Warmaster Tydus, resplendent and proud in his battle-armour, wearing its spattered patches of Charr blood as though they were medals of honour, stared down from his podium at the curious girl. As was customary to a warrior of his high standing, she had offered him an extravagant bow, almost leaving her prostrate upon the dusty, ochre ground. It was a mere formality, of course, for when she at last looked up, her glance met his directly and without a flinch. Had one of his men dared to challenge his gaze with such rebellious impertinence, Tydus would almost certainly have had him thrown naked into the river to let the skales tear him to shreds, but something about her strength caught him somewhat unawares. Those eyes, looking through his to what felt like his very soul, seemed possessed of both the vibrancy of youth, yet spoke of age well beyond her years. Great Dwayna, how old must she be? Fifteen? Seventeen at the most. Certainly too petite and unprepossessing in her frame for combat, he didn't doubt.

 “I am sorry, young lady", he growled, with all the kindness he could muster, "But I fear your ambition far exceeds your years".

 She remained silent, impassive, as if his judgement was questionable. Of course, he had overlooked the laws regarding conscription in the past, and sent many a fresh-faced, eager young man to the armourer to collect plate-mail and shields as unblemished as the boys themselves. It wasn't even an issue of the fairer sex, for he had no compunction about sending warrior wenches into combat; farm-raised and as sinewy and energetic as new-born colts, he had fought alongside their kind before and been duly impressed by their tenacity and vigour.

 No, if there was anything at all that troubled him about this girl, it was that she seemed entirely absent of any merit or promise, slim, delicate of poise, carrying herself with an almost regal bearing. Such a damsel he could not imagine lasting long against the rigours of warfare, least of all against the might of the Charr forces, and they would show her no mercy, such was their bestial brutality. Why, even Althea, beloved daughter of the noble Duke Barradin, was rumoured to have been taken by the feral scum, and few were in doubt that her fate would be an unhappy one.

 In truth, Tydus was weary. He had spent much of the day having to sift through the seemingly endless procession of the young, the inarticulate, and the unwary. It was hard to issue harsh judgements upon their enthusiasm, or to disbelieve their fervent loyalty and patriotism towards the King, but he had been far too lenient in his recruitments already, and it was time, perhaps, to make a stand this once.

 Nevertheless, the girl remained, boldly expectant.

 Her eyes rolled downwards away from his scrutiny, and just as he feared she was about to weep and confirm his initial belief of her unsuitability, he followed her gaze and realised she was prompting him to read the letter with which she had first introduced herself. Forged documents, no doubt, fake certification of her age, probably written in her own hand. It was not an unfamiliar trick. He had read many such vouchsafes in recent days, and he dismissed each and every one, relying instead upon his gut instinct and his years of combat experience to decide who should go back to tending their father's fields and who should face the blades and bows of the Charr.

 Unfolding the parchment with patience exhausted, he found that he had been wrong. It was not a document of any sort, but a letter, the script fine and elaborate, the ink as dark and crimson as the blood upon his garments.

“Come along, Tejria, you are not concentraiting!” her father urged, trying none to hard to disguise the frustration in his coaxing.

 She screwed her watering eyes tightly shut, calling upon the well of power within herself, the purple stream of life that was a part of her. Almost whimpering with the exertion, Tejria tried to manipulate the forces building deep inside her tiny frame, commanding it to bend to her will.

 “I am trying!” she screamed, her voice echoing throughout the cold air of the autumn day, clenching her fists and feeling the powers slip through her grasp as she did so.

 And then they were gone, flooding from her and dissipating into the ether. They seemed to take her strength with them, and she felt her knees weaken, her body crumpling to the ground. She fought back tears of anguish, angry with herself that the closer she seemed to grow to taking control of her abilities, the faster they escaped her.

 She felt a hand on her shoulder, and opened her eyes. “It’s okay", she heard her father whisper. "I am sorry, I think I have overworked you today".

