11th Day of the Harvest in the 32nd Year of the Sphinx
Harold the Red-Elf Harlequin and Galdor the Elgarian Tree-Elf sit beneath the light of the full Harvest Moon amid crackling firewood and dancing yellow flames. They tell each other stories of their youth and dream up fantastic tales of adventure. They are avid story tellers, students of Prattlers’ Cove and gypsy caravans. And Harold, he graduated with honors from the Tharquin School of Elven Arts, where he studied 4 years under a prominent master bard. Yet despite the intensity of their tales, the night marches on and their stories eventually wane old. They retire to staring into flames, mesmerized by flickering firelight and dancing shadows.
A muffled crash of a small campfire branch collapsing under it own weight breaks the silence and throws a shower of sparks into the cool midnight air. Harold ponders aloud, “Galdor—look at that. What if we could find something to spark our lives? What if we could become part of the adventures of which we so eloquently speak?”
Little tongues of flame trapped beneath the fallen branch begin to lick out. “We are imprisoned in daily rituals, chores, and traditions. We need to reach out from under the foundation of our boring lives; we need to find something that ignites us and allows us to make a positive difference in other peoples lives.”
Flames soon engulf the fallen branch from all sides, and the dying branch throbs and glows an eerie red. Shortly thereafter it crumbles into ash, and remains forever disguised among the other cinders. Two young elves ponder on through the night…