[ WP ] For generations , every first-born of your family has been bestowed a Magical tool to fight the forces of evil that threaten to destroy the world . It 's your birthday , the coming of age ceremony has now finished with the summoning ritual , and you 've been bestowed the mighty enchanted ... . Ladle ?

The day had finally arrived for Dyman's 20th year. The 20th year was the most important in a human's life, or so the Sect believed; each and every person raised in the Sect became a whole being on their 20th birthday. It was tradition to ring in the 20th year with feasts and relaxation, for life was about to begin. 
 
 The house was decorated from floor to ceiling for Dyman's day. Long silk banners the color of a ripened, purple grape were hung from the crest of his bedroom door. It was tradition to pass through the curtains for good luck, and purple was luck's color. Today it was adorned on all facets of the home decor. The furniture was draped in the same purple silk, long and flowing over arm chairs and sofas alike. Tables were overlain with pale purple glass that seemed to always reflect a face from the most flattering of angles. Any linens used in the kitchen that day had been switched out for a royal purple, and fine China with light purple accents set to contrast. His mother had taken care that his 20th festival be rather fabulous, and planned the entire party herself. In addition to the purple furnishings, she had been growing purple roses in her garden for the past year just for the party's flower arrangements. They sat in clear vases, each positioned strategically around the house to keep their scent continuously wafting through the air. Nine vases were stationed in the house: three in the kitchen, three in the sitting room, two in the dining room, and one in the bathroom. Each arrangement held 20 roses, all a variety of purple shades and tints. They adorned their vases in a spiral formation that caught every guests' eye. Some said Dyman's mom must have had a watering can as her Gift. 
 
 *The Gift, * thought Dyman as he entered his day through the purple silks. As they washed over him, he felt their magic leave a film on his skin. He felt lucky. Today was his day to finally claim his gift. *If I even get it today, * he doubted. 
 
 The Gift was something given to each member of the Sect in their 20th year. Only members of the Sect knew about this special Gift, which was certain to change all members' lives drastically. It held unprecedented, magical powers that the Sect believed were to be used ultimately in the fight of evil around the globe. Every person that Dyman knew including his mother, father, brothers and sister had found their Gift in their 20th year, and all within the first week. It was said that the most powerful Gifts come earlier in the year, and those that come in December may be as good as useless. The priest who guided Dyman as a youth had told him that powerful Gifts run in his family and he should be excited to carry on that tradition. `` You will have visions. Dreams,'' he said assuredly, `` make sure you *listen* to them.'' 
 
 When the party sat down to feast, Dyman was surrounded by about 40 of his closest family and friends. The food was a delicious and seemingly bottomless array of vegetables, fruits and baked goods. Behaviors that might attract bad luck, including the consumption of another animal, were strictly forbidden at today's celebration. Instead, roasted vegetables and sugared fruits were paired with hot and cold dishes of noodles, tofu, and colorful salads with greens, reds, and most importantly purple radishes. 
 
 But while the guests enjoyed their meals, Dyman could not stop thinking about the Gift. He turned his thoughts over in his head again and again, dissecting each and every sentence, word, phrase, or picture that may have come to mind. He was not one to dream very often, and had not dreamed the night before, causing him anxiety about missing his signals. He wished to ask the table about how they found theirs, but it was strictly forbidden to discuss a Gift's identity. Dyman was never sure whether this was superstition or fact, but it was said that a Gift's power becomes null when it's identity is revealed. It was impossible for him to *not* wonder if anything was true about the Gift or even about the 20th year, but Raoul, his adolescent priest, had told him questions are common during the year a youth becomes an adult. He must navigate through them with little guidance now that he was a man. 
 
 Dyman begged his mother throughout the party to dismiss all the guests early so he could meet Raoul that night without being rude. She brushed off his requests, saying that they were here to celebrate him, but thankfully most guests had lost their will to socialize by the sixth vegetable platter and most were buttoning up their coats by the seventh. Dyman was so anxious to get to the Raoul's office and vent about his concerns he took his bike not ten minutes after the house had quieted. He nearly ran into a stranger on the Sect's street, shouting, `` Sorry, brother!'' at them while flying by in the night. Though moonlight aided his journey, the night was dark and milky with mist. The stranger had only been wearing a black jumpsuit and dropped a knife upon the collision that dazzled in a white light as it danced to the ground. Dyman's heart fluttered with excitement, only return to a trough of anguish when the man picked it up and ran away cursing. 
 