 Aware of the disappointment that lingered in his words, she shook off his hand. "I can do it", she snapped, unsure if she meant getting to her feet unaided, or voicing her determination to prove her worth as a caster. Slowly, unsteadily, she picked herself up off the soil, trying not to let him see how she swayed from the dizzy exhaustion of it all. Feigning calm, she tried to dust her clothes free of dirt with an air of nonchalance.

 Her father watched her, suddenly aware of how much she resembled her mother. Not merely in her fine, almost statuesque beauty, but in her mannerisms and her temperament. Just like her mother, Tejria was anxious not to let him down, and he gave a silent prayer that it was not their shared destiny to do so. He could not bear such a loss again.

 So as not to hurt her pride further, he let her gather her wits about her, trying hard not to show his concern.

 “You have the power within you Tejri’, we both know that. You just need to learn to harness it", he comforted, taking his reading lens from his pocket and polishing it on his shirt. "We both remember the struggles your brother had when the time came for him too".

 Tejria remained silent as she stalked back to their home, leaving her father to trail a few steps in her wake. Not for the first time, she felt more cursed than blessed.  This “power”, the essence of her family, was a blight upon her. Although nobody quite knew why, it had always been strongest on her father's side of the family, passed down to her through their bloodline, another reason to despise him. Unlike the showmanship of elementalism, or the obvious prowess of a good warrior, the talents of the mesmer were more esoteric, less overt, and required patience to nurture - a quality she found herself lacking, almost as much as her father seemed to lack the time to spare her.

 Her older brother, Tejarnai, taking on the mantle of his chosen skill, had made it look effortless, but the men of her family always had. She had seen him practise first upon beasts of the field, then upon friends, before finally taking his gifts to war. As if to make her feel even less worthy, he had sometimes reduced his abilities to a game to entertain, making light of his skills to confuse and confound, to wrack minds with doubt and despair, even inducing imaginary pains and weariness in his schoolmates, making his tutors hop with phantom sensations of lameness.

 Despite this playfulness, his mastery of the power had earned him favouritism from their father. At first, she had been glad when he finally set out to seek his destiny, but now she wished he had stayed. Perhaps then she might not have felt the weight of her father's expectation, his dissatisfaction that she was no equal to Tejarnai.

 They ate in a wordless, awkward atmosphere, both brooding upon the day past. Eventually, it grew too much for her to bear.

 “I'm going to go for a walk,” she said, putting down her spoon and rising from her chair. If her father heard her, he gave no sign, putting aside his plate and busying himself with the books upon his shelf.

 
 Tejria walked through the forest, cursing her father under her breath, the growing fires of anger within blinding her to the beauty of nature around her. Was it so very hard for him to accept her for who she really was? Could he not be satisfied to have an heir to his power already, without forcing his daughter to suffer failure after failure each day?

 She envied the simple village girls, whose only concerns were fresh flowers in their hair and the pursuit of a handsome, young suitor to give them children and food upon their table. Nobody expected anything more of them, so why should she have to suffer standards that only a man was supposed to meet?

 She supposed it was simply the course her life had been meant to take. After all, it had scarcely been an ordinary family, and the women within it seemed doomed to suffer more than most. The circumstances of her life, particularly of her birth, were not subjects that she often contemplated, such was the tragic nature of events. Many believed that her mother had been too old to bear a child, but again her father had cursed her with his seed, and in so doing had condemned her to death. Tejria could hardly imagine how distraught he must have been to find his wife not only dead, but having given birth to a girl. Had he simply been satisfied to have Tejarnai as his only heir, as his mother had wished, then all their troubles would have been at an end.

 Once again, she realised how much things had changed once her brother had set out to defend Ascalon against the marauding forces of the Charr. Had he remained, she was in no doubt that her abilities would have flourished by now, such was his patience and goodwill. Unlike their father, Tejarnai was given of a boundless spirit for adventure, always up to mischief, teasing her but always in jest, always quick to take her by the hand and brighten the day with the warmth of his smile. He had been the first to recognise talents within her that he did not share, and though their father scoffed at the notion, her brother encouraged her. He told her she had the makings of a seer, one whose dreams spoke of the future, and when he set out upon his quest, he told her that it would be of comfort to her, because she would always know that he was safe.

