was the Goddess of Light that gave him the knowledge in order for him to do the right thing. With pain in his heart, he helped her store provisions in her pack, reminding her of the things they drilled on the journey to Rucesion, and gave her enough gold for her first new moons. Thrusting a map into her hands, and all the advice he could give in three breaths, Thalas kissed his daughter roughly on he cheek, and sent her to bed.

When he had returned to Lanesiaís presence, Thalas commented on Myrianís good reciting skills that night, and sat down without another word. Tired for the long dayís work, his wife thought nothing of it.

Shivering throughout her entire body, Myrian opened her door to peek out, darkness her lone answer. Stepping quietly through the hall as best she could, the girl slipped skillfully through the back entrance, as she had on some nights to visit the inn, and sucked in a deep breath of cool night air. Myrianís hand darted to the polished wooden sword at her side, the only blade she had, and a feeling of exhilaration pulsed through her heart. For the first time in her life, she was alone, sent out to prove her worthiness by her wise father, Thalas. Quickly getting a hold of herself, she hurried on and out of town, pushing through a breech in the eastern wall as her father advised.

The first spider of fear crawled upon her as she unfolded the map and gazed upon the enormous world that she had been thrust into on her own. She chose to journey to Ehna, a trading town on the icy coast just west of their home. From what she heard at the inn, many adventurers journeyed there to take quests and buy the sparkling blades and armor that came from vessels of Loures. The journey was long and tiring, but by the fleeting sunrise, a shivering Myrian had emerged from the hills on the outskirts of her destination. Eagerly, she hurried into the trading town, searching for a place to rest, the only place she could see, disappointingly enough, being a place called The Rusty Scabbard. It didnít seem appealing to Myrian in any way at all, but weariness soon ruled her decision, and she was hurrying in the battered doors without a thought. Inside, the smell of brandy filled her nostrils, mixed with the telltale odor of grime. Approaching the scraggly innkeeper, she almost stuttered, but remembered the words of her father in time.

"Donít let anyone take you for being weak. That in itself could be the end of you."

Clearing her throat, she forced him to look up at last, stating imperiously her desire for a place to sleep, and waiting for a response. For a while, only silence came, with the sidelong glance of the keeper. Crafty in his nature, he told her that they did indeed have a room, but it would cost her. Giving the young girl a sob story about bad business, he laid on extra about it being the darknessí fault and waited for a reply. Skeptical, Myrian agreed, and handed the man much more gold than was the current rate of stays, without knowing what a con had been made, and lumbered up the creaky stairs to her room. Grateful for a wooden chair to prop against the door, she slept soundly.

Myrian awoke some time in mid-afternoon, sore from the sunken-in bed, and gathered her things to take leave. Pushing aside the chair, she kept totally silent as she strode by the innkeeper, and exited with much speed. The streets were now crowded with cheerful shoppers, and the occasional all-too-jolly rogue, so Myrian felt slightly better about being alone, having a cover of people around her. Still unsure of where to begin, her gaze fell upon the form of a young wizard, being bullied by tall, lanky peasant. Infuriated by the lack of respect for one of the elements, Myrian strode forward, grabbing the man by the arm and telling him in a harsh voice to leave the magic-user alone.

A jeer streamed across his face, and he shoved her grip from him easily, commenting on the place of "little girls" in the home. The wizard now seemed worried, and tried to apologize for Myrianís actions, for her own sake at least, and spare her the beating of her life. Brushing the little magician from his vision as one does a bug, the peasant used his energy shoving Myrian back, laughing as she nearly tumbled over. Anger flared up inside of her, but she sternly told herself how a knight should act once more, and let only a piercing insult fly from her teeth. He again lunged for her, but she dodged easily, letting him fall forward on his own momentum. With a loud snarl, the man jumped forth, striking the girl across the face before she could clear the blow. The taste of blood filled her mouth, but the red veil of anger torn her attention from it. Kicking as she had in the height of her training, Myrian knocked the man backward, not stopping her hitting spree until he at last threw her from him in a panicked rage.

