"... of course, no Nycxian had ever foreseen the events that would have led to their near extinction; yet the signs were there, glaring and obvious, what with the bitterness and jealousy our kind had begun to exude. It was the first ripple that would lead to the final catastrophe: the Twilight Fall. The Burning Hell arisen, to some few, and some more would have named it the Death of Shadows, the Dusk in the Desert, the Cataclysm... it all detailed the same thing, though: death and destruction for the once proud race of the sand-dwellers."

-The History of Tellenius. Jeremy Calder

The hour was late. The stars shone brightly, offset by the ominous glow of the moon in the darkling sky. There lay a camp that was, by no means, invisible to the wandering eye. But the woods themselves offered enough threats to frighten the most adventurous of youths and the late hour deterred prying eyes. A rune shone on the brittle earth, barely held together by the arcane magic. The runic letter was a special variation of the calligraphy in the eastern lands, surrounded by a diamond-like figure, and with each point was drawn a triangle. A fire blazed, crackling, though there were no twigs or dry wood to have made the sound. The woods were dim, and the fire did little to drive away the shadows creeping around, the dancing figures not unlike the silhouette of a predator stalking its prey.

A figure was hunched over the flames, breathing heavily. From the light of the fire there came the dull glint of dirty talons and oily skin. Its almost feral eyes were a faint color of yellow outlined by a strong purple: the symbol of one from the Nycar Grelto family. The Nycxia was garbed in tattered robes with a cowl covering its face apart from the eyes. A short, curved blade was strapped on her left thigh. A crudely made bow and a few arrows hung on a low-hanging branch of a nearby oak, hidden in the surrounding foliage. A small burlap sack was beside the bedroll. The Nycxia was shivering despite the small comforts the heat brought, whole frame racked with uncontrollable fits. Whispers sounded, all coming from the Nycxia, who was now rocking back and forth, shaking its head as the mutterings went on.

Most of what the Nycxia said became garbled speech but a select few. "Only a dream," The Nycxia kept whispering. "It is only a dream." The voice was distinctly female in nature. She had a slight rasp to her voice, almost as if she had not spoken in several months. The Nycxia's language was akin to that of insect-like sounds of "tch-tch-tch", incomprehensible to other ears; but the Nycxia was using human common now. Slowly, the shivering declined to a light hiccuping. It was only then that the Nycxia started sobbing. It was nearly unfathomable, a creature so unlike a man, so terrifying in visage, to be able to feel sadness, much less weep and mourn; yet the Nycxia kept to herself, crying for some reason known only to her. "The Nycxia will endure," she was now saying repeatedly, like a prayer. "The Nycxia will endure... endure... endure... they will endure."

The Nycxia shook her head again, standing up and stretching her limbs. A slight scuffle to her right and immediately, she was ready and armed with the curved weapon from her thigh. A squirrel darted past her legs, scared witless. She sighed, too weary to try and catch some food, but then tensed. Another animal, this time a rabbit, skimmed past. The game was long past gone after a few seconds, ruffling more foliage as it apparently escaped from something that had startled it. "What is happening?" She thought. "It is past midnight, dawn is fast approaching. Only creatures nocturnal..." Her thoughts trailed off, and the grip on her weapon tightened. Her eyes began to desperate look about the woods. With her right foot, she felt around the ground until the heat of the fire warmed her skin. With a decisive stomp, she destroyed the etched rune, scattering the dried ink. Instantly, the fire dissipated, a hissing sound accompanying its disappearance. "What beast stalks around here?" She asked herself. "What beast likely stalks me now?" Her other hand was unconsciously flexing, talons at the ready. I cannot use magic now. It will take too long, and whatever is out there would have caught me by the time I finished. She cursed again the difficulty of making even the simplest of magic spells. She crouched down, crawling towards her bedroll, stuffing it messily onto her sack. The bow and arrows lay abandoned. Stupidly, I hide the only means of ranged defense from myself. She sighed inwardly. Most predators would hesitate to approach a guarded Nycxia, but the woods hosted more nefarious patrons than even her; right now she was certain she was being watched, yet nothing seemed out of place. She was ill-equipped to fight anything. The least she could have done was to appear threatening, and she knew that. The Nycxia slung the burlap sack over her shoulder. She stood upright again, slowly easing out of the grove. She hoped to the scarab goddess that mercy would drive away whatever was out there. "Ganterycz aid me," she whispered. Just what was out there? Nothing betrayed its position: not a whiff nor scuffle that would clue the Nycxia in on its position.