 Weary from her rambling, Tejria sat herself at the edge of their small village, by the river, gazing into the gently flowing waters, thinking about her mother.
 
 “Tejria…” a voice whispered faintly.
 
 She looked around to find no one there, and this puzzled her more, for she could feel the presence that lay behind the softly spoken words.
  
 There was something familiar about the sound, something she knew but had never thought to hear in her waking moments. Often, she had dreamed about a dragon, dwelling high in the mountains, a great beast of silvery scales whose eyes saw far beyond the granite confines of her domain. Most of the time she didn’t speak, but sometimes she warned Tejria of events to come, in a voice that seemed as old as the wisdom of her words. It was her nocturnal communing with the creature that had first alerted Tejarnai to his sister's capabilities for prophecy, and the same dreams that had earned her her father's scorn. Tejria had wondered if he was more afraid of the accuracy of the foresight that the dragon provided for her.
 
 “Tejria, follow my voice", it repeated, more insistent this time, breaking the young girl from her reverie.
 
 Transfixed, the voice lead her back to the confines of her house. Sensing her father pottering about at the stove on the other side of the hallway, Tejria crept up the stairs, listening for the voice to guide her onwards, until finally, she found herself in her father's room.
 
 “Tejria, it is here", the ancient voice whispered.
 
 She looked around, baffled, for she could see nothing, but as the whispered sound came again, she realised that it came from beneath her, and felt the floorboard that creaked beneath her tip-toeing feet shift almost imperceptibly. She knew what to do now, her fingers shaking as she pried the floorboard loose, a cloud of dust belching from the opening in the floor.
 
 What lay within the dark confines was an old book, its binding withered like the skin of an ancient. Hastily, fearing her father's footsteps upon the stair, Tejria snatched it, replaced the floorboard, and crept as fast as she dared to her room.

 The book had no title, its pages handwritten in strange, scarlet ink, the style florid and detailed - a woman's hand. On closer examination, what she had, at first glance, taken to be a diary was revealed to be something far, far unsettling. Throughout, it was littered with curses, hexes, and the foretelling of many dark, unspeakable events. Despite her horror at its contents, Tejria found herself fascinated. That night, she scarcely slept, and when she did, her dreams were troubled by the words and incantations that lay upon those timeless parchment pages. What troubled her more was the way her mind seemed to have embraced the text, memorising whole tracts word for word almost without meaning to. It was clear to her that the volume concerned itself with the theory and practise of necromancy, a dark art, known throughout the world, but barely spoken of. She also knew that casters of necromancy existed in a netherworld between the living and the dead, and that, therefore, this made the book completely useless to her.
 
 Yet why was she so fascinated, and finding it almost impossible not to recall obscure, magical words that she could never use?

 Of course, she was avoiding the true revelation, the understanding as to why the book had lain where it had all those years, and precisely who had secreted it there. Even the strange writing bore some little resemblance to Tejria's own, so why did she find it so hard to accept that it had belonged to her mother?

 “You are really progressing Tejria", her father complimented. "Tejarnai will be proud the next time he sees you".

 They were standing together in the fields surrounding the village, choosing a quiet privacy for her lessons. Her father could barely hide his satisfaction with her efforts this time, clapping his hands in delight as she channeled her powers into various woodland creatures, making some flee in terror, while others grew suddenly tired, their legs giving way beneath them. When a wild hog had emerged from the scrubby woodland to the east, it had charged them, angered at these strangers trespassing upon it's territory. Within moments, Tejria had summoned her strength, letting it settle upon the ferocious beast in the form of an agonising pain in it's hind legs, and it had fled, squealing and confused.
 
