*In the gentle light of some unknown illumination stands a young man, turning feverishly in place as he attempts to get his bearings. All around him is darkness, save for the soft glow seeming to beckon him forward, yet he seems to have little regard for the guidance being offered as of yet. He is confused and irate, trying desperately to discern whether this is real or if he is simply adrift within the confines of a dream. Eventually his keen eye lands upon the vague outline of a step, and with no other options left to him, the young one tightens his headband as if satisfying a physical tic before he begins his ascent. He reaches behind his back and pulls forth two oddly shaped blades, as if one had melded a gun, a key, and a dagger all into one, and thankfully their respective lights served to better show his way as he began to sprint full speed up this unknown staircase, having lost all patience in such matters. Eventually his feet connected with level ground, and his sprint slowed to a cautious, yet confident gait as he walked out into the middle of whatever platform was supporting him. Before he could think too far into the situation, a blinding light erupted from below him, causing him to hop back and hold his blades up, only to lower them a moment later as he realized there was no threat to be found. Instead he could now see the platform he was on clearly, though it seemed to be composed of some kind of stained glass which depicted various portraits of himself and people he both knew and did not. For the life of the youth, he could not make heads or tails of what he was seeing, though the visage of his father did put a rather bitter taste in the back of his mouth for all the bad memories the simple image brought back. He strolled to the very center of the mural, keeping a tight grip on his weapons as a voice began to speak, not loudly enough to startle the boy, but enough that he could hear the tense in each syllable spoken, as if the voice were coming from directly within his own brain*
"He who holds the keys of destiny, thou stand upon the precipice between light and darkness, staring into the abyss of the soul. In the face of a destiny greater than thyself, will thou crumble and fade into the darkness? Or will thou stand among the light and struggle against that which has been deemed inevitable?"
*The young man felt no fear towards the voice, nor the question it posed, but it did cause him a moment of repose. He silently lifted the blade in his left hand and stared into the azure reflection it provided, as if seeking answers within himself. This brief respite lasted but a moment however, and with the tightening grip around the handle of his weapon, he seemed to have affirmed whatever answer he had been seeking. Casting an almost defiant gaze upwards, the young man spoke, his voice light, yet powerful, the meaning behind his words as clear and concise as a roaring gale*
"I don't know who or what you think you are, but you better hear this and hear it good! I don't care what kind of obstacles you throw at me, I'll smash right through them and keep moving forward towards tomorrow! Destiny is what each person makes of it, and I'm gonna be a hero by my own means, not because some whim of destiny dictates it!"
*There was a brief silence that seemed to hang ominously in the air before the darkness around the young man began to shift and undulate as if it had gained a sentience unto itself. As a massive creature composed of raw darkness materialized before him, the young man spun his weapons around before gripping their handles tight and holding each blade in front of him as he stared his opponent down. With a force like a whipping wind, the boy sprung forward from where he was and shot straight towards the Heartless monster before him as if he had been launched from an unseen cannon, his voice ringing out into the cold darkness like a brightly burning flame*
"The name is Mythril Kain you oversized freak! Make sure to remember it, cause I'm gonna etch it into your damn skull!!!"
*A deep breath, a sharp intake of air, the sound of a hand meeting a forehead. All these sounds happened in unison as Mythril shot up into a sitting position, sweat pouring down his face as he attempted to control his breathing. Whatever kind of dream that had been...it had been all too real to him, perhaps he would see Arieth about it later on...she always seemed to be able to divine some kind of meaning from his... His thoughts ground to a sharp halt as he began to become more aware of his surroundings, and he was fairly sure he hadn't fallen asleep outside last night. As he let his hand slip from his face, he slowly rose to his feet as a growing feeling of unease began to spread itself throughout his body. Wherever he was, it looked as if he had wound up in the midst of a battlefield long lost to time. The buildings surrounding him were decrepit and almost decaying in appearance, most having large chunks missing, or large claw marks gouged into the stone, adding to the graveyard like ambiance. Without even thinking about it, his constant companions Dvalinn and Durathror materialized within his hands as if they had sensed Mythril's unease, and admittedly he was comforted slightly by their presence. With a deep breath, he began to walk down the street in front of him, having no idea where it would lead him, if anywhere at all, the only sound of his presence being a wry remark which seemed to reverberate along the street itself*
"Well...Happy Birthday to me I s'pose..."