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Imogen stood by herself in the long, narrow hallway, her words confined into her head, not being able to be let out. Her mother said it was a curse, that the wicked witch had muted her to punish her father for his wrong doings. Her tall, lean body carefully positioned itself by the window, where she stood, watching, waiting. Her messy, brown hair ran down her shoulders and came to a stop halfway down her back. A black headband had been placed on her head to tame her hair; without it, hair would be going in all different directions Her piercing blue eyes stared out the window, longing for her thoughts to be free. Her crooked smile had disappeared, her dimples fading as her face of sadness took over. The long, black dress flowed over her body and down to the floor, the feeling of love disappearing with it. The long sleeves concealed the arms, yet showed a brief glimpse of her hands, still fresh from her youth with not a single wrinkle in sight.

One might say she was beautiful, even with the ugly scar reaching across her left eye, or her mouth, not letting her speak her mind. Some people don't even look at her ( She is the witch's daughter after all) and they cross the street to avoid looking into those sad, empty eyes. But she has a kind heart, filled with the wish to make everyone's lives better. That is why some people think she is beautiful. It's what is on the inside, that counts.

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Being against the witch's tribe was difficult. But somehow we had managed to slip through and be victorious. We approached the house of the witch and everyone was stunned by what they saw. A small girl. Looking at us, with her innocent blue eyes and as she turned to get prepared to run away, her velvety, smooth blonde hair swung in the air. She sprinted with a limp as we chased her after a few seconds. We dragged her along the dusty floors of the annoying witch's house.

She had just woken from the anaesthetic we had put her in as we had just finished having an important change made to her. She had just been muted. So now, when she returned to the village she would not be able to persuade the people to rebel against us. Even though she was merely a teenager, she poses lots of danger towards us, we still don't know whether she can actually curse us or even use a spell. She was screaming now, well trying to. It was like you were inside a transparent glass cube, with nowhere to go. Her huge frown made all of us feel sorry for her, but we knew it had to be done, it was for a purpose.

As we return her to the commotion of villagers who have anxiously waited for their new queen to come back. Disappointment steps in as they realise she was inaudible. She was obviously trying to encourage them, instead the people were struggling to cope with their best friend, hope. Nothing seemed to help them, especially not the annoyed look on everyone's faces. As anger was shown on the faces of the people, the melee commences its vengeance on us. We are surrounded and we are vulnerable…

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She was pretty, to say the least. She had jet-black hair and walked with a slight limp. She was the Witch's daughter, cursed from birth to be a mute.

Her hair was long, reaching her waist and she often had to push it out of her way when she walked. It was even on both sides, neatly pushed off of her face. She was tall, very tall and could look down on everyone in the tribe, except the lead male.

People rushed away when she came, grabbing kids and retreating to their tents. They spoke in hushed whispers, passing along insults as she moved.

Her eyes were the most spectacular part of her. They were turquoise, and they sparkled in the evening sun. They had a knowing look to them, a look that people of that time were jealous of.

If not for her parent and curse, she would easily have been the most popular girl in the tribe. She lived with the Witch, who people openly ran from. She and her mother mostly stayed away from others and the witch never left her tent.

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She did not look odd with a first glance, but if one looked closer, they would see she was anything, but normal. Her hair was autumn-red and fell across her shoulders in knotted waves. Her eyes were a rich-brown ,chestnut , and seemed to laugh and be intrigued by the smallest of ants and she seemed like she could never hurt a fly, always at one with nature. She wore glasses, big and round that amplified her eyes twice their normal size. Her dress was hand-knitted and depicted a horse running among the trees as a Twelth Sun set in the background: it was the work of an artist. But she never spoke.

I was running, fast and nimble, through the Festurian Woods, a spot all the Seacretian villagers were banned from entering, including me. The Anwesters were hot on my tale now and through my heavy breaths, I could hear them chanting,

Von tuc in tec

Ule it moore...

Whatever they were saying, it would not be good for me. Suddenly, a branch was approaching fast just at my head level and it whacked me on my forehead, making me bleed and fall to the floor...

