Arelia, the Goddess of Valor, takes a moment's respite on a balcony high above the world of Arcanor. The air is cool and sweet, refreshing. The sound of construction rolling lazily out of the palace behind her brings peace and hope to her heart. It is the sound of rebuilding. It is the sound of redemption. She senses the weight of the palace behind and under her. She knows the power of it. The duty of it. She alone built the foundation upon which it stands, an atonement for the sin that saw her banished to Sarodor. They were months spent with aching back and bloody hands, removing trees, carving stone, all the while reflecting on the day her courage failed her, the day the sky rained blood and her mighty palace collapsed into rubble. "Never again," she says, her fingers tightening on the hilt of her sword. The sound of the breeze slipping through the leaves below her rises in pitch momentarily. The wind reaches up to her, touches her, caresses her face. She closes her eyes. Immediately, her mind is filled with the prayers of those who call to her. "O Arelia, o mighty Goddess of Valor..." "Please hear my prayer, Warrior Goddess..." "They are coming for me now. I can hear them, climbing up my stairs. One of them is right outside my door! Please lend me your courage, and your strength, and help me to overcome evil (but o Arelia I am so frightened so very very frightened)..." She hears eight-year-old Thomas, praying to her from a burned-out hut in Mangelica, alone, scared, wrapped tightly in a haphazard bundle of dirty, moth-eaten blankets he found in somebody's cellar after their town was razed by orcs. She hears seventy-three-year-old Thelma, praying in front of the fire in her living room, a tear in her eye, pleading for the strength to fight the cancer that chews and gnaws it's way through her bowels like some rampant monster. She hears twelve-year-old John, retreating slowly into the dark far corner of his bed chamber, weeping uncontrollably, his wide, terrified eyes trained on the tall masculine figure that follows him, begging his father not to touch him tonight. She hears thirty-year-old Nadine, praying to her from the drainage ditch in which she hides, sword in hand, lying in wait for the the two thugs that murdered her parents. She hears middle-aged couple Martin and Denise, bound and terrified in their bed, struggling frantically to free themselves as they watch the knife-wielding burglar stroll menacingly down the hallway towards their baby's bedroom. She hears thirteen-year-old Simone, trapped in a tangled web of nightmares and nightmarish memories, growing in strength and courage with each passing day as she prepares to do whatever she must to rescue her sisters from their underground prison. She hears eighteen-year-old Chris, his hands empty but for a rock he scooped off the ground moments earlier, dashing to the aid of a teenage girl who is being manhandled onto the back of a horse-drawn wagon by three large men. She hears twenty-year-old Emma, crawling out of a filthy sewer underneath the Vixen Temple, asking for her friend April to return so they can rescue more Vixens from the treacherous cult of Mother Sinistra. Yes, she hears all of their prayers. And she fills their hearts with courage. "The world needs a Champion," she says. "Where are you, o valiant one? O warrior of strength and light?" She sighs and returns to work on the palace, completely unaware that her call will soon be answered. By the most unexpected quarter. Credits: Arizona texture by Dark_Whisper Arelia character morphs by me Joan Of Arc armour by KuroKuma Strike Ponytail by Vampir3Princess SS Balcony by Silverleif Studios Posed in Poser 6 Trees from Vue 5 Infinite Rendered in Carrara 5