There are some events, which are either too horrible to remember or too shocking to ever wipe from your memory. Events that haunt your mind like ungraspable ghosts or that plague your subconscious in every waking moment. The fire that raged on in the Bulwich house was one such event.

Life had been considerably peaceful, slightly dull even, in the western hills of Pegora, one of eight Great Provinces of Bindur, the world then known to man, faun and spirit alike. Peace reigned these lands, all connected by the eight families that ruled them. These parts too, had their prominent families and people of old wealth and heritance. Two of these families had always been on particularly friendly terms: the house of Bulwich and the Jung family. The Jung family, however, was not from around there, originally, but had settled on those hills many generations ago during a time of less common prosperity. Ever since those days, the Jungs had been a versatile and ingenious people, most famous for their peaches. Peaches with so vibrantly yellow a flesh, so sweet an aroma: there was no match for them. But those were just the ordinary yellow peaches. Much more desired were the white Jung peaches, grown specifically on the original family farm. Regardless of these tales of ancestral wellbeing, you must know that the Jungs were a humble and honorable family. Carrying within their hearts the ancient philosophies their predecessors had brought with them from their homeland, the far eastern islands of Kiruhm.

Whence these families came and what schemes they might be planning are no concern however, to a young boy in a small valley in an even smaller village. In fact, nothing seemed to matter to him anymore as he watched humongous flames whip apart the house of his neighbours. The house he had played at countless times. The house where his friends had been born. The friends who’s screams echoed from hillside to hillside, the volume of their woeful cries enhanced.

No, nothing mattered anymore to this young boy who’s eyes reflected the fiery tongues of death devouring the last traces of the Bulwich family, leaving behind nothing but smoldering ashes. It was then, that his father, his ever strong man of a father, faced him, tears stinging his eyes, yelling at his older brother to cover the child’s eyes and take him back to their farm. As his brother’s arms closed around him, a figure caught the boy’s eye. A small figure, smaller than even he was, slowly reaching from under the debris of the collapsed structure, off to the side of the remnants of what once was a home. He recognised this figure and after a short wrestle to undo himself from his brother’s grasp, he ran towards it, softly praying he could help her, chased by his brother’s warnings, could do something. He fell down beside her and held her hands, them, silently telling her to stay put and stay calm.

Shortly, his father and brother followed, bringing with them others to help rescue the small girl. This girl, they knew, could very well be the last survivor of the house of Bulwich.