Daughter of Fire
Tarelle Morlaine was the first generation of shamans born in the Duchy of Aurissonne - a child of magic and flame, raised in the small town of Glanrouge, nestled near the railway station and a valley of wild red morning flowers.
In her childhood, she was free to embrace her firebending heritage. Her home had been specially prepared for young elemental mischief - treated with magical anti-fire oils that reduced the risks of uncontrolled blazes. Waterbenders from the neighborhood often dropped by, offering aid when things flared out of control.
Her parents, Moraine and Maelric, once students themselves, had given up their own formal magical education to raise her. The price of pursuing knowledge - in a world where elemental magic could still erupt violently under pressure, passion, or rivalry, was one they were unwilling to pay for the safety of their children.
Tarelle, however, showed promise not only as a shaman but as a curious spirit. She adored cats and gardening. Most afternoons found her chasing after a red-furred kitten named Fireball while her mother tended both their private garden and the community plots.
At first, she was only allowed to water and trim the bushes under close supervision. But with time and training, she was trusted with more. Her fire lessons were incorporated into daily life - gently heating the soil before planting, burning out parasites and weeds with a controlled flick of her fingers.
The Shaman's Journey
At fifteen, Tarelle was due to travel to the capital of the Duchy to begin her studies at the Academy of Magical Arts. But one morning, while reading an old history book over breakfast, she stumbled upon something that sparked more than academic interest.
“Mom, Dad..." - Tarelle started gently - " could I go on a journey...before I begin my education? I read in one of the old shamanic texts that students - before studying under a master - would often go out into the world. To taste life. To see things with their own eyes. Some of them had adventures, just like in the comics and shows about our people. Could I go on a journey like that?”
Her parents froze mid-sip. Two mugs of coffee hit the table almost in sync, spilling like a ritual gone wrong.
“My dear..." - said Maelric carefully - “that was a long time ago. I don’t know if we should honor such a tradition now. The world has changed. There are firearms now; faster than our flames. People have grown numb to the raw, explosive nature of the elements. They try to engineer nature to obey them.”
His voice trembled with the concern of a father who saw the world becoming less kind and less magical.
But Moraine saw something else; an opportunity. An empty nest. A chance to rebuild her connection with Maelric, not just in bed, but as partners. They were still young. Their daughter could help with a larger family... if they chose to grow it.
“I think we should help her pick the right destination." Moraine suggested, gently placing a hand on her husband's wrist as he reached for the broken mug. Her fingers lingered. When Maelric looked up, she gave him a wink that lasted just a second too long subtle enough that Tarelle didn’t notice. But he did. And he thought about it. And slowly... he nodded.
“Well..." - he said after a pause - “on second thought... I agree with your mother. Just because a tradition is dangerous doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
The United Federation of Azeria
Tarelle’s journey took her across the sea to the United Federation of Azeria. She traveled with the aid of a wind-charm bound to her boots, allowing her to glide just above the earth as if dancing on invisible currents. And in truth, that was exactly what the charm did: channel wind magic through her steps.
After several weeks of wandering, she settled in a remote village inhabited by the Bunnyfolk - cautious at first, but not unkind. She offered her skills in cultivation and heat manipulation, helping to prepare fields and tend to shrubs before planting.
Tarelle, now a young shaman on the edge of her calling, had long chestnut hair tied into two braids, lighter at the tips from sun and fire. Her eyes were green with flecks of storm-grey, and her skin carried a warm bronze hue from travel and training.
She wore a flowing white linen dress, designed for ease of movement, and over it, a black leather tunic - enchanted for fire resistance and protection against the wilderness. Most days, she wore her shaman’s mask: carved from wood and painted in bright, pulsing reds, oranges, and blues - a stylized depiction of living flame.
