"Its simply words thought to bring luck." He looked at the picture as he looked at the pictures inside a picture. He envied Little feather on how she knew her tribal traditions. The tribe his family had belonged to had been mainly massacred by the romans during their invasion of Britain back neraly two centuries ago. The only folklore he knew was from books. He finished carving another celtic knot. The text was in the same alphabet as English and the symbols were just decoration.

He sat silently. With one hand he lowered his hood. His shaggy black hair and hazel eyes were probally shown now. He finished carving the staff. He had started it earlier. He had need the words however. He took the staff off the table and placed it back on his back. Then he pocketed the knife. Sheathing it first. He Closed his book and returned it. The isle name saddened him inside. 'Ancient cultures.' A name that meant old cultures of days long gone. He sat back down. He pulled out a pen and started writing. The poem was about his feelings at the moment.

"Alone with a inheritage of a tribe long forgotten.
My pillars of help burned away.
Now I alone carry the burden.
I alone make it see another day.

Forced to carry it, Not by choice,
But bound by blood.
Embedded with the ability.
To cause fire, snow or flood."

He wrote more but scrunched up the paper and threw it on the table in frustration at himself. The first part the only readable bit. He put his head into his hand as he let out a sigh. If his parents were still alive then they would of carried his burden. They would of did the rituals that had left him up till two o'clock this morning to aplease the gods. He gave up on trying to act like he was sure of everything for once. "I gotta go." He stammered out as he walked out of the library. Forgetting the peice of scrumpled up paper. He began to sprint until he reached the gardens. Then he sat on a low wall and put his hood up.