When the world was young, and amazing things were possible like you cannot dream, my child, heroes and beasts roamed and the gods themselves used Xoxi as a playground.

This was a world too big for imagination, and it is into this magical world that the hero of our story was born.

Ah, a hero. A hero with a legend that echoes even today. But myths are simplistic things, aren’t they? They distill the facts into allegorical titles and names, easy for the storyteller to recall at a moment’s notice. In the end, don’t we all give up on myths, and take up more detailed fiction? And yet in this myth, there is something worth dallying: some kernel, how precious, of truth.

But how true can myth be? How can allegory capture the true essence of a hero into a single characteristic? How can myths strike true to life when the dirty little truths are wiped away for the overarching theme?

But I digress.

The island on which our hero was born was idyllic and quaint. It wasn’t far from a handful of other islands in a little chain in the vast wastes of the Middle Sea. It was a windy, hilly little island, dotted with peaceful villages only very rarely ravaged by storms or monster attack.

As such, no heroes were ever born here.

Well, except one.

Sorry, didn’t I say that before?

Our hero was born on a sunny day in early Briese to perfectly typical parents for the island, healthy and vibrant and proud. The pregnancy had been typical, and so had the birth, until a certain point.

Most babies are born with their eyes closed. Born dead and shocked to life by the slap of the midwife. But our hero was born with her eyes open, and in the open air she gasped for her first breath as if she had been awaiting it a long time.

The midwife and her parents had been deeply concerned.

“I’ve never seen that,” said the wizened old midwife. “Not in all my years.”

The hero’s parents held her close. To them, she was the most beautiful creature that had ever been. “What’s to be done?” they asked.

And so a call was put out. Medicine men, shamans, priests, midwives, doctors flooded the tiny island, climbed the windy hills to the shack of our hero and looked her over.

In the end, the results were quite shocking. “She’s perfectly normal,” said the oldest, wisest shaman in attendance. His compatriots nodded. “Just a little bit more curious than most. Keeps her eyes open. There’s nothing wrong with that.” The elders and scholars made their way back down the windy hill and home again, leaving the relieved parents with the girl.

They named her Piquant. It seemed to fit her expressive eyes. “My love,” said the father to the mother.

“Let’s do our best,” said the mother to the father.

And they did.

But you probably assumed that, them raising the only hero to come from the island and everything.

Well, don’t assume such things! Some heroes rise out of adversity of their homes! But I suppose it’s okay, just this once, since that is not the case with our hero.

Just be more careful next time.

Where was I?

Piquant’s childhood was idyllic. Her mother and father loved her very much and made sure that she was looked after, and well-fed, and happy most of the time. Her favorite thing to do was to explore. By the time other babies took their first steps, Piquant knew the secrets of her home and the land immediately surrounding.

She was a hardy explorer. As she grew, so did her thirst for knowledge. She traveled further from her home everyday. She wanted to know everything that there was to know.