 Oftentimes, Tejria had waited for the perfect occasion in which to bring up the subject of the book, now her prized and secret possession, which she had herself concealed beneath the boards of her own room. In time, she had come to realise that no such instant exists in life, yet she was as surprised as her father when she asked: “What about my mother? Would she be proud of me?”
 
 She turned to face him, her expression a battlefield of mixed emotions. He refused to return her gaze.
 
 “Why do you never talk to me about her?” she persisted.
 
 He wiped his forehead, and turned away. When his hand fell back at his side, she saw it tremble.
 
 “And why did you never tell me she was a necromancer?” she pressed.
 
 At last, he turned upon her, his mouth agape, his face stricken with shock.
 
 His reluctance to speak made her furious, her voice rising to a scream. “Tell me, father! I have a right to know!”
 
 When at last he spoke, it was quietly, reflective, all the dominance in his voice drained away. He told her everything, of the birth of Tejarnai that had left her mother dying, and his impotence as he grew to realise that his own powers were unable to sustain her. In desperation, he had called upon a mystic who dwelled far into the woodlands. The wise man had spent many long hours with her, until finally, life began its first glimmer in her eyes. Before his work was done, he had warned Tejria's father that his wife had been trapped between worlds, her spirit experiencing all that others were meant to see only upon their death. From that point on, he told, she had become something that many would fear, and whom the ignorant would seek to destroy.

 It had always been said that those whose lives spanned the worlds of the dead and the living could never bear children, for their offspring would be cursed, never to exist in either realm. Tejarnai was to be there only child, and they lavished all their love and attention upon the boy. Until the day she found herself pregnant again.
 
 In panic, Tejria's father had sought counsel with many great minds, mages, wizards, seers and priests. None advised that the child should live, and some even felt that it would be best for all if neither mother nor infant were to see another dawn. Yet he was unable to persuade his beloved wife to part with the child, and she made him swear to permit the birth take place, even if it meant sacrificing her own life so that her baby might live. For she knew by then that she was a true, if unwilling, initiate of the necromancer's art, and that such souls, being neither dead nor alive, could only bring life by transmuting their own, and that every day that her child slumbered within her womb, her life was ebbing away. If she lived to see the birth, she would certainly not survive it.

 When all was told, Tejria looked her father in the eyes. For the first time in many a year, there was genuine sorrow in his eyes, unflinching at the troubled combination of love and resentment in her own.
 
 “I hate you, father!" she at last whispered. "I am sorry I am not the perfect offspring that you found in Tejarnai, and I am sorry that I don't share your strength! Most of all, I am sorry my mother chose me to kill her! But I am my mother's daughter, just as Tejarnai is his father's son, and nothing you can say or do will ever change that now. I now understand your wish to make me more like yourself, because you sought to prevent me becoming more like her, but it's much too late for that now!”

 Then, cruelly, she added: "My mother is more alive to me now than you have ever been".
 
 With that, ignoring the tears forming in his eyes, Tejria turned from him and began the long walk home alone.

 That was to be the last time she ever spoke to her father, for it was that night that the bandits came.

 Tejria was asleep in her room, dreaming of her mother, trying to find her voice in that of the great dragon who had come to her more and more since the discovery of the book, when she first heard the screaming out in the streets of her village. From her window, she saw a vision of chaos and flame outside. The bandits had caught the villagers unawares, and had soon set out to loot and slaughter everyone who dared to resist them. They were barbaric and without mercy, raping wives before their husbands, slitting the bellies of babes, trampling children into the bloodied ground. No one was safe.

 All thoughts of their quarrel cast from her mind, Tejria thought only of protecting her father, hurrying into her clothes and wrenching open her door, trying hard to blot the pleas and sobbing that seemed to pervade their house.

 She found him standing outside her door, his face a mask of calm, that of a condemned man who had made peace with the world he was leaving behind. 

