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He's an unusual boy. Wanted to learn weaving and sword fighting. Should have been one of those they drive into the forest. The shapeless.

Odd one, Teraf. Who hid to watch a Shapefinding, saw the stone rolled onto the lad who didn't change. Saw the look of terror as the stone crushed him.

And the look of wonder, of amazement, as the boy stood up and walked away - through the stone. Toren, not shapeless. Toren. Not dead.

Now, Teraf walks through the gauntlet of villagers, their congratulations more painful than blows. Teraf-Griff, not tiroth, not rasakk, not nethik.

Not Toren.

- Wolf

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Fourteen years have passed since Daria walked out on the Grehti. Farmland laid waste. In the sun, wild weeds growing in fallow fields. With the deepening twilight, speritu.

Yet every season a few more of the lost make it to the caves, seeking the hidden city.

A cavern opens. Homes, comfort, and welcome. This is haven.

This is Tieranen.

To this place he comes to tell his tale. To request an audience with Daria. To ask if he can be one of the Toren.

- Pyraxis