"What's out there?" Yzarro asked.
With a minor bit of hesitation, his father said, "Nothing to concern yourself with." It bothered him how the boy was so prone to simply stare at the horizon for hours on end. "Go back to your chores."
"But if there's nothing out there, why do the warriors ever leave?"
"I said it was nothing to concern yourself with. As in, YOU shouldn't bother with it. Now shut up and get back to work. Sharpen the blades on the scythes while you're at it."
Yzarro was not bothered by his father's attempts at discouraging him. He knew it meant he should get to work, but he would still ponder the outside world. Life on the plateau was not bad, he felt, but he had nothing to compare it to. It was not so much the mystery of what was out there that intrigued him so much as the fact that he was told to ignore it.
To see what was out there, he resolved to become one of the warriors. What sort, he did not know yet. The wizards did not interest him because of all the time he saw them spend studying; it seemed to boring to be worthwhile. The most of the other mages also had this same problem in his mind. The fighters 'in the fray' truly interested him, though. And like any young boy of the plateau looking for someone to look up to, the black guards and assassins shone brightly among the ranks.
However, Yzarro was not the type to stay in a fight. Being eight years old tends to put a person in such a condition. While he was tall for his age, he was fairly skinny. He was pale-skinned; his hair was straight, black, and short; his eyes were a deep red. While no one said anything about it, everyone on the plateau knew he would grow up to be fairly good-looking. His hands were calloused- a fact he was reminded of as he did his chores.
That day was nothing special. He finished his chores, slept, and woke up the next morning, even though his father threatened another end. The following day Yzarro used his free time to go to the university on the northern end of the plateau. He was not of a particularly scholarly nature, he knew. His father often reminded him of his ignorant nature. Yet he enjoyed his time at the university because he enjoyed the teachers. He entered to hear one teacher telling the story of the creation of the people of the plateau. It was a story he enjoyed.
"Ages ago, the gods set out to create a race that could cover the lands. To this end, they made the first man. Bipedal, upright, binocular vision, opposable thumbs. You all know what we're all made of. The first man was set loose by the gods, to see what he would do. He ran into forests, and with his bare hands he brought down a beast. His strength scared the gods. He devoured the flesh of the beast and from its body he pulled out bones which he lashed together with sinews and tendons. His cunning scared the gods. He sharpened one of the bones, and leapt up at the gods, speaking the first curses. His speed scared the gods. Though he nearly defeated them, they destroyed him."
Yzarro always sat on the edge of his seat at this point in the story.
"While the gods set off to develop a creation that would not pose a threat to them, the remains of the first man were brought here by a mighty fiend. That fiend resurrected us, and provided a woman of equal strength. From them, we are descended. We are strong. We are cunning. We are swift. And we will have our vengeance upon those gods that created us, yet wished us to be weak puppets. Our day shall come. All our plans shall come together soon, and all shall know the power of the Vasharan."