1
It was a time of fire and smoke. A time of magic and wonder. But for me, it was a time for maturity. It was a time for sacrifice. I was twelve when the blood of womanhood baptized me into the bonds of maturity. Thus, thrusting me into the acts of a grown woman, forcing me to leave behind a girl that I once was. With only a bow draped over my shoulder and a quiver strapped to my back. I peered into the dark unknown, known to most as Maturity also known as uncertainty. Thus, killing off the child that I once was.
Before the baptismal of womanhood, I remember the carefree years running Father's lunch that Mother packed in a tin pail. I ran so fast that I could not feel the ground beneath my feet. It was a joyous time, a chance to see my father in action, taking charge over the young and old. Putting young headstrong men in their place. I watched men with swords striking men with shields that were strapped to their forearms. I remember standing tall and proud in the open field with Father's lunch pail in hand. I loved the sound of wood crackling as the men practiced, and the smell of dirt beneath my feet. "Father!" I cried.
As I look back at my life, I see reasons I do not fear death, duly to my father. And life as well, for that matter. I fear not life or death, but only growing stagnant and stale. It was Father's stories that he regaled to me throughout the years that took the sting out of death and life. Only way I could describe father's storytelling was descriptive. The way he spoke of battle would make the listener feel the listener was truly on the battlefield, along with Father. Of course I cannot speak for others, but only speak for myself, however I could only imagine if others listened to my father's stories they too would feel as I did. So, I will only speak from my perspective.
Rye, my father's words, was like a poet, painting images upon my mind, like ones in fine halls hung on walls of honor. With every breath father spoke, was like a painter's brush that formed long clean strokes. But not all were clean strokes by his words. Some were blots of chaos that represented war and death. Then blots turned to smears of violence as I heard cries of young men that had lost their life and limb in the waters that once were clear and drinkable, now muddied by blood and flesh, forever painted on a canvas of my mind by my father's own words.
Never did I wince at the gore of my father's tales. In fact, I romanticized the act of war itself. Only seeing the glory of my father's battles. And with that notion, I placed myself on the battlefield along with my father. It was like I could smell the smoke of war and hear swords drawn from its sheaths. I then imagine thrusting my sword into the chest of my enemy. Father's words made me thirsty for blood and glory.
With youth comes age and wisdom. My thirst for blood and glory has now diminished since I was a young girl. Like all things in life, gold and silver shines less. Blood and glory now lay dormant in the past. For it was when I saw battle for the first time that I learned how foolish I was. Young men's faces racked with pain and fear are now distant memories. Grieving mothers that once nursed their boys from their breasts now stand by their graves with only memories. How foolish I was.
But I declare there is a need for such violence, for true evil needs to be brought down to its knees—not the weak.
If there was one lesson to take away from my father. The one I would take is to never look back. Always keep looking forward. One should never look back. It is moving forward that keeps us alive.
The rest I stored through my youth and into the mature stages of my life. I still today lean upon my father's words when I find myself in times of trouble. And with that, I miss my father dearly.
2
I what to speak on behalf of Gate One, which is known as Masa. Years have run dry and what is behind me should shed light on things to come. I lost my father seven years after the strangest blizzard in Masa's history. Rye, (my father) laid under a weeping willow tree trapped within his own dream.
Lillian came to me with false hopes as a deceitful light. She came to me at my weakest. I had done and said things I should not have said to my ailing aunt. Lillian did not adhere to my rejections. Instead, she showed me my father where he lay in a sphere that floated in her palm.
Sins of my father will come for the twelve gates, as my half-brother named Alexander.
Thoughts of the past haunted my soul. I thought it was wise to expel my thoughts on the pages of this book to rid the demons of the past and sharing my experiences that I had with Lillian and Alexander. But my book is more than that. It is a journey to find my father and finding myself along the way.
The only hope I have... Is that this book reaches out to all that will take up arms against evil.
We do not need half-heartedness, but action! And I am speaking to all the Gates of twelve. I will continue to fight as long as there is blood flowing from my veins. And help whoever takes up the challenge. There is a caveat that should not be unrated. Read every page of this book before laying down your life. Make sure this is the challenge that you will take on. There are still things you need to know about the Gates and its inhabitants.
And so, my story begins at fourteen in a land known as Masa.