Freya remembered the old days, back when she was just a little child.
Her mother would take her outside, playing with her on the gardens near the Warhawkes city walls , weaving crowns out of daisies and blue orchids.
Together they'd sit outside during full moons, enjoying the pale moonlight shining on their skin and the stars sparkling around it, whilst the from the sun heated clay kept them warm.
Most of the time she would sit on her mother's lap, listening to her stories about the moon spirit, old legends
about how the moonlight kept the dark elves sane and that one day, if she passed she would join the moon.
"And one day you are going to go there too, Moonchild"
In the beginning, Freya would think of these stories as nothing but fictional, but as the time passed she started to believe in them more and more and she
felt lost, unable to decide whether to believe her beloved mother or the other dark elves praising their ancestors and the former chieftains that had left them into the afterlife.
The years passed and her confusion wandered to the back of her mind. Now that she wasn't a young one anymore, she was trained in melee and range fighting.
Her father would take her to training sessions, teaching her how to swing a sword, to throw a dagger and how to shoot an arrow. He wished for her to become part of the Tahorran'okar.
After some time she developed a basic knowledge and routine, but it was obvious that she would never be more than an average fighter.
In her frustration, she turned to the arts of magic. She watched in awe, as other Elves moved things with their thoughts or creating short versions of elements.
And she knew... one day she was going to be one of them.
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