Born in the wasteland tundra, among a tribe of scavengers, Nathi was the last born of the tribe leader. Her initiation into the hunters was the sacrifice of the first born of a conquered tribe, in the honor of their god, Agurash. Refusing to be subdued to their cutthroat barbarism, her sword was not lifted.
Smited by the wrath of the council of elders, her tribe elected to exile her, leaving Iakin, the tribe leader, her own father, to cut the ropes of her airship. She landed in the middle of nothingness, beaten and bloodied by the creatures of the night, she must find a way to civilization, but now, with only one thing on her mind; decimating the tribe to its last child. She spends the first few months tending to her wounds, and feeding on insects and critters that fell in the hole she dug as shelter. Until one night, the sun sets to leave behind a crescent blood moon, the resounding rumbles of a storm are nearing, red clouds wash over her head and darkness takes her.
She doesn’t fall unconscious, and yet, no light. The darkness slowly turns into fog, slowly dissipating from her eyes. The air is cold and damp, and the faint taste of salt water feels humid in her nose. The black fog stretches in front of her as she puts one foot in front of the other. Her walk is tedious. The jagged rock hurt her bare feet, yet she walks, heavily. The edge of a cliff is soon in sight, and she sees the mark of two footprints engraved in the ground, in front of which a stone hand rises, grasping a green glowing orb. A hand rests on her shoulder, and a familiar voice speaks. Her uncle, chief of the Zehlun, holy warriors of the wasteland, holds her nape: “Born in stone, bound by stone. Stand where your forefathers stood and stare into the Abyss”. His hand lifts, and the green orb floats to meet her chest. Her vision clears in a flash, and from the cliff, right under her, she can now see stretches of marshes and puddled murky blood, rivers of still water infested with skin and corpses. In the horizon, a gigantic orbicular mass crashing into the earth, with splinters hovering in the sky, and on the ground, creatures hunting, devouring, in a turmoil of chaos.
She feels, once again, the grasp on her shoulder, and her eyes, in a blink, are wide open in a clear vision of fiery anger. In her hands, a great sword rusted along the edges, hacking and slashing through bodies of faceless armors. She holds no control of this body, yet she watches the carnage unfurl. The enemies end, and she stands atop a pile of shredded corpses, feeling a smile form on her face. The rage settles calmly. A pleasant feeling of satisfaction, contentment.