Vun tuc in tec

Ule fen lore...

I sat up, panting, Mother Uulna splashing cold water in my face,

"Bad dreams?", I nodded and pulled out my quill and ink, scratching a message on the diary,

Of the day I lost my voice.

"Well, I'll take you to Elder Morteth tomorrow, again,

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A witch's daughter she was. Brilliant, black hair that shone in the radiant sun. She wore a necklace, consisting of pearls and beautiful jewellery , only a witch could obtain. A nature lover she was and was always out in the wilderness playing with. the wild birds and possums. Kaliyah belonged to the Halabu tribe and she also learnt the arts of her mother. There was just one problem. A rival tribe had attacked the Halabus and when her mother had used magic to kill the chief, the opposing witch had cursed Kaliyah as a mute. That did not stop her, however. By the time she had grown into an adult, she had learnt all the secrets of wit here and black magic. She learnt telepathy and could talk through thoughts. She knew every single one of the spells her mother did. She was a true master of magic, far better than her mother. Finally, on October 12 Kaliyah 's mother Larien died.

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Camille was born mute, as far as she knew. That was what her parents said, although at times, she didn't believe them. Her family had always been different - her mother had a scar on the tip of her nose, and her father a lock of white hair in the midst of his hazelnut-coloured hair. Camille didn't know about the rival, she didn't know about the deal. The deal in which the witch's eldest daughter would be a mute.

The parents of Camille Snow had abandoned her as a baby, leaving her in a wooden shack at the edge of the forest. But they had cast a spell over her: that their daughter would only wake at the age of ten, when she was old enough to fend for herself. Camille never knew where she came from; she only had a faint vision of her parents. Still, that wasn't enough.

Camille barely remembered anything that remotely looked like her parents. Only the bold details stood out: her mother's dark, jet-black hair and her father's hazelnut-coloured hair. Yet Camille was different - her long, wavy hair was blonde, like the creamy-coloured pages of a book.

Once every year, a package would be left on her doorstep, with a label from her parents. Camille was curious why they never dropped in to say hello. She felt alone, sad and distressed.

Even though Camille was nearly twelve, her eyes were big and innocent. Her instinct had told her that her mother had very small eyes, nothing like Camille's. Sometimes, she wished that she had parents, like normal families.

Another though that lingered in Camille's mind was her parents. She didn't know where they were, so she couldn't visit them. But there wasn't a door in the wooden shack - there was just a flap for the packages. Camille was too big to get through.

As a result of being prisoner in a shack, Camille has lovely, soft and pale skin - what everyone wanted. But Camille didn't know that - she was somehow separated from the world and its society.

Magically, every day there would be a list of chores on the bedside table. Camille was obedient and always did them. She never had anything to do besides chores, so that was what she did. The yearly packages contained enough food for that year, so Camille wouldn't starve to death.

Every year, the package held the same message: 'We'll be back for you.' But Camille wasn't so sure about that - that message had come and gone for nearly two years now.

The next morning, Camille woke, expecting to see the list of chores waiting for her. But instead, she saw two faces hovering over her. She immediately knew that these were the beautiful faces of her parents.

Camille gave a little wave, and her parents waved back. Camille's face stayed as still as stone, thanks to the spell that was cast on her.

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Adrienne Shade of the Leona people was ridiculed. In every village there is always a child that is cursed and blamed for all the bad luck in the world, and in this case that child was Adrienne. She was too polite to object to the horrific stories that the people attributed to her, but in a deep, dark corner of her mind she knew that none of them were true.

She was ridiculed for one reason, and one reason only: she was the daughter of a witch. Witchcraft was considered the worst of all crimes in Leonan culture, and her mother had been accused, sent to court, and found guilty. The people blamed bad luck on witchcraft, and so they blamed her.

Adrienne herself was not particularly witch-like or devious. She was simply another person, except another unfortunate person that had been born into a ridiculed family.

She had light brown hair that split into two strands near her collar. The two strands each had a single orange ribbon tied to them, the only adornment or piece of jewellery she had, but just an inch or so below the ribbon her hair stopped. It was the tiny bit of hair below the ribbon that she liked the most, for she, whenever spoken to, would nibble on the ends.