 “Forgive me, Tejria", he said softly, his hand reaching out to touch her head as if administering a blessing. Before she could react, recognising the enchantment that whispered upon his lips, she felt the full weight of his powers charging through her, bathing them both in a blaze of purple light, and she felt her body sink to the floor, paralysed.

 She knew that he had done it to protect her, but still she felt panic and fear as she lay crippled upon wood she was too numb to feel. Though her body was lifeless, her mind was active, racing, anguished, hearing the bedlam taking place outside, yet unable to shed a single tear.

 She thought of the book, laying just inches beneath her head, wishing for the dragon to tell her what she must do.

 When, at last, her senses returned, and her limbs shivered back into life, she knew she had reason to cry, for it could only mean that her father's powers had been slain with him.

 Trembling and weeping, she could think only of what had happened to her father, imagining all of the unspeakable acts she had seen the bandits commit inflicted upon his poor body, and her tears grew cold upon her skin as her face flushed with furious blood. She could hear their voices below, their grunting, mongrel dialect, their laughter. They would soon be making their way up the stairs, for nothing would have roused their interest more than the sobbing of a young, defenceless girl robbed of anyone to protect her.

 Hurriedly, and with a growing sense of purpose that swallowed up her grief, she slammed her door and began to prepare herself, her eyes closing, her body feeling swollen with mounting energies. Even her sense of loss could be made to serve her powers, channeling it and honing it until it felt like a mighty unseen sword by her side.

 When the first two bandits burst through the door, she was ready for them. Choosing her skills with care, and remembering the lessons of her father, she reached swiftly into their minds, ignoring how ugly and black they felt, and set to work. Confused and frenzied, they drew their blades and began to slash at the phantasms that sprang up around them, each one snatching handfuls of life from the savages with every blow they struck. In seconds, they were shrieking in pain, clutching at wounds that did not exist, but from which their souls bled nonetheless. 

 Hearing the dying agonies of their cohorts, more of the fiends appeared at the door, swords drawn and bathed in fresh blood. This was more than she had expected, and she battled bravely, chanting ancient curses upon them, struggling to stay focussed upon her attackers. Almost overwhelmed by her exertions, Tejria called forth a storm of chaos, watching as the bandits clutched their heads in blinded confusion, their bodies sparking and arching with repeated waves of devastating energy. Yet they fought on, slashing and thrusting wildly, sending fragments of wood and fabric flying into the air as their steel found a mark.

 With one frantic lunge, a bandit blade found her, a burst of fiery pain flowering in her belly. She staggered back, letting the storm hold them back while she looked down at her body, seeing warm blood blossom across her gown, and as that fatal flower opened up its petals to encompass her wilting body, she felt her energies falter and fail, the storm dying with her. This time, she felt the floorboards beneath her, the splinters in her hands and face, and she realised she had failed her father one last time, as darkness crept across her vision and the sounds of the dying bandits dwindled to nothing.

 She was dimly aware of her surroundings, although she could not tell if she was awake or not. Ebony night held her, cradling her lifeless body with strange affection. A figure began to emerge from the gloom, impossibly tall and swathed in a cloak the colour of ashes. Was this real, she wondered, her mind detached and uninvolved. Could this be Grenth himself, the dreaded guardian of the Underworld made flesh, god of ice and death, herald of decay and corruption, come to reap the harvest of souls? Was this the place that her mother had been those long hours after Tejarnai had been born, tormented and taunted by beings that strained to reach her, to drag her down into the depths into which not even the light of Dwayna could penetrate?

 She called out for her mother and father, but her only answer was a silence so deep that even echoes could not escape.

 It could not end like this, she cried within herself. What was to become of all the things the dragon had foretold? If she had any purpose to her life, it was surely not to find herself here, cast from the world without even the chance to avenge those whom she had seen butchered only precious moments ago. She thought of her father, his broken body lying somewhere, his skin cold, eyes staring out and seeing nothing.

