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[Sylvan Sherwood]

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All of her life, Sylvan struggled to suppress the magic within her...the magic that was quite literally bred into her. The battle was tiresome, constantly fighting against what she was, and what she thought she should be. In time, keeping the dark forces within her manifested physical reactions; there were blinding headaches that came at a moment's notice, especially when Sylvan came close to turning her mind's eye to the truth of who she was.

After a recent meeting with a man her mother knew, and through his healing abilities, she gained moderate control of the sudden painful attacks. He also gave her the sage advice to try to start accepting the truth, if not embracing it altogether, as it would greatly reduce the stress level created by her denial.

Then a chance encounter brought what little progress she made to a boiling point. High atop the mountain in Umbra where the Necromancers had once studied, she met a being who appeared to be Drow, and the meeting did not end well. Sylvan's anger and hostility grew after his repeatedly calling her 'necromancer' and 'oblivionite'. The stranger seemed pleased with the reaction he received, thus leaving Sylvan atop the mountain, curled into a fetal ball. She bled from wounds induced by her own fingernails as she held her head against the pain--her scalp, forehead, cheeks, all covered with abrasions.

It was only by coincidence that her mother's friend discovered her there, having caught a glimpse of the bright blue tunic which she often wore over her armor. Blessedly, he carried with him a new supply of the medicine he had concocted specifically for her but had not yet delivered. The red-haired man administered the medication, which Sylvan was able to swallow with no small effort. Being a liquid, it worked rather quickly and shortly the resigned young woman was able to sit up.

She was invited to speak, and decided it was time to wave the proverbial white flag. Her sentences were often convoluted, skipping from one subject to another without apparent reason, due in part to the receding pain as well as years of pent up, self induced anguish. When Zachary offered sage advice, Sylvan listened intently and carefully. As time wore on, she was eventually able to make more sense and share her thoughts in a more orderly fashion.

Realization of well avoided truths is often a painful and trying experience. Coming out of the denial even more-so. Sylvan's mountain-top catharsis left her feeling terribly drained yet somehow invigorated. She was beginning to understand what she must do, and place herself on the path for which she was destined. But there were a few things to do first.

She rode out to Gravewater, enjoying the ferocious heat of the desert there, and at its shores dipped bandages in its waters to clean her face of the drying blood. But for Sylvan, going here to perform this was profoundly symbolic. Any water would do to clean a wound. But whatever mental compass she possessed within, had directed her here. She refused to question that little inner direction that brought her to the water. Feeling physically and spiritually refreshed, Sylvan summoned her ghostly steed and turned east.

Not far from the ancient pyramid, Sylvan came across a small encampment. Though the tents seemed unoccupied, the embers still glowed in their hearth. What a serene setting, she thought, as she called out a greeting that was met with nothing but the sound of the desert winds. She felt comfortable here, and decided it would do no harm to sit at the fire and consider all that she had to ponder.