All those things, which might seem trivial and even dull to city dwellers, were of prime importance to Safar and his people. They made up their talk, their dreams and all the rhythms of life.

In his own waythe way of KyraniaSafar was royally born. He was the son of a potter and in Kyrania such men as his father were second only to the village priest in importance. His father's father had been a potter as well, and his father before him. It had always been so for the Timura clan and many generations of Kyranian women had balanced Timura water jugs on their heads as they made the hip-swaying journey to the lake and back. All food in the village was cooked in Timura pots or stored in Timura jars, which were sealed with clay and buried in the ground for winter. Spirits were fermented in Timura jugs, bottled in Timura vessels and it was said all drink tasted best when sipped from Timura cups and bowls. When the caravans arrived Timura pottery was more sought after than even the few fresh camels and llamas the villagers kept to resupply the merchant masters.

When the troubles came Safar was being trained to succeed his father as a practitioner of that once most sacred of all the arts. To accomplish this was Safar's sole ambition. But as a wise one once said"If you want the make the gods laugh… tell them your plans."

The day that marked the end of those youthful ambitions began well before first light, as did all days in Kyrania. It was early spring and the mornings were still cold and one of his sisters had to bang on his sleeping platform with a broom handle to rouse him from his warm feather mattress.