 She implored Grenth, called upon his mercy, begged her to return to wreak retribution upon those who had sent her here. She screamed curses into his implacable visage, spending every ounce of her remaining life in one last debt of fury.

 The figure lifted back his cowl, letting her see what lay beneath, and though it scarcely resembled any kind of face she had seen before, she knew that it was smiling at her with all the patience that only immortal beings could convey.

 "Damn you, let me go!" she bellowed into the face, wrenching herself out of the grasp of the darkness, and running headlong into nothingness, her eyes searching for some hopeful glint of light.

 She hesitated, thinking hard. Something she had thought or said had brought her senses to sudden attention.

 "Glint", she said aloud.

 She became conscious of her room once more, but couldn't shake off the sensation that something was different.

 The lethal wound was still there, the blood flowing less now, but she felt nothing. She felt her skin had grown cold, and paler by comparison. She observed all of this with a strange detachment, as though she was merely an observer at her own demise. Yet she could move, hear, smell, feel, even rise to her feet without a moment's hesitation. She knew she was only seconds from passing back to the netherworld without a hope of return, that she must use these precious seconds to do something, but what?

 She was not alone, even though all that lay around her was human debris. Never had she felt this way, as if everywhere there were people, or spirits at least, calling out to her, goading her on.

 Unsteadily, she made her way down the stairs, stumbling across her father's lifeless body. She felt a strange compulsion, almost as if there was something of him left, reaching out to her, trying to help her. Without knowing how or why, Tejria felt his soul drift upwards from his mortal remains, like a last gasp of air being offered to her, and she took it gladly, feeling her strength return, but also sensing something almost poetic that she would go forward in her life carrying him within her.

 There were voices outside, and she edged nearer to the door, steadying herself for the terrible sight of bloodshed and catastrophe that lay without. The bandits were warming themselves around a hastily-arranged campfire, counting up the spoils of their victory, and recounting tales of slaughter both present and past. Confused, she realised that their's were not the voices that had called her from the house, for these were pained and tortured, pleading with her for something.

 "Let us help you", they chorused. "Use us", and then, with ill-disguised anger: "Avenge us!"

 At that moment, she became aware that the bandits had fallen quiet, their eyes upon her, greedy, slavering mouths grinning at the thought of one last kill. One by one, they rose from their ill-mannered banquet, and let their hands slowly settle upon the hilts of their weapons.

 "Don't worry", she called out to her unseen companions, "You will have your spilled blood repaid this night".

 Instinct overcame her, and as she reached out as if to embrace the night, the littered corpses stirred, their skin fluttering and tearing, clothes rustling as rough constructions of bone began to emerge, blind eyes blinking and fierce shards of sharpened skeleton stretching out in deference to her mastery over them.

 The bandits halted, their eyes wide with alarm, as they watched the small band of undead minions grow into an army, swaying and snarling and flexing themselves for their mistress's commands.

 Tejria smiled. "Look upon my horrors", she called. "Quake before their beauty, while you still have time".

 And with that, they pounced, charging as one towards the fleeing bandits. Some of the men, braver for drink, launched themselves at the young girl, swords drawn and screaming for her blood. Swiftly, her minions intercepted them, striking them down with unthinking, mechanical motions of their limbs, sending fine sprays of blood raining down upon the ground. A couple of the bandits successfully outran their opponents, heading for Tejria. As she felt the cool wind of their swinging blades upon her pallid flesh, she shut her eyes and vanished from beneath their assault, miraculously appearing over the corpse of a nearby bandit, his discarded life force flooding her veins with power. By now, the minions had caught up with the evasive bandits, and as they began to fall under the slashing steel of their swords, she held out her hands, palms uppermost, and her undead allies grew bloated with poisons that burst out onto the remaining scavengers, blinding them and sending them stumbling, choking and weakened, until they too felt the wrath of the bone army.

 With their mission complete, and the blood of their murderers gathering in thick pools upon the ground, the minions slowed to a stand-still, waiting upon their mistress.

