On the far eastern edge of the vast expanse known as the Singing Desert, in the foothills of the Westerly Mountains, the magnificent structure known as the Temple of Joy could be found. Its three-hundred-foot walls were intricately carved by an extinct race of blue-skinned people known only as the Builders. Four distinct and separate scenarios were depicted on the side walls, each linked to a specific time. These were not just the depictions of past events, these were carved into the stone many, many years before the events themselves took place. They were the result of predictions made by a man known only as the Seer and each had proven to be unnaturally accurate.
The prophetic carvings and the Mother's Well were not the only gifts to be left behind by the Builders. Four massive chambers had been discovered, hidden from any who did not possess the key, each a representation of one of the four elemental Gods. Voorta, God of Fire, Seffla, God of Water, Hissta, God of Air and Rooka, God of Earth all had chambers that reflected their sovereign power, and they contained technologies as mysterious as the Builders themselves. The Builders had been hunted to extinction by the slave traders of the island nation of Bethsheeda but they had left behind a series of clues that led to the rediscovery of the Temple. They had abandoned their beloved home to lure the corrupt and vile Bethsheedans away and in this they were successful, but the cost had been terrible to bear, the extinction of an entire race. The Temple had lain empty and deserted for a millennium, slowly filling with the desert sands until the coming of Lord Caalan of Marasaan. His arrival had signaled the rebirth of the Temple and it had never stood empty again.
At this moment an elderly man, his body bent with the weight of years, sat on the stone lip of the central fountain. When he came to sit by the fountain, he found himself surrounded by children. The parents of the children would smile widely at the old man knowing that their children would be as thoroughly entertained by his stories as they themselves were when they were children. The continual cries of "Read us a story Curator!" echoed around the fountain until at last, with a wide grin, the old man pulled a thick tome from his robes and placed it gently on his lap. Silence instantly descended as the children all dropped to the ground around him. With wide eyes full of youth and wonder they waited with gleeful expectation. "This," he said in a measured and soft voice as he patted the tome, "is a story from before the time of the civilized Realms, before sanity and clarity of mind came to the forefront. It was here that the seeds were planted that led to the End Time and magic's demise. The original was kept in the White Tower of Marasaan for untold years until the current Chamberlain rediscovered it and sent it to us for study and translation. To say that the story it holds is remarkable is an understatement of mythic proportions. We still have no idea who the author was. Not once did he, or she, refer to themselves within its pages, almost as if it was their fondest wish to be forgotten, lost forever in the fog that is history. These pages chronicle one unique woman's early journeys in a world filled with madness and magic, treachery and lies, and the ever-present specter of death. It is the story of how she took a heart hardened into stone and made it beat once again. Of how she filled that heart with joy and the love of life and by so doing changed the history of the world."
"This, my young friends," he continued as he opened the book to its first page, "is the long-lost story of Saffra, the blue-skinned and golden-eyed Water Witch of the River Sirsun."
