John was a farmer. He had lived in this part of the Ahr Valley his entire life. He knew when to plant crops, when the rain would cycle through the valley, and when to harvest. He knew all these things about living and working on a farm. What he didn’t know was these new-fangled spell enchantments.

This new magic machine, with its iron body and six plows, was giving him problems again. He brought the horses to a halt and hopped off his seat, marching over to where the enchantments were carved into the metal. He quickly found the correct one, a rune about the size of his hand; its name and function helpfully stenciled above it. Pulling a palm sized pink crystal from his pocket, he placed it again the rune. There was a brief spark of blue lightning, and the rune began to glow again while the crystal’s pink color started to slowly fade.

John let his eyes wonder as he waited. There was forested foothills to the west and the sea beyond. There was the snowcapped mountain to the east. To the north was the town of Wimpfensburg. To the south, coming up the high dusty road, was a line of brightly painted giant wagons.

“Gypies,” he muttered under his breath. They were always dancing and singing and putting on shows. It was no way to earn an honest living if anyone asked him. But they did bring goods from other towns, and cloth from the south, and spices from the east. They paid the king’s taxes just like everyone else, so maybe that would have to suffice.

There was sizzle and a crack and John stumbled back with a curse. The crystal in his hand crumbled to dust, its magic spent. The faltering enchantment on the machine now pulsed with new energy. “Darn fangled crystals, costing an arm and a leg,” mumbled John as he remounted his plow. With a snap of the reins, the horses once strained against their harnesses and the whole contraption lurched forwards.

* * *

Helena wasn’t a hero. She was a gypsy girl, with hair her mother called “raven” but outsiders called black and skin that might be described as “honey” but outsiders called mud. And she was short: her brother topped her by more than a head and most girls were at least two inches taller. No, there were no short adventurers, especially with black hair and mud skin and black eyes. They all had blond hair and blue eyes or red hair and green eyes and had overly complicated names with more vowels and consonants than sense. But at least she could change her looks.

While father was talking to the men and mother talked to the women and brother minded the store, Helena would stand in front of the half mirror in their family wagon and change. She would make her hair longer or shorter, change its color from brown to a yellow so bright it shined like gold. She changed her height, but not so much that she tore her clothes. She would change from female to male, with big pointy chins that could open jars of preserve and voices so low and gravely they sounded like a rock crusher and would make her giggle. Helena would sneak off in a cloak to show her mother, who would only shake her head and tell her to change back. Helena would run back to her bed and cry about the unfairness of it all and hold her books close to her chest and weep until she had nothing left.

The books had always been there while others tended to leave Helena alone. There was nothing cruel or unpleasant about this, but father was the caravan master and mother the head weaver and brother worked the store, or drove animals, or this or that. That left Helena all alone for the countless miles with her books and her imagination.

Her father had been the one to introduce her to the power of reading. He would select a book and pull her up into his lap in front of the campfire, protected by the circle of wagons and the stars and the moon softly glowing high above. He would read the words and take her to other planes of existence.

There would be elves and dwarves, fairies of unfathomable beauty, and dark old things lurking in the bottom of lakes or oceans. And she would be right beside the heroes, like Percival The Brave with his talking white horse, or Don Diego the demon slayer, or Princess Van Humperdinck SinClaire De La Rista with her magical forest friends. They would fight off the evil of the world and rescue the maiden. Her father never could explain why it was always a maiden that needed rescuing, and never a prince, but that was just the way the stories went.

Then when her father became Caravan Master, her brother would read to her. Often, he would embellish with a flourish of a wooden sword, stabbing and slashing at the shadows cast by firelight. Then he too had gone to work under their father. That had left Helena all alone with the books, a wooden sword, and the constant travel of a gypsy’s life.

But she wasn’t a hero, she was a gypsy girl. She had learned the tambourine and to swing her hips and to earn an honest coin from trading. She learned of sums and figures and percents and taxes. She learned how to use a smile to bring a sale and how to grade cloth, metal, food, and goods. But still she dreamed: of castles and princesses, and knight in armor, and swords and magic.

It was with this dream in her heart that she asked her father for permission to petition Adoni. Her father looked to the little statue of The Traveler that every gypsy carried in their wagon. He gave his daughter a “go ahead” before returning to the figures before him.

So it was in the spring, of 1801, one day after the caravan had arrived in Wimpfensburg, that Helena left at dawn and made her way into town. Her head was filled with images of herself, performing great deeds, slaying monsters, and other hero stuff. She could see herself standing before a cheering crowd. They were yelling her name ‘Helena’, ‘Helena’, ‘Helena’. It was with some surprise when she left the well rutted dirty road. Her boot caught on the cobblestone, and she threw her hands out to stop her fall. She rose and dusted herself off, having derailed her thoughts of herodom. Helena took the moment to examine the town.