Her eyes were not set straight into her skull; they did not quite align properly. Her right eye was a few millimetres lower than her left, a minor disability, but even the most unobservant of people can notice a minor disability.

Her cheeks were always quite pale, as were her lips. The small amount of skin that covered her mouth was dry and cracked, either form lack of water or from beatings. She was quite small in stature, quite thin and stretched, enough that the girls at school called her 'pencil.'

She was quite a nice person, always curtsying in the presence of richer families, and trying, it seemed, to gain a good position in the village.

But sadly, her efforts were to no avail. She still remained the poorest and most badly treated of the villagers, and, after years of mistreatment, her seemingly endless polite disposition began to disappear and she began to boil over into rage.

Now, when mud and stones were thrown at her, she threw them back. When the girls at school called her 'pencil,' she called them equally unsavoury nicknames. When richer families passed, she no longer curtsied. And it was so that the head of the village heard of it, after several months of retaliation.

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She was a strange girl. She lived with her mother off the side of the main compound of the village – more towards the forest. As all of the witch's descendants did.

We very rarely ever saw her come out. She would walk timidly from the direction of her house into the marketing place, and everyone would quickly turn their heads to her, take one glance at her hideous — or so they say — face, and look away as if disgusted. I didn't think she looked that bad.

She was a fellow girl to me, but that's where the similarities stop, as far as I know. She didn't have fair skin like us; her skin was tanned and brown from all the time in the sun without protective cream. This is highly disapproved by our Leaders, but they say they cannot do anything about that strange family. Her hair was long and dark coloured, like the forbidden treat called chocolate. Our grandparents say it was the most delicious thing in the world, but it was because of its delectableness that the Leaders had to ban it before it powers took control over us. I've never understood how food could possibly overpower humans, but people should never question the Leaders' choices. It leads to bad things. Things only the leaders, the witches, and the thousands of missing or dead people know about. Quite creepy to think about, if you ask me.

Her chocolate hair seemed to flow down like the stream, smooth and elegant. Though I don't imagine her hair would provide much hydration. It would probably just give you a hairball. As I thought more about her hair I absent mindedly scanned her hair in that vivid picture of her I have in my memory, and how it was so long it reached all the way down to her hips, and how strange it seemed, but how pretty it looked. Speaking of pretty I turned my mind's eye to look at her face and, yes, there it was; that timid, almost frightened expression she almost always seemed to wear. Her chocolate hair fell around that face, encasing it in a cave of shadow and misery. No one had ever heard her speak a word, and hardly anyone really cared. Though they say she looks beautiful when she smiles.

Just a few of our elderly ones spoke of how she used to have a voice, and was liked much more than she was now. Her voice was kind and knowing, her eyes wise and caring. She was very good at portraying her feelings through her eyes and words, and sometimes people went to her for small bits of advice instead of her mother. Thankfully, the witch was okay with her daughter taking over from time to time like this. She did say sometimes that she was getting older and that she would need someone to take over entirely for her soon, or the whole tribe would be doomed! Yes, witches are that important to us.

But one day, no sooner had she said that, did the clouds begin to roll in, like a soft blanket of Doom about to cover us. Shrieks of terror had begun to ring out around the village, as others all over the village ran for cover. For a moment it seemed they were running from rain, which seemed unreasonable, then they remembered the witch's curse.

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Her nails were painted a glossy red and her eyes were full of stories. Full of stories she could not tell. A scar ran across her wrist, barely visible in the morning sun. Her hands rested lightly by her sides, longing to move, but never did. A mane of black hair, streaked with cherry red fell just past her shoulders, repeatedly tied into a loose plait. She had an essence of beauty about her, always staring into the distance. She could see things others dreamed of; she could see the land beyond the river.

Constantly, she was spotted wandering through the village. Nobody had ever heard her speak though. Her lips sealed shut, letting the words build up inside of her. Maybe one day, she would. One day far into the future, she would speak.