Cursing her loudly, the man stalked off, threatening the wrath of the town guard on her. The wizard, now a bit braver, approached her and gave thanks to her efforts, but pointed out that she should fear more for her life in these times. As the clanking of armor came closer, he took her by the arm and hurried through the allies of the city, dodging around homes and farmers, until at last they were in a small grove of trees. Now thanking him, she asked what he knew of adventure and knowledge for those starting out in the world, wiping her mouth gingerly. Laughing at her foreign dress and mere wooden sword, he advised she start small for things as that. He suggested an inn far south in a town called Milleth, where he told her many traveled in searches as she did. In a temple of the village, the masters of all great arts stayed, passing on the knowledge and title to all whom proved worthy. Solemnly, he related the story of his own calling and journeys, and offered advice of where to start. The inn mistress he knew personally, would tell her anything she asked, as she kindly did to all, but might offer more of her knowledge if she mentioned his name.

Her gratitude over-flowing, Myrian left, thanking the wizard for all he had done, and pushed southward for the next two years, sidetracked many times along the way by all things, including her wandering nature. She learned of the western myth and legend, studied in the great libraries of the east, and got into her very own trouble many more times on the way. Slowly learning when it was best to fight and when to reason, Myrian visited many taverns in safety, faith in the Light giving her newfound courage. Whenever she seemed to be gaining ground southward, something would jump out of nowhere and delay her path, such as a pleading mother, or a discouraged warrior. Heartfelt innocence guiding her actions, such things delayed the trip successfully, for under her code of honor, she could never turn these people away. From all of them, she learned important things like compassion and fellowship, giving her new insight for the long journey into the temple that awaited her.

When at last she had finally reached Milleth, Myrian felt a great sense of accomplishment, not by any standards for her traveling time or path, but the feeling one gets when theyíve finally done something not just for themselves. Asking where she could find an inn, Myrian was soon boarded for the night, though it would not be any turnout that she had expected.

The next morning, she awoke, clad in nothing but her undergarments and her pack raided. Blaming the foul work of evil gnomes, she stalked over to a nearby dresser and poked through the wide array of perfectly southern peasant dresses. Shaking her head and snatching two ragged orange garments, she slipped one on, and placed the other in her now relatively empty pack. She found her map still there and was delighted, though many of the treasures she picked up were missing. Searching under the bed and all over the room, another wave a disappointment set in as she also noted her weapon to have been taken as well. Although it was merely a shined wooden sword, it stung her to have lost one of the most important gifts her father had given.

Shrugging it off, she stumbled down the staircase, peering around the wide, oak-furnished room. Heavily clad adventurers conversed in one corner, and she eyed their boots enviously, now missing her own that were taken for granted. Recognizing the inn mistressí description (now that she wasnít so weary,) she immediately rushed over to her and asked politely for her help, remembering her lessons in kindness.

The woman was too absorbed in gazing at herself in a small, expensive hand mirror that she didnít seem to notice anyone was talking to her. Annoyed, Myrian tapped her hurriedly on the shoulder, startling the poor thing. The surprise, however, immediately turned to wonder, and the woman began to speak of herself as being mundane and how Myrian had a sort of sparkle in her eyes. Confused, the girl pushed her on, hoping to gain some sense on things. At last, the mistress gave the information she had been looking for, and proved very helpful with other things that had been bothering her as well. With a final wave of thanks, Myrian went out, hoping some kind soul would be nice enough to lend her something to fight with. After a few moments, she was standing in the smith of the town, when she spotted a wooden sword on the counter that looked exactly like her own.

When asked about it, the smith just shrugged and relayed that a young boy had brought it in earlier trying to sell it, but didnít get any money for it because of its make. Sighing, Myrian was about to ask how much she could buy it back for, when the smith commented on her lack of defense and offered it to her for free. Gladly accepting the gift, though it was her nature not to, she promised to repay him in the future and exited the smithís shop, back-tracking to the inn, and following the kind mistressí directions over the bridge. Slightly confused, Myrian totally passed the temple that she had been directed to, and stumbled in to the dangerous crypts of the dead ancestors. Rats loomed all around her, including frighteningly large spiders, and to her greatest shock, violent centipedes that had such bloodlust, they made rabid mutts look friendly.