The cobble stones marked the edge of the town, for nothing else would describe the collection of brick buildings with their slate roofs, rising with height and splendor the further they got into town. Streetlights, thin metals poles with glass domes, were placed at regular intervals, their spell cores extinguished with the coming morning. Smoke rose lazily from many of the chimneys.

Just up the road was a large wooden stand manned by an elderly woman. Behind the woman was a rather large building, a bakery if the wooden sign with a loaf of bread on it was anything to go by. Helena paused before it, the confections and sweet breads wafting heavenly aromas.

“Good morning, deary,” said the elderly woman. The woman was quite advanced in age, short and plump. Her silver hair was the only thing not sagging with age. “What is a lass like you doing up and early this fine morning?”

“Greeting to you, elder,” replied Helena, already deciding which scone she wanted.

The old woman squinted at her, before retrieving her spectacles. “Should have known you were a gypsy,” she muttered before putting the spectacles away.

Helena let the comment slide. Not all outsiders were happy to see her people. Some still harbored superstitious beliefs from the years of plague and famine. She grabbed her chosen scone.

“How much,” she asked.

“Now that it had been touched by your mud hands? You had better buy it for I cannot resell it,” she said all in one long breath, then added, “and that will be six copper knots”.

“Six copper,” objected Helena, “two copper can buy a loaf of bread.”

The woman scoffed. “Maybe dark brown Household Bread.” The old woman grabbed a white loaf, still warm with a light crust. She held it up as if presenting a golden chalice. “See my Fine Bread. See how the loaf is light and airy? Only white sifted flower can make such a loaf. Such Fine Bread as baked by my sons fetches eight copper knots, I will have you know. That scone is made with the same fine flower as this loaf.” Almost offhandedly, she added, “My Middling Loafs are five coppers knots.”

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Helena hefted the scone, judging its weight. The woman was probably telling the truth, but she would be damned if she was going to let this old woman overcharge her for a scone. She was a gypsy, and by blood a trader. “Three coppers, and I will buy two. I will eat the first, here and now, and if it is as good as you say, I will put down another copper as a token for excellence,” she countered.

The old woman glowered but nodded. Helena took a bite out of the scone. Her mouth was immediately assaulted by flakey, crumbly layers, with bits of dried berry. She couldn’t help but smile; this bakery knew its stuff.

“I concede,” said Helena, once she had licked the last of the sugar from her fingers, “it is very good. Now, do you want payment in copper knots or sea salt?”

Helena headed to the Eban-Ezer stone at the center of center of town, a scone tucked away in her bag and her salt jar a little lighter. She quickly found what she was looking for: a tall black stone slab, wrote with three overlapping swirls, each feeding into the other. A river of prospects formed a que, even at this early hour. A quick glance showed a myriad of ages and social classes, all human. None looked like her, but nothing said she was outright forbidden. The sight of a street urchin amongst their ranks raised her hopes, while a garishly dressed young man with a fancy trusting sword temped her dreams. “Maybe I can fit in here,” she quietly told herself. With a calming breath and a refocus of her will, Helena took her place in the que.

Time crawling on. Helena silently wished she had the foresight to bring a book. Instead, she wrung her hands. When that didn’t help, she started to bounce on the balls of her feet. Her pendants, hoop earrings, and bracelets clinked and jingled, giving music to her movements. She continued, oblivious to the dark looks around her. Finally, someone tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to stop. Helena went back to wringing her hands. The line moved forwards another step.

The sun beat down, unforgiving to those below. The rising humidity made the air thicker and clothes to cling to the body. Helena felt a bead of sweat travel down the small of her back. An enterprising Pedaler with a tray of cold cuts and a jug of mead worked his way up and down the line.

There came a sudden “oh” from those near the front. A priest jogged forward and led a tall brown-haired woman away. The line moved forwards another step.

Helena stood on her toes and craned her necking, peaking around the rather broad and muscular man in front of her. She could barely see the current prospect, a black haired a man in his early 20’s, step forwards and kneel before the great stone. Nothing happened. Time passed, marked by the ticks of the iron weight clock next to the priests. Helena watched a bird fly overhead.

The senior priest, a white haired darked eyed man in white robes with age spots and more wrinkles than wet laundry, whispered to the priest next to him. That man in turn gave a nudge to an acolyte. The acolyte walked forwards and helped the kneeling man up. As the prospect regained his legs, the priest whispered in his ear. The black-haired man turned and walked away, rejection clearly etched on his face. Helena hoped it wouldn’t happen to her.

As she took yet another step, a nagging question returned, one that had plagued her since asking her father for permission to be an adventure: would Adoni, the great and merciful, accept her, a monster, as a hero?

The thought swirled around in her head. Was she doing the wrong thing? Did father suspect as such when he so easily gave permission? If she was rejected, then what? Would Adoni reveal her true form as punishment? Would the town burn down the caravan as retribution?

Helena was yanked from her spiraling thoughts by a tap on her shoulder. “Miss, it’s your turn.” The breath caught in Helena’s thought as she saw the looming Eban-Ezer stone before her.