All day long, she farmed, picking apples and lemons; avocados and carrots. Everyday, she would collect these fruits and vegetables and she would sell them to the villagers at the markets, leaving just enough for dinner that night. Her life was far from perfect, but it was peaceful. She never knew what her mother did all day, little did she want to. Curious thoughts ran through her mind, never to be spoken aloud.

She was born a witches daughter. She was born a cursed girl. Forever a mute. Forever Muriel.

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They called her Iasoph Jen, Iasoph being an ancient name, handed down from generation to generation, meaning someone with immense power, and Jen being short for Generator, the name given to a female with monumental generating capacity. The power needed to be nicknamed Jen has to be enough to boost a weak Mage to have the power to stun a fully-grown Sorcerer in his prime, even from a young age. And that was saying something.

From a young age, Jen had been different. She had played apart from the other children, wanted no part in their games. Or anything else to do with them, for that matter. She would not stand up for anyone, not even herself, and that had made her a target. Well, that changed pretty quickly.

"Hey Jen, why don't you ever show us what your face looks like?" A passive, curious girl asked her one day. She didn't mean it to go very far, but it did, and pretty soon Jen had clustered around her a gaggle of curious children. And some of them were more forceful than others.

"Yeah, Jennifer, why don't you ever take off your veil? You hiding something under there?"

"Yeah, maybe she's got a hideous birthmark on the side of her face or something!" Another more excitable girl suggested.

But that did it. Needless to say, by the end of the day, all the girls that had been clustered around her were in hospital, suffering from, bizarrely, severe burn marks and, even more bizarrely, one of them had seemed to have sprouted a small tree from her fingernail. Jen was searched roughly, but no trace of anything that could be illegitimate could be found.

However, those who had watched the girls were angry. They were so angry that they muted her voice. Forever. She would never speak again. And this was not something to be taken lightly. The act of muting someone's voice is very difficult, and to do it is to a set strike next to your name which stays there for the rest of your life.

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She is a witch's daughter, fair-haired, with green eyes, but she was...different. She couldn't talk; normally, you would've thought that the witch cast the spell of being mute.

No. An opposing tribe did it to this innocent girl, who had no respect for them. The reason: they were in opposite tribes! She was different, but not in a way that anyone could use to any advantage. In fact, being a witch's daughter meant being ridiculed even more than a farmer's son.

She is a witch's daughter who is mute, and will be mute until the end of days.

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She never spoke. As far as she knew, she was born a mute. She never knew her mother. I did. Her mum was our witch doctor, always working miricals with the flick of a wrist. But she had... Gone on. Her mother had magic. So did she. She was regarded as a god in our rural tribe. My people went to her for help with their problems; not enough grain, no house and so on. She would either help you, or kill you for food. I just hope I didn't get eaten.

She sat at her golden wood desk, hungrily staring off into the distance. Why me? Her hair was ever subtly changing, shifting naturally from a dark pink to an even darker green, but a mysterious streak of black always stayed the same. Her dress was just barren leather, nothing special. She turned to look at me. Her eyes sparkled like a ocean reflecting the stars. Her nose was unnatural: nothing was that perfect. Her cheekbones where pointed like newborn daggers. "Hello" she said...

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Venturing into Tribenland (prounounced tree-ben-land) wasn't exactly a walk in the park. More like a walk in the no man's land between two fighting countries.

That was, unless you chose to travel near to a tribal camp. The chances were that you'd be chopped up, soaked in herbal juice, then dried out over three days. To be eaten, of course.

The tribes weren't alike, and yet they didn't differ to much. Both wore colourful face paint, hunted wild boar and took part in cannibalism.

In fact, the only difference was the gender of the tribes. One, fully male, the other, not a man to be seen. Except on a roasting spit.

The male leader was ugly. A long bone pierced his nose, and his black hair was sooty, long and tangled.

His eyes were cold, like stone, piercing you until you shrivelled up.

His name was Howen, and he ruled with an iron fist.

However no male feared Howen as much as the females feared their leader.

The tall Queen of the women ruled, not only with an iron fist, but a steel heart as well. She had been cursed to never speak by Howen's assistant sorcerer, but all that did was make her seem colder.

