<span style="font-style: italic">Its a small village near a large crossroad. The buildings and homes are of simple build, closely packed together within a wall that looks more dependable than it actually is. The villagers are tough, hardened folk with a work ethic honed by generations of hard work. The primary business of the village is focused on the needs of those who travel the two major routes that cross nearby. Travelers often pack the tavern for a much needed night's rest, then breeze through the mercantile on their way out of town. <br/><br/>The community is close-knit, almost like family. They help eachother in times of trial, laugh together in times of joy, cry together in times of sorrow. Which is why I always found it strange that since I came to live here five years ago, I have yet to make a single close friend. They are kind to me, I suppose... but I am never invited to dinner. I cannot help but take it personally. What is it about me that they find so abhorent? I cannot understand. Can it be that the darkness of my past has stained my present and future? Will I never leave the sorrow behind? Why can I never belong?</span><br/><br/>Kyrsten looked up from her journal and gazed out the window, quill pausing over the journal page. The journal had been her only friend through so many trials. She almost thought of it as a sentient being. Closing the book, she sighed as she settled the quill beside the ink well.<br/><br/>"Ah, well..." she spoke softly to the empty room, "Tomorrow is another day, right?"<br/><br/>Leaving the journal on the small writing desk, she doused the lamp and crossed the darkened room to the door without need of light. She knew these walls. This cabin, tucked away in the woods just outside of town, was small. It was tiny, in fact, but it was home. She slid between the sheets of her small bed, which she'd built herself from timbers and rope, and let out a long, slow breath. Before she could do much contemplating, her breathing evened out and she succombed to the exhaustion of a long day of work.