Days passed, and I tended my wounded face as best I could, but my strength weakened, and I knew I could not go much longer. I was hurt, lost, hungry and scared, and I was seven years old.

When the hunting party found me, I was unconscious and barely clinging to life. I was taken to their clan and the Empaths did what they could, but I was left blind in one eye and horribly scarred about my face. It was almost a month before I could even talk again. I couldn't tell them my name, so they made up their own for me. They called me Gruesome.

As soon as my wounds permitted, I picked up a wooden sword and began to train with the hunters. They laughed a bit at this runt among them, needing two hands to heft his toy sword, but I was determined. Before my 13th birthday, "gruesome" had another meaning, for I was becoming a vicious fighter. Never again would I stand helpless and watch someone die.

At eighteen, I had learned all I could from the tribal hunters, so I packed up my few belongings (which consisted primarily of personal effects recovered from the body of my father). I bade farewell to Aesry Surlaenis'a, heading to the mainland and the chance to train under the legendary Guildmasters of the Crossing.

I had some skill in weapons already, certainly as much as any in my adopted tribe did, but once in the Crossing I learned how little I actually knew. They taught me swordsmanship. They taught me hand-to-hand combat. They taught me discipline. Most importantly, they taught me the Code, and the values of honor, of truth, of respect, and of the importance of wielding my power responsibly.