It was spring, and hawthorn was in bloom. Marchwyr walked out beneath the arching branches and relished the freedom of the countrside. The suffocating airs of the court could be too much to deal with at times.

Young Marchwyr felt alive, and the vivid smell of the trees carried him away into a dream. In his vision, he came upon a well. About the well, a golden aura hung in the air. That, Marchwyr knew, was the well of inspiration. Beside the well there stood a girl.