There once was a young woman.

She was a shrine maiden. She toiled tirelessly at the Temple of Yhiraam, ensuring that its glaring rosy-red and snow-white architecture would remain unmarred by the imperfection of the people who came to pray every day. The jagged, geometric shapes, the towering statues of warriors of legend, all built to glorify Him, the Dominion’s God of War and Law. His helmet rested atop the altar, among a cascading pile of wilting flowers, laid-down arms, and of course… gold.

Day in and day out, a procession of policemen, soldiers, their spouses, children, loved ones, all would filter in and out. They were deathly quiet, as every errant noise was harshly amplified by the hard stone, and this was a place of reverence. One by one they would cast their offerings at the Altar, and whisper quiet prayers, gazing long into the abyss behind the visor of Yhiraam’s legendary helmet. Perhaps Yhiraam would protect them. Protect their family. Protect their kingdom.

But Sophia, the shrine maiden… all she could see was that gold. Every night, she would be made to gather it all and bring it for the clergy. Scores of valuable coins; some people would give absolutely everything they could afford to. After all… the price for divinity was high, and nowadays, it was a seller’s market.

She hated it. The gold seemed to get heavier every night, even though people gave the same.

So, one night, she could take it no longer. Having gathered the gold into a bowl, she was to store it in the Temple’s vault… but, just this once, she would help herself. Surely, she was a servant of Yhiraam as well, was she not? She was so hungry… She gingerly dipped her hand in, feeling the glittering, cold coins sift through her shaking fingers, and scooped a handful of them for herself.

In her paranoia, she glanced to the helmet of Yhiraam watching over her from that pedestal… and she saw eyes, looking down on her from behind that visor with a kind of hatred she’d never felt before.

Her skin began to bubble and sear at the touch of the gold. Howling in pain, her screams echoed throughout the temple, making her ears ring. The gold scattered across the floor, and she collapsed at the altar, clutching her burning hand…

The clergymen would find her that morning. She would be on the streets as soon as they found that she was not mortally injured.

…

She hated this place. She hated the cold, thin air. She hated the people, hollow and careless and always concerned with alien things. She hated the Dominion, towering so high above that she couldn’t make out the faces of the people who were responsible for her suffering.

But above all else, she’d learned a lesson from them, though one that she could not begin to take advantage of there. There was no more room for divinity in a place so close to the heavens.

So, she left. She stowed away in a caravan, and she traveled for weeks throughout the summer, slotting herself in as an unassuming drifter among sympathetic travelers. She made her way into northern Woodveil, eventually coming to a stop at the town of Sishai, a modest town tucked into rolling hills far away from the choking industry of the Dominion.

Hearing her plight as a starving peasant fleeing the chaos of the Dominion of Mere, they allowed her to settle down in a long-unoccupied home, and she would eventually make her place in the town as an apothecary.

It was steady, but hard work, and she didn’t make more than she needed to survive.

A year into her new life, she looked at her arm… still scarred and disfigured as it was. She wanted more.

…