Fira, a young human female of no more than thirteen. She has no special powers that she has discovered yet, Fira means fiery or ardent. She can wield a sword without the slightest bit of hesitation, true to her name she is quick to anger.

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Fira's voice rang out in the cold, winter night. Her breath formed around her in wispy strands, she let out another scream as she launched her small body against her attackers. She turned back with tearful eyes as her house burned down in front of her, there was nothing she could do. As she was about to launch herself yet again against the elves she felt a strong arm scoop her up. Fira looked up, her young face distressed and distorted before she realized it was her father who had picked her up.

"Papa!" she screamed as her father flung her light body away. "RUN!" was all she heard before she felt her legs start to move on their own. Fira didn't know how far or how long she had run, but she remembered running until she could not run anymore. There were tears streaming down her face as she wandered about lost in the forest, she clutched her cloak and dagger closer as she heard various noises and sounds.

Her brown eyed widened in fear, Fira stumbled over her own feet and fell face first into the snow. She just lay there, too weak to get up and too weak to care. What was the point of being alive? Her parents were probably dead, her house had been burnt, and no make it worse the elves who had attacked her house were probably not too far behind.

As Fira cried into the cold ground her eyes slowly closed, her body was aching. Her hands and face were bruised from the fight she had tried to put up, but it had all been in vain. Everyone knew elves were magical creatures, and they had been taught to hate them with a fiery passion but she had never thought that they would stoop as low as to attack innocent humans.

Sleep finally came over Fira as she thought about her grim fate, for her it was better to die than to be held captive by the elves.