Twas a dark and stormy night when our story begins, a young man stands silently on a wooden ship.

Rain is pelting the deck like a thousand stomping boots falling on the ground. Thunder crashed and lighting lit up the sky like the sun. But the young man showed no sign of noticing, too lost in his own thoughts to notice, or care about anything going on around him. He remembered only one thing of his previous life, his mother. He couldn't even remember his own name, though his companions refer to him as Michael. He's not sure if that was his real name or just some pseudonym they made up for him.

His hair and eyes were brown like the earth and skin as pale as the moonlight. He stands slightly taller than average at about 5'5 with very little muscle. He was clad in fine clothing as if he were a noble yet it seemed almost designed for fighting. It consisted of dark trousers and a black shirt, with a beautiful silver cloak buttoned up around his thin frame. At his waist was a short sword that looked like it had never seen battle. It seemed more like a ceremonial weapon than an actual tool of war. It had a brown hilt with a polished silver blade.

His face was set into a determined look as he awaited his destiny.