 When he finally arrived at Raoul's office, he was surprised to find it empty and locked. A sullen expression overtook Dyman's face when the door knob did n't budge. He knocked futilely three times, a sad dirge subjected to the frosted window until giving up and returning to the Sect's street. Raoul's office was across from the church where all Sect members were welcome to pray. Its steeple was tall but rounded, with the Symbol of the Sect embellished on the front. On top stood a black granite figurine that portrayed the first Sectarian, a deft little human with fire cupped in her hands. The eyes of the statue were carved hollow and filled with deep purple sapphires. Though Dyman could not see it, the back of her head was left open so that moonlight might find it's way through the eyes and onto the Sect's street. As he walked to the doors of the church, he felt her eyes on him. *Am I being judged?, * he thought, *am I not ready for my Gift yet? Perhaps a prayer will clear my head... * 
 
 His heart felt as though it had been swallowed when the doors of the church refused to open. In an instant he had an uneasy feeling about him; his palms were sweaty, his breath tightened, and his mind raced back and forth with anxious thoughts. *The church is never closed... * A wind picked up in the street, causing waves of goose flesh to ripple through his body while his legs became griefed with an insatiable shiver. He walked around the perimeter of the church, climbing the iron gate into the church gardens. As he crept along the outer wall, his stomach betrayed him with fits of knots. It was on the opposite side of the moon's shine, and hedges along the fencing made for inky conditions. Just about all he could see was piles of purple roses scattered about the floor of the courtyard, little bulbs glowing in the darkness of midnight. He wondered if the statue was still staring down at him. 
 
 Before he could turn back and look, a door handle met his fingers. He wrapped his hands around the cold steel bar and pulled. An awful moan escaped from the hinges to welcome Dyman into the rear of the church. His first step inside found him in the kitchen where the weekly soup charity was run. The lights were still on, bathing the room in a weak fluorescent light. The floor was slick with grease and broth from tonight's stew, which sat on the over-sized range in a sheen metal pot the size of Dyman's thin torso. He crept up carefully to see the range had been turned off, but steam was billowing from the top of the pot. 
 
 It was then that he knew this was his moment. He peered into the pot, which was boiling without the range being on. *Strange... * His hand hovered about the side of the pot to see if it was hot, but the pot felt cold and lifeless. Inside, a dark yellow broth boiled furiously. The steam rising from the crest of the soup forced Dyman to jerk his face away as he watched the bubbles circulate carrots, onions, noodles, and bits of chicken to the top. *Chicken noodle soup? * he though, perplexed and angry. *Is this is? Some joke? * 
 
 He went to stick his finger in the soup for a taste, but it came back red and scalded. His right hand groped for a ladle in a bucket of utensils, and *that's* when he knew. It was as if his hand had a magnetic attraction to the object. His eyes shared a similar fate when they laid eyes on it; a long, svelte tool with a flattened hemisphere on the end. The top of its handle curved into a thin loop just big enough for his first two fingers, and the shaft felt like it was carved for his very own hands. It was a composed of finely crafted wood that had been carefully lathed, whittled, and sanded for an oiled finish that was smoother than anything he'd ever touched. Upon further inspection he realized that the ladle had been carved entirely from purpleheart. 
 
 Dyman thrust the ladle into the soup. The boiling broth sizzled back at him with the sound of a thousand snakes. *A strange Gift, * he reflected, stirring the pot wildly. The heat of the steam no longer bothered him, and the burn on his finger felt soothed in the loop of the wood. He lifted pools of broth as he stirred, watching the soup fall from the ladle into the broth. At first he thought the purpleheart was so dark it colored the broth, but when he looked closer he saw that the color of the broth was not tinted, but changed to a fine sage color. It perplexed him. *What does it do? * he wondered as he slurped up the soup.
