Her father did always warn her that curiousity would be her undoing. But hearing the call, tasting that power- It was a temptation unlike any other.
Malora squinted up at the temple, the entrance old, worn-down, but beautiful nonetheless. Her mother would snort, turn away. Her father would stare at it like it was the enemy. Malora gathers up her courage and ventures in.
Everything about it sang at her to be touched, to be felt. She reached out with her hands and her mind as she walked down, savouring the rush of power over her, careful not to take it, only appreciate it. The carvings were exquisite, but Malora was no archaeologist. She cared not for the history or the meaning behind them, only for the flood of energy that electrified her very veins.