Braving her way alone, Myrian killed many strong rats in practice, her instinct telling her to stay away from much else for now, and spoke with many skilled fighters and healers that also inhabited the area. It seemed the crypt was a popular area of training. With every glance she took, Myrian searched for new knowledge on the temple and the masters within. She questioned the crafty rogue, and struck conversations with holy priests, fought next to the resolute monks, and watched in a mixture of awe and terror as wizards called upon the elements. Taking a liking the warriors most, she fought with them, finding their style to be much as her own, and finally, after four months in Milleth, made her decision.

Searching the town for an entire day, she felt it as a matter of politeness to find the one who first offered to help her swear the sacred vows, and successfully located the warrior named Malic at the holy statue of the inn. Eagerly, she followed his path to the temple, and wandered in as he did, staring in wonderment at the gowned woman and mute hunchback that guarded its peace. The woman introduced herself sparingly, giving explanation of what the temple was, and warning Myrian of the danger that may lie ahead. Several times she asked the girl if she truly thought she was prepared for the task ahead, as it would take her to the levels of the spirits and those who took unrest. Unwavering, Myrian stood, until at last, the woman raised her hands in a silent spell.

The room dropped into blackness and Myrian gasped out of pure shock. She had never been part of an incantation before, and the first that she had was definitely impressive to her eyes. Blinking in confusion, she noticed the pink-gowned woman had followed her down and stood next to the only doorway that branched off of the room.

She spoke again, telling her of the proper way to gain admittance and favor of the masters, of possible danger once more, and that Malic was waiting for her in the chamber. Holding her courage high, Myrian descended into the depths, a large white design of many intertwined circles on the floor in front of her, glowing with an inner radiance. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, directed through the middle of the pattern, swirls of light enveloping her. Towards the middle, she suddenly felt knowledge of where she had to go, and hurried on at a greater pace.

The next room held a different circle, a new pattern that shed light in the same eerie way. Walking hurriedly, new magic spun around her head, and the forces seemed to draw her in a straight path, not even forcing her to consider the alternate doorway. Within the next chamber, the circle stung her very being, weakening her as she walked, though she knew that she had to go on. Her father would not be pleased with her giving up. This was to make him proudÖ

The buzzing in her ears faded into a soft quiet, and the aura of magic seemed to dissipate. In the distinguished room, stood a tall, muscular man, the ages of battle worn upon his face giving him a look of wisdom, and the large sword and scabbard at his side putting no doubt in her mind that he was indeed the master warrior. Malic, her eyes almost totally skipping over him, gazed reverently up at the man from a kneel. She approached him, holding the great warrior master in honor, yet keeping up her own status as well, and he spoke before she could, asking her what her business with him was. She stated her reason, hoping to pass his careful vision (now at least possessing boots and a shield) as his eyes seemed to bore into her very heart to see what was there. After what seemed like an eternity, Malic was turned to, interrogated about his teaching of her.

He answered in truth, and the man turned back to her to confirm her wishes to become of the warrior status. She was fascinated as he explained the loyalty warriors had for each other, and the importance of their fight against darkness. Saying strange words over her, she felt touched by some odd force, and looked up to see a smile upon the huge manís face, concluding her admittance into the warrior path. Sighing in joy, she watched as Malic waved, disappearing on the wings of the masterís magic, and bowed to the large warrior before journeying back through the temple, this time with great confidence. She stepped outside, staring into the fuchsia sunset that glowed in the setting night as the color of her hair. Raising the crude wooden blade above her head, she gave silent thanks to her father, grateful to him for the faith he had. Tears threatening her eyes, she gave one last sigh, vowing to succeed in her dream that seemed so much closer to her. She would be a champion of the Light.