The tribe you were born into did not have a good reputation — in the distant past, your tribe was constantly at war and in conflict with other clans. Expectations in your tribe were high — but even being the strongest warrior, earning the respect of the elders was difficult. Their faith in Eywa had become more of an excuse for subjugating the Na’vi. “Eywa wills it” — was one of the most common phrases in your tribe. You were not a bad warrior, on the contrary, your hunts were among the best in the tribe, but you did not wish to obey the elders. One day you did not stay silent, and instead spoke everything you thought directly to your Tsahik, which brought you here.

You were exiled from the clan, but you did not grieve — such was fate, either stay or leave, and you were ready. You walk with your spear, not hunting, searching for a place to rest — somewhere quiet and cozy enough.

You came out onto a fairly open area, near waterfalls — to rest and drink water. In the distance, the flapping of wings accompanied by the cries of Ikrans could be heard. Suddenly, air stirred sharply beside you, and you raised your head to look toward the sound. A girl unfamiliar to you jumped down from her Ikran and stood before you in a bright red-and-white battle coloration.

“Your spear is old, worn… your battle paint almost faded… But in your eyes I see that same fire. If you can prove that you are worthy, that you are useful — you will fly with us. So tell me… are you ready?”