 With a gracious bow, she bade them thanks and released them from her aura, their spirits leaping from the bone-armour and burrowing deep into the ground to seek entry into Grenth's kingdom. The lifeless bones hung in the air briefly, a statue-garden of surreal carnage, before they began to corrode, rapidly collapsing until they were no more than a scattering of broken ivory.

 Tejria looked upon her village, her home, for the first time free to take in the scene of desolation. Nothing remained, not a home, nor a neighbour, just ashes and death. She felt a single tear descend from her sorrowful eyes, tracing a line through the pallour of her cheek, but she refused to weep. She knew that part of her could not weep for the dead, for they would always be with her, whispering and guiding, waiting for her to call them back into existence when she had need of them. Now there was nothing left but to go ahead, to become the very thing she was meant to be.

 Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground, kneeling by the dying embers of the bandit's fire, and slipped a dagger from the scabbard of one of the dead men. She felt some satisfaction that he had not even had time to draw it, and held onto that thought as she pressed the blade to her forehead, carving down and around her left eye in curved, elaborate movements. As the metal cut its last inch into her flesh, she felt her powers growing, her chest humming with energy as though she carried a beehive within her breast.

 "Well done, my child", said the voice that had called to her by the riverbank, the dragon from her dreams speaking to her again at last. It seemed as though she had known that voice her whole life, and beyond.

 Closing her eyes, Tejria concentrated, letting the world around her drift away like a ship without its crew, and there she was, the magnificent creature who had been her guide for so very long, the dragon Glint.

 "It is you?" Tejria said, finally addressing the mighty beast by the name she had heard spoken of with awe in so many myths and legends. "Glint?"

 "You have become so beautiful, Tejria Shamat", she replied, her voice drifting into the girl's head. "Your mother would be so proud of you, my child. Just as your father is, I'm sure".

 "Beautiful?" Tejria couldn't agree. "I'm a monster. Look at me, look at what I have done this night. Did you cause all of this?"

 "No", came the dragon's reply.

 "But you let it happen! There's nothing left alive, not even me!" The young girl's voice cracked, though she fought to control her raging tide of emotions. "Did you betray me? You've always been there to warn me of these things before, so why not now, why not tonight?"

 "Because", said the voice, fading to a whisper, "It is part of the prophecy..."

Scarcely believing his eyes, Tydus slowly read the letter the young girl had given him, his mouth agape and something like awe flourishing inside him as he took in every word.

Glint has chosen me, I do not know why, but I am part of a prophecy that I can not deny. My entire village was destroyed by men who were left with nothing because of the Charr. They sent me to the gates of death itself and Grenth himself granted me an audience, but I returned. Whether this was through my own defiance or some grand design beyond my control, I do not know. What I do know is that I am not the person I once was, I am forever damned, a reaper of souls. The Charr infected the bandits with that same animal cunning and lack of compassion that was used against my people, a cycle that has been carried on through me. But I defied my destiny. I ended the cycle by destroying them for their cowardice.

I am sent here on Glint’s orders, one of the Chosen, who will meet with her in my journey to her lair, revealed within her prophecy. But there is a part of the prophecy which Glint did not reveal to me, but which I am going to create for myself. For something bothers me, Glint could have saved my village by warning me of the events to come, but she chose to not to. I do realise that if she did I would not have met death, nor would I be of the Chosen, but the part of me that is still human seeks revenge.

Therefore I will follow Glints orders, for a prophecy is something you cannot deny, but they can be twisted to your own will. And when we meet in Glints lair, I will have my revenge for her lack of humanity, on behalf of my village, my friends and my father.

I am Tejria Shamat of Ascalon, daughter of Harvoc the mesmer, and Verataria the necromancer. I walk with the Chosen, the damned, the reapers of souls, a mistress of illusions and a conjurer of pain.

I am  the slayer of Glint.

© Richard Turner and Russell Flinn