They were children, still so naïve and hopeful. The four of them lived in their own world, safe from turmoil and pain. They had the power and the freedom to be what they most fervently wished to be.

She was thirteen, and could feel the door to Utopia closing fast. The sun was slowly setting, and once it was dawn, the magic would stop. She didn’t tell the others that the life they loved was inevitably doomed to destruction; rather let them believe they were invincible. She was the one that created their safe place. She was the Storyteller, able to weave intricate tales out of thin air

The Wizard was a tall, lanky boy of eleven years. With his staff in hand, he could call away the darkness and battle all malicious enemies. His eyes would sparkle with an untamed cold fire when he laughed, and sparks of lightning at those few times when his world was shifted by powers he could not control.

The Warrior was an adventurous nine year old, yearning for a chance to prove his self. With the starry sky as his stage, he would plunge his weapon into invisible wraiths and demons. He was desperate to be strong, respected, but his youth gave way to immaturity in times of crisis. It was at those times when the only person that could talk sense into him was the very child he wanted so dearly to protect.

She was only eight years old, hardly more than an infant. The others could see her innocence and knew it was something to be treasured. She was the one to be logical, but always joyful, the good little Christian girl. Her dreams flew as high as the moon, and her heart as large as the as the ocean. She was their Gypsy soul.

The blissful days, marked by Saturday cartoons and Sunday school, could not last eternity. The Storyteller grew up, her heart trading hands in exchange for promises of Utopia. The key to what she was was lost, and the beauty and intellect of what she was was slowly worn down into the norm of mediocrity.

The Wizard lived a life of supposed happiness, never giving more then needed, never failing, but never succeeding, all that he was, washed away by fierce storm clouds and the harsh reality of life. At the crossroads of destiny, he merely sat down to ponder his fate, not realizing the magic seeping from his dulled eyes.

The Warrior lost his way, lured from the road not taken by the flashy colorful world of wars and pieces. He swore his love to his Gypsy Princess, causing more then one broken heart. As he succumbed to hormones and expectations, all that he was fell apart.

The Gypsy moved with the wind, her purity of soul lasting in a much longer childhood and age of wonder. The Warrior struck with a double sided sword, draining the young soul mates of the spirit that drove them onward in their early years. The Gypsy hide behind a veil of mourning, grieving what was, what could have been.

But.

But all that she was did not disappear. She returned triumphant, scarred, but healed nonetheless. As her beloved friends faded, she was the one to take their places.
She spoke with the authority of one that had held the world’s wonders in their hand and understood them, like the Wizard. She fought and defended the world and herself with the tactics and strength of a Warrior, and her hands moved the wand, the sword, the pen with such majesty that none who saw her doubted she was the creator of worlds, a master Storyteller.