The storm came in fast and everyone had tried to prepare but it struck with almighty force, leaving an unreal amount of destruction in its wake. The young fella tried desperately to hold on as his baby brother cried and begged him to pull him to safety. But the water was to strong and it pulled at him, for a moment a strange type of tug of war ensued, but his strength was all but gone and he could not hold on. One more wave crashed down and when he looked up his brother was gone, the water had swallowed him and there was no way to get him back.

An inquiry into the ferocious storm lead to the only place it could. The Underlands. There had been rumours circulating the village for many moons about an instrument that had been designed to create storms that could rip cities apart, but this was the first time that proof was given to them of these crimes. The village held a crisis conference and made plans on possible solutions and on how to prevent further attacks. However there was a small group of villagers who wanted retribution and were creating their own force in order to seek revenge and restore pride and peace into their community.

He sits in his room, a small hole in the ground to you and me. However to him his safe place, somewhere where he can feel, somewhere he can act out his anger and plan his revenge. He walks over to his mirror and sits in front of it; he inspects his features and notices that he seems older somehow. The worry and pain of his past is catching up to him, he touches his tiny face, it has become wrinkled with age and he feels it beneath his tiny infant like hands. The Tinkers have always been known as the small people, quiet and patient, just living in their own world, not hurting another soul. However over the years they have been targeted and now are expected to join forces with other communities in order to protect their civilisations.

His village is rebuilding itself after yet another storm attack, the meetings continue but he does not attend them, instead he goes to the forest and talks with nature. This is where his destiny begins.

While staring into the river his reflection comes alive,

“The time has come, we are prepared to fight but we need help. Someone must be the in-between, the guide to help our heroes on their way. You have been chosen.”

Startled but mesmerised he answers himself,

“Chosen to do what?” His reflection disappears, and he waits for an answer. There is some stirring behind him and he turns to be confronted by a small weed making its way into his path. His eyes widen and he starts to move backwards until he feels the water filling up his boots,

“Chosen to lead the strong into the battle for freedom my friend.” The small bottle green weed looked up at him, its big bright blue eyes shimmering in the afternoon sun, speaking in a small sweet sounding voice it says,

“You will be sent to look after the forces and to guide them, you will help them make the correct decisions, but you must never choose their paths for them, they must be independent in their choices.”

“Why me?” He asks, slightly scared to hear the answer,

“Because you have lost, and you have the will to survive. You are aware that simply rebuilding your societies will not vindicate the loses your world has endured.” The weed closes his eyes for a moment and then looks up at him again with a look of fear,

“I feel it, it comes again.” His voice gets more a more hectic and panicked,

“The winds are blowing stronger and the trees moan from the pain. Take yourself away now my friend, take yourself somewhere safe.” The weed looks out over the forest through a gap in the trees, and his eyes widen to the point of popping out.

He looks around at what has the weed so scared and feels his whole body freeze. In the distance he notices that the sea is moving viciously and the wind in his hair is so violent that he feels as though it may rip it from his scalp at any moment.

“Run my friend, save yourself and prepare for a New World.” The weed shrinks and tries as best it can to brace itself, ready for the oncoming storm attack.

He has been running for what seems like mere moments before he hears it, the crashing of thunder and the loud frightening noise of the waves crashing down, ripping down everything in its path. He must push himself to carry on, if he makes it to the hills he will be fine, he must be fine. He sees the water engulf the place where he had just vacated and spares a small thought for the weed, hoping against all the odds that it will survive. He takes a deep breath and begins his climb to the top of Mariest Hill, one of the tallest in his village. When he reaches his destination, at last, he lays down to allow his heart and lungs time to catch up, noticing that he is not the only one who had this idea. Families had also made their way to the safe place, carrying all they can. A few valuables they have left from previous attacks.