She didn't have a translator. She had eaten the last one. No one was bold enough to step up after that.

She had fifteen bone piercings. Three in each ear, the rest all over her face. Her eyes were red. They bored holes into you, like twin laser beams.

She dressed in a long Panther skin cloak. Her hair poured down her back, all collected in tiny, beaded braids.

Her face was painted with coal. Literally. It was black, and hard. There were no soft edges, and her cheeks weren't round, instead hard and defined.

The woman of her tribe called her The Darkness.

They also called her Master, Warrior and Death

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Talen was an unusual child. Son of a long dead witch - yet still with the features of a child of nine summers, with some variances, of course. His eyes were like that was a hawk, angled slightly and a piercing gaze that came from his gleaming golden eyes. Sometimes his expression was hazy, far-gone, beyond the troubles and petty emotions of the world. Other times cold, a glare of iron resolve and fists cocked, ready to punch. His will was of steel, and an unbreakable soul - he achieved whatever he out his mind to and could wrap us around his finger without a word. His build was lean, quick and awhile and fingers that could solve any puzzle in a matter of seconds. Locks with no key. Rooms with no entrances. His hair streaked his neck, a thin fringe hanging over his eyebrows and flicked to the side. He never spoke - we didn't know why, because he couldn't tell us - or didn't want to. And his mother we saw slaughtered in their remote home in the swamps. He came to our walls with tears brimming in his eyes and the moon gently smiling upon his thin figure. His personality belong with the other unanswerable questions of life - does God exist? Or how did humanity come to be? He could be ruthless, raging like a bull, or forgiving yet powerful like the gods. He could be soft, gently and loving or with an shining metal resolve to never approach humanity again. Yet always his face shone with a dull, grey radiance and he could do things no other 9 year old - or 30 year old, for that matter, could ever dream of doing. Clones, turning into his shadow, or transforming into multiple animals, his favourite being a hawk.

We didn't actually know his real name - his name became Talen when the villagers saw the long, pointed claw he wore on a necklace around his neck. What I had managed to notice, however, was that when he happened to chose to become a hawk, he was missing the long, middle talen on his left claw.

What none of us knew, was that this young, so called innocent boy was far more powerful than mortals could ever imagine, a production of the gods divine power and the careful misguidance of darkness.

He was Talen, lord of the shadows. So hail! Mortals, for in this plain of existence we will only live so much longer, for a battle of the gods has begun. There was no good side, no bad side, only the menace and wanton destruction that the two would cause in raging battle.

Listen, my children - we may or may not survive this disaster, but when the gates of heaven and hell have opened, the earth will never be the same again.

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Berralon was born an unusual child, one of the few who were witches' daughters. It was strange, because although she was a witch's daughter, she was unable to get rid of the curse causing her to be a mute. It had cursed her long ago, when she was about eight, and she had lived as a mute her whole life, until now, when she was sixteen. The curse had been broken unexpectedly, but Berralon didn't know that. She had lived in silence so long that she simply gave up on trying to speak.

She was a very simple girl, no earrings or jewellery, no clothes too fancy, and she didn't even own a skirt or a dress. All she had were shirts, shorts or pants, and she had exactly three of each clothing. Berralon wasn't particularly pretty, as she had slightly overlarge ears, a long, pointing nose, huge hands and feet and had a wart on her nose. The wart was a sign of a witch or her daughter, and everyone avoided her, so she had no friends and spent hours to herself, thinking, just thinking.

What she did was not much different than a normal child. She went to school and she learnt the same subjects which everyone else does. The thing Berralon did differently in school was scripture. The girls and boys were separated into two extensive classes, where they all learnt the same religion according to gender: witchism or wizardism. That was the one different class. She didn't participate much in class because of the fact that she was a mute, but no one ever acted as if she existed, so it made no difference.

No one ever spoke to her outside school either. She lived in an orphanage, and they only made sure she had enough to eat and drink. Apart from that, they took no notice of her at all. Berralon lived in an orphanage because her parents had abandoned her when she was younger, just like everyone else in her life. She did everything alone, from eating to walking on the streets. It was cruel, but everyone seemed to shrink inside their homes when she came out, so when she went out, the streets were completely clear.