Humans were out (they were too smelly in her opinion), and most beasts she had encountered were either too frightened by the sight of her, or carried such a strong pheromone that it was impossible that she might have forgotten about it. Her nerves were against her, and the silence of it all was just so deafening. "Who is out there?" She cried out, before tripping over a couple of rough stones. Her weapon flew out of her hand, and the contents of the burlap sack fell and cluttered about the clearing. The bedroll, a few more cloths, another robe and cowl, and so many books. She swore loudly, crawling like a madman on the ground onto a cluster of fallen leaves long dead. "What... who... come out!"

A light noise sounded behind her. The howling of a lone wolf echoed across the woods. She turned her body to look at the source of the noise, and her eyes squinted to see out the sudden darkness. When had it come? Where did it come from? What was happening? Questions bounced off her head, filling her mind with confusion. This must be a dream, she tried to reason. She needed an escape. Where is my weapon? Desperation clawed at her insides. Fear clung to her in an icy grip; she was defenseless and helpless against the rising darkness. "Come out!" A whisper, a plea; in an undertone, she added," Let this nightmare end."

She was not a warrior, not even one who would show interest in that field! She did not know a whit about battles and strategies; what hope had she to conquer this unseen adversary? Her tattered dress seemed almost like a solace now, helping her hide her skin against the cold that bit at her skin like the lashing of whips. Her cowl did little to shield her eyes from the darkness, however; she saw unknown beings clinging to the shadows, unseen and terrible, but they flitted about in her peripheral vision, visibly there yet not wholly so.

Her body lurched forward, as if some force compelled her to do so. She landed on her knees, coughing. Her chest heaved. Dust clogged her throat and fear addled her mind. A shaking hand started to draw a rune, then stopped. "I cannot... I have no materials to craft a rune." Her teeth gritted, the Nycxia started to get to her feet. It was better to stand and face whatever was to come, she weakly decided. The shadows were around her now, nearly at her face. Her hands shot out, hoping to tear at flesh. The black mass merely ignored her talons. They approached her slowly. The Nycxia was left with no place to run. The blackness before her shifted, and suddenly, a man with eyes bleached white was standing in front of her. He brandished a heavy sword; his lips curled into a wicked grin, with teeth as sharp as knives. The gleam of varied gems on his head caught her attention. A nobleman?—indeed, it was apparent. It was the only other distinguishable thing about the figure.

"Who are you?" The Nycxia asked. The figure swung the sword down in an arc, and she felt it tear the skin on her cheek. The Nycxia winced, but she could not look away. The memories... they were against her now. And she screamed. It felt as if arrows were piercing her skull one at a time, red-hot and so very painful. Scenes of the past shot past her vision, fleeting and yet each memory struck her hard every time.

A marble city bathed in sand and riches at the very center of the Whispering Wastes; it was a marvel, and yet, the Nycxia could tell, there was something oddly dirty about the utopic beauty, as if something were inherently wrong in the marble-stone capital. She remembered its name. How could she not? It was alike the name of her kin: Nycxia. Nycxia... Nycxia... Nycxia... my home... is it not?

The sun cast its searing glare over the earth, and the Nycxia felt refreshed and ready, lively even. Citizens of Nycxia walked in the hustle and bustle of a flourishing capital. It was serene and happy. It was paradise.

A smile briefly took hold of her chapped lips before everything went wrong. What is happening... she dumbly asked herself when the sun turned red, the skies started burning, and even the sands parted to reveal horrible beasts dripping with gelatinous substances and ichor, with teeth bared in a disgusting snarl. The world is at its end. Even then, she remained strangely calm. The Nycxia knew she should have not felt so apathetic of the carnage being currently wrought within her mind—or was it reality? She could not remember. The city was being destroyed right in front of her. The burning sky was now raining blood—could it have been the tears of the dead? of those who suffered? She knew not. Cries of agony and begging rung in her ears. It sounded morbidly melodious, to hear the same thing again and again like a tolling bell. The monstrosities ran without reprieve, reducing the marble city to a blocks of ruins, its citizens decaying corpses for the hungry and the malicious.

