'Where am I?'<br/><br/><em>That was all Zavros could ask himself just as the water erased everything his family had created, and had just crashed onto him. One moment he was seeing his family's work undone for naught. The next, he was standing atop an impossible structure. One that was enough for him to question his grasp on reality, or at least wonder if he hadn't just up and died thanks to the noble's efforts.<br/><br/>But whatever this image was...it spoke to him. At a deep, primal level, the message of the woman - or was it him? - resonated with him. Her every motion, careful, articulate, and</em>invested<em>in every swing. The magnificent weapon, crafted, as declared by her - his - own voice, out of passion and love. How the world would be remade with such passion-</em><br/><br/><strong>"I do understand."</strong><hr/>With a start, Zavros was brought back to what might as well have been the bottom of the riverbed when he was younger. Except the contours were all wrong - he could see the large pieces of flotsam that were once his family's farm swirling about like a great, unnatural storm. He needed to get some air. He-<br/><br/>-wait.<br/><br/>He wasn't breathing.<br/><br/>He didn't need to.<br/><br/>Frantically, he looked about, trying to find where his parents were - if they were even still alive. He needed to reach out to them. Whatever gift, whatever phenomenon had manifested, all the smith boy could think about was trying to save his family, to try to find them. He needed so much to do any of this, not enough time to craft the tools to do it-<br/><br/>-unless he was truly desperate, or had godlike power...