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She wore a dark violet blouse, over pure black trousers. She was considered an oddity in the village, always staying by herself, not pampering herself with lavish dresses and massive hairdos. She had black hair, the kind of black that was deep and unstained, but shiny and reflecting of any light on it. Ice blue eyes that were cold and unforgiving, not unkind. A necklace that was made of silver and had an opal at the apex and simple wooden charm bracelets were the only bits of jewellery she wore, which compared to all the other girls who wore lavish amounts of gold and silver to the village school, was not a lot.

Her name was unknown, no one knew it, she never told it. At her side was always was a plain-utilitarian dagger that would magically appear in her hand if anyone annoyed her. It was rumoured that she could cut the strongest sword in half with it.

Her mother was a witch, or so it people say. It is also said that her daughter is a sorcerer that can wield great power and can destroy anything or anyone with a mere flick of her wrist.

She was a mute, cursed by a rival tribe. Her mother then wiped out that tribe once she heard of it.

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The huge, forbidding castle floated in the air, exactly the way that bricks don't. In this castle, lived a witch and her daughter.

It is customary for witches to pick their own names, but when the witch's daughter was born, she had been kidnapped by witch-hunters. They had put a flaming torch to her mouth, which had melted. They then poured cold water over her face and her lips were sealed, forever. Her mother had found her daughter and destroyed the witch-hunters, but it was too late. The witch's daughter could not speak, and thus she had no name.

Every day the witch went off to get witchy things like newts and toads, leaving her daughter alone in the sky.

The witch's daughter did not mind. Her mother left her a meal, and she had enough time to do anything she wanted.

The witch's daughter did not need to talk. When she wanted to express her feelings, she did it with her eyes.

She had magic in her blood. At whim, she could change the color of her eyes. Long ago, her mother had learnt that purple meant happy, blue meant sad, and scarlet meant "I'm going to my room and I'm never ever ever coming out!"

Her fingers were long and thin, and were constantly moving, always fidgeting with whatever she could find.

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Now Sophia possessed a beauty like no other; she had black hair that fell to her waist and wore it in a simple braid down her back. Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds and they radiated warmth into anyone she looked at. Her face was pale from the wind, but her rosy cheeks stood out. She always wore a simple dress that fell to her knees that looked like autumn leaves and her flat sandals were worn and well loved. But despite her simplicity and beauty, she had been cursed by a rival tribe to be a mute on the day of her 18th birthday for one simple reason; she was a witch's daughter.

Sophia kept to herself now, quietly learning everything her mother knew and soon she became a witch herself, but it had not always been like this.

Once she hung out with her tribe and was joyful and happy and her clear laughter rang out through the woods. And then after dinner she and her friends would go down to the stream that bubbled near their homes and they would splash until their parents called them home; Sophia ever the one to set her mother the arduous task of untangling her hair and she and her family would fall asleep in front of the fire that would warm them and keep the safe through the night.

That had been a long time ago, before her father had been flattened by a tree that at had mysteriously fallen over. Sophia still hang out with her friends, but it was different; no longer did her laughter fill everyone with happiness, but it was as though the life had evaporated from their bodies. No longer did they splash in the stream and trip over in joy. No longer were they happy. Sophia looked up from her work and at the sky and tried to sigh. It was hard being a mute; it was hard knowing you weren't loved; everything was hard.

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No-one knows where she came from or who cursed her, she always seemed like an outlaw, she could never belong. We don't know her name, but after hours of trying to communicate through acting, we figured, she was from elsewhere and couldn't speak our language. We don't know why she took refuge or what her old village was like, but she seemed to be more sophisticated or more elegant.

She had pitch black hair, as dark as the night itself. It contrasted her light green eyes which saw everything around, always cautious. Her clothes were what made her stick out the most, she wore a fine rose red dress, which poofed out so much, it was like magic. All the people in our village wore a simple shirt a pants, it was the coolest thing to us, but compared to her, it was nothing. She also wore things on her feet, we don't know what it is, but it's to hard to find out.

