[b]Erin Farain
[u]Evading Fate, Deliar[/u][/b]

Few things were as bad as a midwinter day. The biting chill in the air meant people stayed home or sought out the warmth of a tavern instead of strolling the streets. Falling snow meant sleet and slush ended up all over an already dank-looking floor. Crisp papers seem to rip and tear easier in the fresh air, and there was no way mother was about to let there be any sort of fire made to keep the heat up. With a house full of flammable materials, it wasn't a hard to see why, but that meant the only option was to bunch up in all available blankets and sheets, like some kind of beggar. Huddling together for any last remnant of heat, all for the highly prestigious mission of watching the store - perhaps the very epitome of a waste of time. Ever since father had passed, mother had grown disinterested with remaining chained to store. It fell on the equally unwilling Erin to keep the family business alive, which would be fine were it not for the fact that noone ever came here.

'Farains Maps & Scripts' said the fading sign outside. During warmer months, they'd get one or two interested people from off the street a day. If they were lucky, at least one of them bought or commissioned something. Prices were too high, and whatever lustre the store had had in the past, it breathed its last with Father. In the last month, they'd got on by selling empty scrolls to scribes in other parts of the city. February showed no signs of being any different. 

Now even Mother had stopped appearing in the store, out chasing down new contacts or trying to call in old debts, or just not spending time in the store. The result was the same; Erin found herself locked in place behind a musty old counter, with nothing to show for it. On the off chance that someone actually wanted a map drawn, she'd get a few days of interesting activity. Nothing compared to what she knew she was capable of, however.

She'd written a whole book on the stories of her ancestor, passed down through a long line of Farains to reach her ears. From the stories, she'd made maps and images of his great battles and travels. Chronicled the one thing that made her proud to be part of her family. Yet there was only so far you could go with writing about the glory days. By sitting here, she was throwing her life away, an argument she had made many a time to both of her parents, neither of whom had any mind to listen. Uncaring, they'd prefer to forget what heroes were in their blood. Forget the past, and throw their lives away maintaining a failing, decrepit storefront. It had already claimed Father, and Mother was invisible at this point.

It would not claim her as well. As she had done so many days before this one, Erin cast herself free of her blanketed prison cell behind the counter. After a quick claiming of her heavy, comforting cloak and the sword of her ancestor, the last link to a great time, fastened to her belt, she spectated herself as best she could. As good as any mercenary or hireling, surely. Maybe a little scrawny. Or young. But only fools let their limitations stop them. Erin was not a fool. She would see her name be the one that brought glory back onto their family. She would make all of them proud.

With that, Erin abandoned her posting, trodding out onto the streets in search of something greater. She had a pretty good idea of where to start.