The moment of truth as before her. On shaky legs that seemed unable to support her own wight, Helena took a step. And then another. Ahead there was a cushion. Helena practically fell onto it. Her pounding heart shook her whole body. Just as father had shown her, she closed her eyes, bowed her head, and prayed.

There was darkness; a void without beginning or end. In that space, with neither light nor sound to guide her, Helena prayed some more. Her thoughts coalesced down to a simple request: “Adoni, the almighty, the first and the last, let me be a hero.”

It came like a tide, sweeping through the expanse, climbing inexorably higher. By the time Helena felt the moist air tickle her skin and she reflexively opened her eyes, it had begun to take shape. First twin golden orbs, then teeth longer than her arm, and then great armored scales and the spiked ridges that framed the face. It all solidified into the neck, face, and maw of a great golden dragon, for nothing else could be more terrifying nor smile with such predatory hunger. Its great forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air. When it spoke, such was its powder that the very words forced themselves upon Helena and it was all she could do just to remain kneeling.

“Ah,” it said, the words smooth as silk and deeper than the void. “Tell me young one, what is it that you seek?”

Helena tried to talk but found her mouth dry. She licked her lips and mustered up her will once more, but only achieved a whisper. She managed to eke out, “I come seeking Adoni, the great and merciful…,” before she was defended by the roar of the beast.

“Do not speak his name,” it howled. “By right, all monsters belong to me.” The beast seethed, various juices spilled from its mouth, falling to hiss and bubble on an invisible surface.

The beast tempered itself, the predatory smile slipping back into place. “I am Pseudea, master of monsters and teller of tales. You are a monster. If you have a prayer, it comes to me.”

Once again Helena struggled for words. When finally she spoke, she said “I wish to become a hero.”

“It is power you seek? Very well then, it will be granted for a price.”

Helena was smacked with the force of a tidal wave, a singular vision overwhelming everything: there she stood in her true form. The townspeople bowed and scraped before her. No longer would her people need to hide from outsiders. All outsiders would kneel before her.

Helena shook her head, clearing the vision. “No,” she reinstated. “I want to be a hero.”

Pseudea snaked his way in close until his tongue flicked the air next to Helena’s ear. “You sure? You could be safe. Your family would be safe. Your kind would never be hunted again.”

‘How wonderful it would be’, thought Helena. To live openly and unafraid. To be accepted by those around her. To be blond, and tall, and mighty? She could walk any street, unashamed and unafraid. She would be protected, her family would be protected, her caravan would be protected.

“That’s right,” hissed Pseudea into her ear. “Everyone would be ‘protected’. The power is yours. You just have to take it.”

The moment was shattered by a new voice. “Not so fast,” hissed the head of a great snake as it appeared next to Pseudea, three spiral horns sprouting from its head. It had sickly pale scales, slit predatory eyes, and twin fangs that extended past its jaw and dripped vibrant green poison.

“She is mine, Neikea” hissed Pseudea. The great dragon snapped at the snake, who drew back a distance.

“She belongs to all of us, oh-teller-of-tales. I too have a gift to offer, should she wish to win any dual.”

A third head arose from the mist, this one of a raggedy bear with large sunken eyes and cheeks and patchy fur that fell in little tuffs as it spoke. “Enough sisters,” it bellowed, “for I, Atee, will offer a gift: to become a princess and never want or need again.”

The dragon lunged, the snake struck, and the bear bit. All was violence and blood as the heads tore at each other. Helena shut her eyes against the roars and the thrashing and the violence that thundered before her. She prayed once more, pleading with her words, “Oh Adoni, I beseech thee. Save me from this horror and I will be your servant”.

A blinding light cut through the darkness, piecing Helena’s eyes even as she clenched them shut and through a hand before her. A terrible power like thunder rolled through and all was driven before it. The biting and thrashing and gnashing quickly faded to a whisper, and then was gone. All that was left was silence and warmth, yet Helena did not open her eyes for the light was too strong.

Then she felt a presence before her, like she would feel a shadow on a sunny day. She twisted her head this way and that; the piercing light still made her eyes water even through her eye lids and hand.

“Helena,” said a voice, older than time and more patient than the mountains.

Helena cried out, “I can here you, but I cannot see you.”

“To see me is to see power beyond comprehension, knowledge beyond understanding, the entirety of the world, and your body incinerated all in the moment before your heart has a chance to beat.”

Helena promptly gave up trying to “see” and instead prostrated herself on the floor.

When the voice spoke again, it was with the softness of the breeze and the warmth of the sun. “Helena,” it said, “go forth and be a hero to my creations; help the helpless and protect the least of these. Go forth my servant, and do my bidding.”

Helena struggled for some refute but her lips couldn’t move. He had to be making a mistake. She could barely take care of herself. How was she to care for others, much less help and protect.

“Now rise,” boomed the voice and a hand clasp her own. She was pulled to her feet and when she opened her eyes, the light was gone.