When I was a little girl growing up in Yaro on the island of Tyvia, I was never afraid of the dark. This was not because I didn't believe in monsters hiding in the shadows, but because I believed that if they existed, than all other types of magic must exist as well. Therefore, I would have magic to fight them off. Not exactly the most flawless logic, but what can you expect from a small child?

I can remember being so excited at the prospect of becoming special, unique, important, that I would sit up in my small bed made up of a straw stuffed mattress on a rickety wooden frame, drape the threadbare blanket around my shoulders and stare off into the dark so oppressive and complete, and wait for the monsters to come. I figured that as soon as they appeared my amazing new powers would sprout, and I was ready to face anything to get them. Again, very flawed logic, but it did help ensure that I never was afraid.

Eventually I grew up and left such fantasies behind. No longer did thoughts of slaying demons and fighting back evil consume my mind, but rather every day worries of where would I get the money for this month's rent or how dangerous it was becoming to walk the streets of the city alone.

I married at the age of seventeen, as was common, to the son of shoemaker. It was considered a step up for me being the daughter of a poor fisherman, and I heard several cruel jokes about how Faren, my betrothed, had to settle because no one better would have him. Then they would all laugh at both his and my expense.

When I had first been introduced to Faren and told that our marriage had been arranged, I too thought he was ugly and slow. I was no prize either, shoulders to broad and brawny, built more like a man than a woman some had said, but that had meant nothing to me then. I was still a young girl dreaming of riding off into the sunset with her dashing prince. I was bitter and rude, impossible to deal with it, and looking back I am ashamed of my actions.

In time, however, I came to look past such surface qualities and truly loved my husband. Others may have thought that his eyes were too far apart, his nose was too big or his teeth weren't straight enough, but it no longer mattered to me. He was caring, he was kind, he was patient, he listened when I talked, took an interest in my interest, always did his best and was smart in his own way. Faren was the best man I have ever met and I wish I could have spent the rest of my life with him.

The happiest day of my life was the day when our son was born, my little Erik. He was such a happy and healthy baby, the joy of our lives. For three short years we were happy despite our less than wealthy status, but then came the worst day of my life when I learned that the real monsters are men and, at that time, I had no power to defeat them.

As much as I loved my husband, he had one flaw that quite literally was the death of him. He gambled despite my warnings and heart felt pleas, burying our family in debt. This only fueled his addiction as he gambled away everything in his quest to win it back. Even in my own home I was terrified that enforcers would come calling, demanding money we didn't have and take our blood as payment instead.

Quite ironically, when the thugs showed up at our door, it was not because they were looking for our money. In the gambling dens in Yaro's underworld, the only thing worse than whelching on a debt was to be caught cheating. They dragged his beaten and bloody form back to our home, barred the doors and set the place aflame with us inside.

Smoke filled my lungs and stung my eyes. I tried so hard to save Faren, I really did, but he was too heavy and already unconscious from the earlier punches and blows. I couldn't move him no matter how hard I tried. I had Erik to think about, so I had no choice but to leave him behind no matter how much it hurt.

In the cold, harsh climate of Tyvia, windows are a rarity in dwellings so no easy escape there. But the cold did encourage buildings built partially below ground so I ran down the hatch to the cellar with Erik in my arms. The cellar door leading outside was also barred, but huddled in the doorway we were safe from the flames above, consuming the wooden walls but unable to feed upon the room made of packed dirt, and the cracks between the wooden boards of the door let in enough fresh air that I survived, but the same could not be said for my son.

He had breathed in too much smoke, they had said. It was a miracle that I had survived, they had exclaimed. But what kind of miracle was this? I was left completely alone, my beloved son and dear husband gone, all my belongings were destroyed, I had no way to support myself and I had no way of knowing if those thugs would be back to finish the job. No, it would have been better had I died alongside my family.

An empty husk of my former self, I left the shores of Tyvia on the first ship using the money gained from selling my wedding ring. There was nothing left for me.

For ten years I have wandered. I have seen so much of the Isles, even set foot on the continent beyond, a truly amazing full of untold wonders and even more dangers.

Now, as I tromp down the gangplank to the crowded docks of Yaro, I'm struck with a sudden question: What makes a place a home? After a decade away from the shores of Tyvia, can it still be considered my home? Or is it simply a frozen island filled with bitter memories and past regrets?

Walking through the streets of the city I once knew inside and out, I am struck by a feeling. It is the same feeling I had on the beaches of Serkonos, in the Festival of Churners on Morley, in the factories of Gristol. Isolation, loneliness, unbelonging, foreignness. I am a stranger here now. After all this time, the Siv from Yaro is dead and gone, and in her place is the Siv from Nowhere.

So many changes have happened, and not just to the city. When I had first left, I was a simple wife working as a launder to earn some extra money. Now, I am a hardened mercenary, carving out a reputation for myself. My brawny figure finally worked for me, and though I was looked down upon for being a woman, dead man can't exactly speak out against me. Beat down enough lowlife scum and prove just how tough you are and people will take you seriously regardless of your gender. Blood become my currency, starting out as a hired thug until I gained enough experience to work as a bodyguard for minor nobles or wealthy merchants, and then I signed on as an armed escort for an expedition and my life changed once again.

The poor quarter. Covered in a layer of dirt with ragtag groups of children in ripped clothing roaming the streets. It is the same in every city, the less fortunate all crammed into one area to keep them out of the sight of their betters. The beggars and pickpockets, conmen and thieves keep their distance, less because they are afraid of me and more because they are afraid of the claymore on my back. Not the best weapon, crude but effective. I didn't buy it to look pretty but to protect my life, and the same went for the heavy iron armor.