The scene changed. The Nycxia saw the silhouette of a man, proud and regal, in the garb of the Nycar Grelto. The background was of a stark white. What is this place? Is there no color in this world? The figure was accosted on all sides by taller figures, red and fierce: demons, she deduced. She dimly remembered herself as part of the family of kings and queens. Who was she again? She could not remember? Perhaps a queen?—maybe a princess? A cynical part of her mind told her that she was merely a bitch for the family. She fancied herself a noble several times already; it would not be truly unbecoming to be of royal blood. The king, for it was obvious that the man with his chin up was a rightly king, was hunched over. She frowned. The king was bereft of pride, brought low with extreme humility. Voices echoed in the distance, all from a foreign tongue that was her own. The voices begged and tried to offer a compromise. She pitied this pathetic excuse of a king, so down on his knees, offering supplication. The shimmering blade of a tell-tale sword was all that it took the Nycxia to remember the present, but it was too late. A loud 'thunk', and a body collapsed on the floor. It seemed to reverberate in her mind, the sound; but she knew not why. Shrill screams made her ears ring. Another 'thunk', this time louder, accompanied a disturbance in the ground, like a body burrowing into the ground. What was that? She asked herself. Shouts of alarm resonated throughout the hallway, and the colors (or lack thereof) faded and swirled into black. What was her name again? Time seemed to have

Bright lights blurred her vision. When her eyes cleared, tall trees spanning nearly a hundred miles were all she could see. Smoke rose in the air like a distant message; what exactly the message was eluded her. There was a solid feeling of loss within the Nycxia. Her name... her name... what was it? She was someone—she should be someone; she was of Nycar Grelto. To be nobody is a grand mockery of the family name and honor. Then, who am I? By the grace of the sand mistress, who am I?

She scoured the deepest recesses of her mind. The past caught up to her again. An infant, a child Nycxia born in the dead of night amidst yells of relief and joy; a woman brought up into politics, yet more inclined in the sciences, then in the obscurer mysteries of the world: magic and all its eccentric laws; then the destruction of her kin. She remembered them all, up until the complete eradication of everything she knew and cared for; yet one thing always confused her. Who was she? She didn't know. A name? She could not remember. She was training to be both a scholar in the sciences and an expert in magic; an honorable but incredibly hard feat to accomplish. Her family did not approve. She was not of the Serolari nor the Seimzour; she was unfit for scientific thinking, and magical training and runic calligraphy. She was fit for a ruler. Slowly, a word crept up from a forgotten part of her mind, a part that she long wanted gone. Vengeance stung her like the bite of a serpent, venomous and excruciating. The luxuries of life offered no respite for the Nycxia. It was a name taken from an ancestor, a warrior-queen proficient in the bow. She was called Quickeye.

Asta. Asta. Was her name Asta?

Like the coming of a dawn, Asta—for she was now sure it was her name—shook off the nightmarish stupor. The memories vanished like the mist of early morning. The leaves swayed peacefully, and the smell of nature and wildlife was prevalent. Flowers danced lazily in the distance. Her camp was the same as it was before. The fire was burning, the rune untarnished and alive still. Her bedroll was still spread out. There were no figures or adversaries to fight. The day was young and coming; the skies were a faint blue, cast over with red, orange and yellow. It was still cold despite the fire. Her right hand flew to her thigh, and felt the hardness of her weapon. She found herself lying on the bedroll, relaxed against all circumstances.

Asta. She was Asta. Swift as a fired arrow, Asta sprang to her feet and looked around. "It was a nightmare," Asta told herself. "It was a nightmare and I was weak enough to fall prey to it." The visions, she remembered the figures in white-washed scene. Mnerysis. Laqstri. The queen. The king. They were her parents; she was a princess, really.

If so, then who was she? She was Asta, she knew that well enough' but the Twilight Fall rendered any and all names of the Nycxia useless. What use had she for her name when its only use would have been to kill her? She was a princess. She was Asta. But who was this Asta?

In hindsight, Asta should have known it was inevitable. The need for revenge overrode any form of logic. She wanted—no, she needed the blood of those who had wronged her. What was the use of killing besides replacing one villain with another? Her heart, however, won. She needed vengeance. Asta was vengeance.

Asta was vengeance. "I'll have their blood," she swore out loud, pulling out her weapon. She held it almost reverently, like an artifact of religious value. "I'll have it, or die trying."