The Iron Badger

Introduction

1

It was a time of fire and smoke. A time of magic and wonder. But for me, it was a time for maturity. It was a time for sacrifice. I was twelve when the blood of womanhood baptized me into the bonds of womanhood. Thus, thrusting me into the actions of a grown woman, forcing me to look straight ahead, leaving the girl that I once knew behind. With only a bow draped over my shoulder, and a quiver strapped to my back, I peered into the dark unknown known as maturity, sacrificing a child that once was me.

I fear not of death or of life, for Father had always regaled his stories of his battles during the span of his life or during the lives of others before his birth. Descriptive is the only way my father spoke of battle. His words were like that of a poet painting images upon my brain like that of a fine painting hung on walls of honor. Father's breath was that of a painter's brush forming long clean strokes, while some were not strokes at all, but blots mixed with the chaos of war. And some were smears of violence as I heard the cries of young men losing their limbs in waters that were once clear and drinkable, now muddied by blood and waste, forever painted on the canvas of my mind.

Not once did I wince at the gory nature of my father's tales. I only romanticized the glory of my father fighting beside me using shields of flesh that once were alive and now dead by my doing. Shielding me from flying arrows, smelling the smoke of war and hearing swords being drawn from their sheaths. Blood dulling the gleam of the edge of the blade as I quickly thrust it into the chest of a worthy foe! My father's words made me thirsty for blood and glory.

With age and wisdom, my thirst has diminished. Age caused the youth that longed for honor and glory now lies dormant in my memory of the past. I saw how foolish I once was when I saw battle for the first time. When I lost all that had loved me. Young men's faces fade as they become distant memories. Grieving mother that once fed their boys from their bosom, now lowered into shallow graves. Men of old beat their chests as rams' horns play off in the distance, soon to be forgotten. Aye! War, peace, all have a price.

But I declare, there is a need for such violence, for true evil needs to be brought down to its knees--not the weak.

If there was one lesson to take away from my father, the one I would take is to never look back. Always keep looking forward. One should never look back. It is moving forward that keeps us alive.

The rest I stored through my youth and into the mature stages of my life. I still today lean upon my father's words when I find myself in times of trouble. And with that, I miss my father dearly.

2

I write on the behalf of Gate One, known as Masa. Years have run dry and what is now behind me should shed light on things to come. I lost my father for seven years during the strangest blizzard in Masa's history. My father laid under a weeping willow tree trapped within his own dream.

Lillian came to me as a false hope and a deceitful light. She came to me when I was at my weakest, for I had said and done things I should had not said to my ailing aunt. But Lillian would not adhere to my rejections. Instead, she showed me my father, and where he laid in a sphere that floated in the palm of her hand.

The sins of my father will come for the twelve gates in the form of a half-brother named Alexander.

My book and everything written in it are my experiences with Lillian and Alexander. But my book is more then that. It is a journey in finding my father and how I found myself.

The only hope I have is that this book reaches to gods and mortals willing to take up the challenge set before them. There is no need for half-heartedness. There is only a need for action! If there is blood flowing in my veins, I will help whoever decides to take up the challenge, but I first warn you. Please read every page of this book before committing to the cause for there is still a lot you need to know about the Gates and its inhabitants.

And so, my story begins at the age of fourteen in a land known as Masa.