Weird things have gone on though when she has been around. They were good things though, rumours say that it was her that did it. Storms never passed, only light showers and our crops and animals grew rapidly. We appreciate it, but if it's magic from her, we don't want it. I've got my suspicions that she's a witch, or one in training.

Another mystifying thing is that after dark she just disappears, when all of our tribe are getting settled in, she' son where to be seen. Some say she's out having some time on her own, but I say she's training to be an evil witch who will decimate our village. I don't like her, she's too unnatural and abnormal.

She hasn't always helped our crops though and stopped the storms, some of our men are being injured more often when they're protecting our tribe from wild animals. Many of the women have become more unlikable and seemed to have an aura of superiority around them and seemed to be looking around guiltily and cautiously though. I don't know why, but as the chief it's my duty to do these things to investigate. She's not trustworthy.

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The black tattoo danced around her left wrist, always writhing around in a circle. She would rub the tattoo forcefully, always hoping that it would fade away, however, that was in the past. Now, she realised the reality that she had been born into. The mark would never come off as it was cast upon her as a curse, a neverending curse, one that would remain through generations to come.

Walking through the dusty streets of the town, Estella watched as all the people worked on as hard as they could, to barely survive in this tough world. Continuing to wander through the winding maze, she could hear sounds of distress, screaming and shouting. Immediately, she rushed towards the clear signal sound. As she neared, there were loud thumps which preceded the screaming. Turning down another street, Estella stopped abruptly. Before her, four large men knelt above a squirming child as they repeatedly punched and kicked him. Reaching her right arm in front of her, Estella clasped her left hand around her right wrist. Suddenly, a pure glow shone around her right hand. The men were lifted into the air and turned around to face her. Fear had struck their faces as she lowered them to the ground. The tattoo spinning faster now that she had used her magic, she curled in four of fingers, leaving her index finger pointing at them. She started moving her arm. In sync with her movements, flaming blue letters appeared in the air, spelling out "what are you doing?".

The men immediately stuttered out "he stole our meals from us! We were just teaching him a lesson! There is no business here for your kind!" That did it. Her eyes flamed a crimson red and the men crumpled to the floor, unconscious. A reassuring smile appeared on her face as she turned to the boy. She then tried to ask him if he was alright, however, her mouth wouldn't open. Biting back her frustration, she turned and left, knowing that the trembling boy would be too scared of her anyways.

As she shuffled down the streets, more shouts were heard, however, these were not shouts of pain, instead, somebody was barking orders. Realising what was happening, she sprinted through the streets, knowing that the enemy tribe was here, clearly defined by their accents. Why had they chosen such a bad time? Suddenly, three burly men appeared in front of her. Making the same movements as before, she began to reach out her right arm, but before she could connect it with her left hand, the men grabbed her arm and yanked it away. BOOM! The men flew off and hit a nearby wall. Her mother rushed out to her, a black cloak covering her. I. Her right hand, a golden staff was tipped with a skull which constantly pushed out a green aura.

The men were quick and within seconds, both of them were surrounded. However, this time, they had brought their own witch, the one who had cursed her into a soundless figure. Now, her tattoo spun wildly, expanding until it burned her whole body in black marks. A flaming blue aura flickered to life around her, power screaming from her. The other tribe was now done for as her pure hatred had been unleashed.

# data[].attributes.body
She had been muted by her mother who was sick of her crying. For that her mother was burned at the stake for witchcraft. After that, her father had cut off her ears, afraid that she would understand the dark secrets being passed, around by his comrades. For this, he would serve the rest of his miserable life in prison. All this befor she was three. So she kept to herself, in her own little world. She could only see, taste and touch. She protected these as one might there heart. She barely opened her mouth unless to eat a few hurried mouthfuls of what ever the other villagers could spare, in fear that someone might cut it out, and she wore protective glasses all the time, in fear that someone may take away her precious eyesight. She slept in the town square. On the bench under the old gray roofing. Her life was miserable, but then again, she kept to herself, barely able to communicate with the rest of the world.