Ian stood in the doorway of a candle lit room. Before him a candle lit circle and a large painting stood of a five-year-old girl. "So much time lost little Lilandra," He said to himself painted that he had failed his half sister. Lilandra's dirty blond hair that reached waist and her piercing dark brown eyes could pierce anyone. Ian felt the emptiness for too long. He had lost the girl eleven years ago and his mind became like a child.
Ian had lost his father and his half sister. There was an immense serge of pain on his forearm and the back of his forearm. Ian slowly approached the painting with the immense pain growing strong and stronger. As he touched the face of the little girl in the painting, his left hand had an otherworldly glow of two circles.
Suddenly a flash hit him in several waves. His mind open to each one of them, each of them submerging him to memories of Lilandra. The little girl living past her sixth year, breathing, growing, and loving. One word escaped his lips of her new guise, "Maeve." As he moved his hand away he knew she lived. Now he had to find her.
Within Ian's memories he could see the little girl in the garden reading. Lilandra had been taught so much at a young age and she had accepted it willingly. The girl was growing tired, he could see that much. There he snuck up behind the little girl and she smiled and said, "Hi Ian." She could always tell when he was around.
"What are you reading?" Ian asked softly. He sat next to her looking at the book. It was remarkable that she was so different from them all and yet came from the blood of his father. It was very important that she grew up and thrived.
"Tales of King Arthur," Lilandra said standing up. She had dirt all over her overalls and was beyond what many would call conventional even as a six year old. She was what many would call what wielders of the past might have been like. She let her book fall down as Ian picked up by the shoulders and swung her around holding her enough for her to fly free but enough for Ian to hold on to her. He adored that little girl and would do what was possible to keep her safe, he knew his calling even then.
Along the streets a young abused woman clutched a somewhat torn jacket to herself trying her best to stay warm. She took up a couple of quarters as she went to the payphone dialed the last person she could count on.
"Pezzinni," Sara answered the phone and sat on her bed quietly. For a moment there was no answer. "Hello?"
"Sara, it's Maeve," Maeve said shivering. Her body shaking due to the overwhelming cold and tiredness. She needed the help of her cousin badly.
"Maeve where have you been? Tell me where you are, I'll come and get you," Sara said worried into the phone.
"I'm not exactly sure," Maeve said into the phone. "Do you know where the Café Boadicea?"
"Yes, it's a few blocks from where I live," Sara said quietly. "Where are you?" She asked.
"Payphone in front of the café, can you me here in 20 minutes." Maeve asked clutching a ring that sore on a chain. She always clutched it when she could deal with some things at times. Was her guide and it was always took the guise in her mind a man about 30, hazel eyes, long dark curly hair; he never looked directly at you, for fear and his nature. He wore basic black and wore leather boots and lather gloves. Upon one hand he wore a ring, a dragon. The image was so vivid, it had been so clear since she was 7 years old, her protector and guide. So much had gone and it was the image of that man that kept her alive after her mom's death. The images and thoughts had stopped her from ending her own life. She clutched the ring even tighter.