It isn't long before I am stopped by a band of rough looking men armed with notched swords and rusted cudgels. I've been through this all before whenever I come to a new city. Everyone thinks the woman playing at being a warrior is an easy mark for a shakedown, 'cause women can't possibly be good at anything other than cooking and cleaning. No way they can actually fight. Knock out some teeth, crack a few skulls and that idea usually fades pretty quick.

The usual speech. "What do you think you're doing her missy, blah blah blah, street belongs to us, blah blah blah, pay the toll, blah blah blah."

I don't even bother drawing my weapon. A quick punch to the leader's head before they can react, sweep his feet out from under him then plant a foot on his back.

There's always one who presses the fight, doesn't know when to quit. A man with light blonde hair raises a sword to attack. As he brings it down, my hand darts out to grab his hand and squeeze, breaking his fingers. The sword clatters to the ground.

"Now if we've got all that business out of the way," I say cooly, "I need to speak with Stengar."

I release the man's hand and he retreats to the back of the group, nursing his broken fingers and looking at me darkly. The man on the ground tries to squirm out from under my foot and snarls at me.

"Le'me up you little bitch!"

"How do you know 'bout Stengar?" another asks, seemingly unconcerned about his companion.

"Lucieno sent me. It would seem the last shipment your pathetic excuse of a gang sent out was a little light."

This is a blatant lie. If Lucieno even suspected someone was trying to cheat him, that someone would be torn limb from limb. Had a light shipment arrived in Serkonos, he would have sent a small army of his men to burn the Stengar's operation to the ground, not just one person to give a stern warning. Everyone knows this, but I'm banking on everyone's fear of Lucieno keeping them from sending away a representative.

It works. A flicker of fear appears in the man's eyes and even the one under my foot stills.

"Now, are you going to take me to him or do I have to beat his location out of you?"

Stupid thugs, large in muscle, small in mind, so easy to manipulate. They take me straight to an old warehouse near a private dock, the chill air carrying the overpowering stench of fish. The criminal underground is so much more... cultured back in Serkonos where I started my career as hired muscle after leaving the factories of Gristol behind me. There is technically no slavery in the Isles, but with the horrid conditions, measly pay and lack of options, there may as well have been. Cultured is not a word often associated with crime, but things are organized there, structured, and you can be sure there isn't any gang bosses using cold, fish smelling warehouses as bases back there.

I am led to an office in the back, taking note of the number and placement of all the guards. My chances of getting out alive aren't very high, but I plan on fighting until my last breath. For Faren. For Erik.

I wait outside the room while one of the thugs goes in, speaks to Stengar for a moment then comes back out and waves me in. The office is spartan, the walls free of any decoration and the worn desk unladen of any papers. The only other items in the room is a shoddy looking chair and a multitude of empty wine bottles scattered about. Really, it looks like the desk is only there for looks. I highly doubt any work gets done in here.

Stengar stands behind the desk in a rumpled blue coat spotted with wine stains. His black hair shot through with grey is messy almost like he had just been sleeping and his light blue eyes are bloodshot. He reeks of alcohol and I can't help but think that if I really had been sent by Lucieno I would immediately recommend disposing of this drunken disgrace for someone more reliable and less likely to pass out on a moment's notice.

Just seeing this man fills me with a burning hatred and blinding furry. Revenge is close now and my hands are shaking. Maybe when all of this is finally over my dreams will be free of scorching flames and the acrid smell of smoke.

"So, what's this issue we seem-"

My left hand glows blue, the light spilling out from beneath my iron gauntlet. I thrust it forwards towards Stengar, spreading my fingers wide. An invisible force, like a massive blast of wind, shatters the desk into splinters and Stengar is sent flying back into the wall. I hear the distinct sound of his ribs snapping and the back of his head slams against wooden planks with a sharp crack. His body falls to the ground like a discarded doll, his lifeless eyes staring back at me.

A quick death is too good for him after what he has done, after the orders he has given. The urge to draw it out, make him feel every ounce of pain I have suffered through after he had my family killed, was strong. But I can't let pain and misery be how I honour their memory. A quick end would have to do.

The door slams open and in runs two of Stengar's men, drawn in by the noise. Another blast sends them back, though not as strong as before. It will take time before I can summon that kind of power again.

The expedition to the continent had been... enlightening. I had been unsure on whether to take the job or not, having heard all the rumors about the place. But then again, what had I had to lose? My life was all I had left since the night of the fire, and it was not something I valued all too highly. A party of twenty had entered the hot and humid jungle. One had returned, half dead and incoherent, but possessing a wonderful gift. Ten years after the monsters appeared, I finally got the power to fight them.

The floor of the warehouse ran red with blood. My claymore cut down many, my magic sent more flying. With their boss dead and, more importantly, no one to pay them for their efforts, the rest fled. You can't just shove a weapon into someone's hands and expect them to instantly become a veteran warrior. Considering idiotic thugs don't have a training plan, they aren't all that tough opponents.

What a shoddy operation. Serkonos is so much better.

I step out of the warehouse into the cold, Tyvian air. How horrible it was to be back home. Friends of Stengar would be sure to come looking for me. 'Friends' would be a generous term, I suppose. More like 'business partners'. Most would prefer to shake my hand but would still try to have me killed. Letting the one who killed a high ranking criminal walk would be bad for their reputation. And those unnconected to Stengar will try to kill me so they can boast about how they took down someone able to destroy a whole a base single handedly.

So, I have officially painted a giant target on my back and now everyone would be coming for me. My chances of survival have just dropped considerably. That's fine.

Beating the odds is kinda what I do.