He looks down over his village, and watches helpless as the water engulfs and eats up everything in its way, taking lives and possessions as if they mean nothing, no fear, no remorse felt. He feels comfort for the fact that after the loss of his little brother, his mother and father had decided to travel north to a village away from the ocean. They now reside with his aunt and uncle in a smaller village just north of Crampton Town and well away from the threat. Only a few had stayed when it became clear that these storms where not a simple act of nature, but a planed, vicious attack to warn The Tinkers of greater forces. He was one of them, and although his home would once again be left in an unsanitary state, he had long before taken all of his most valuable worldly possessions and stored them away.

A few hours passed as the small group of people sat and wondered what would be left of their village. Some wept; other shouted angrily at the Gods and made empty threats into the night. He just sat there thinking about what the small weed had said. Could it be true? Was he born into this world to eventually play a part in saving it, or was he simply losing his sanity and trying to hard to find answers and solutions.

Some people began to move. It was time to check the damage. The water level had lowered and he makes his way home, the damage to the town was minimal, as they had barely had enough time to re pane their windows, let alone re build an entire community. His house was not as bad as he had expected, some of his belongings were sprawled out all over his front lawn, however all in all it did not look that different, shamefully enough, he thought. He makes his way into his bedroom and walks over to his chest of draws, which had been moved from one side of the room to the other, but remained surprisingly intact. Pulling open the bottom draw he was greeted by several ounces of salt water and seaweed. He fishes around inside and pulls out the old wooden box; he wades over to his small desk and places it upright before re surfacing the mirror, which had also stayed intact, he says to himself,

“Thank the Lord for that, the last thing I need is more bad luck.”

He places the mirror down and lays the small, dark wooden box in front of it, grabbing his chair and fighting through the water he finally takes a seat. Without looking in the mirror he exhales and opens the box, the stiff hinges fight but are overpowered as he sheds what little light he has onto the object inside.

First let me tell you the short story of where the box originated. After the tragic events of the first storm, he had become a recluse, avoiding merriment and attending underground meetings to create plans for revenge. However the members slowly disappeared, either out of their own fears or just gone one-day, no explanation. After several months there remained only he and two others. Joshua, he was the founder of the small group, however pressure had gotten to him after he lost his entire family in one of the deadliest storms and he began to lose control of his own mind, he was taken and was never heard of again. That left Master Tirony, an old man who simply came to the meetings and just sat listening to all of the pain and anger, not once joining in or offering any possible solutions. This was the final meeting; he had been waiting for over an hour for Joshua, but was getting impatient. Getting up to leave he heard a small noise in the corner of the room. Walking over to investigate, using a near by rain avoider as a make shift weapon, he discovered that it was just the old man,

“How long have you been sat there?” He says, slightly annoyed. He awaits an answer but the old man simply stares through him,

“I asked you a question sir, please be courteous enough to answer.” He waits again but again is greeted with silence. Now frustrated and slightly wierded out, he turns to leave,

“Joshua will not be joining you again, this is now your adventure.” The old man's voice was croaky and barely audible, he turns back towards him,

“Where is he?”

The old man told him the story and explained that he did not know where Joshua had been taken, but that he was safe and would be looked after. The younger man sat down and placed his head in his hands,

“What do you mean this is my adventure now?” There is no answer to his question again and he looks up to find he is staring at a brick wall. The old man had vanished, right before him, without a sound. All that was left was an old wooden box surrounded by darkness. A small note read,

Open when the feeling tells you it is the right time, and not before.

The box stood open in front of him, whatever it held was covered in a silk cloth, and it feels like the right time now. As he feels the silk on his fingertip he thinks how beautiful the material feels and how rich, something really important must be wrapped inside. Slowly and carefully he removes the silk and before him he finds a small piece of paper, he picks it up, cradling it as if it was a beautiful butterfly, weak and frail. He straightens it out on the table and reaches for the small magnified glass that hangs around his neck on a silver chain. The words where written in what looked like silver but he did not recognise the language,

ASSA TINTU GLOBA LANUTES

ET HOM ENCIPT UT SCRPI

LATHU TANKE UOI HERNE

“This is it Frankie, your destiny awaits.”