Narangerel is growing increasingly tired of her life. Her family has shrunk, cast out on the edges of society without even a magical to protect them. She dislikes her stepmother. Her little brother's okay. She loves her son, but a single infant isn't enough to tie her here and, anyways, infants are portable. The lesser Khan of the nearest band has been talking about taking her under his wing the few times they've met. She's not sure if she likes him, but, well, it's an opportunity she won't have out here.

She is seventeen, a few months from the cut off for magicals, when a Messenger appears before her.

Narangerel nods respectfully to the Messenger, even as she continues milking her goat. Gods can wait. Goats can't. 

(In the back of her head there's a lurking ambition, but, well, Messengers sometimes do appear for reasons other than granting power.)

"You honor me with your presence," she says, quietly.