Eve was born a maker of shapes and color. It was her destiny. But the measure of her ability was as yet unknown. She was without purpose. A mere glimmer of promise.

As a younger, she was often left alone to explore in the Wild Place. It was a rite of passage for makers. For in that sacred place rivers of fantasy flowed freely. Verdant valleys of imagination were sustained by the supple mist of immaculate rapture from a thousand souls that had come and gone before.

Without the binding tethers of critical thought, inspiration flourished.

The Wild Place was also where the elegant Phylores flocked to mate in the gloaming of each Turn. 

Eve had observed the mating ritual of the Phylores and was captivated by its beauty and grace. She made her very first shape of it. In return, the Phylores offered her the gift. 

It was a slender, prism-shaped staff of effervescent energy that trembled as Eve worked: enhancing her ability to create lush hues and textures that soared and swirled in large circles and magnificent arcs before joining within the center to form the shape.

With the gift she could conjure wondrous worlds from her imagination. The staff amplified what she wanted to make. And there was much that needed to be made.

Little did she know that she and her gift were about to be thrust into greatness, the shape of which was well beyond her ken.