It started at the age of five, in the adventurers guild.
Three years of survival and perception training, learning about dungeons, monster types, and how not to die in stupid ways.
At eight the children chose their hall. Some went to the rogues, some became healers, those who had the aptitude went to the mages, and the rest to the warriors.
Four years of training in the basics of their profession followed, and then they were twelve.

Each of the four halls had its own options. The 'options' was a room, one door in, many doors out. The options was well lit, looking brand new and clean, but was ancient, you could see and feel its age in the wood and marble. The options of the mages and the healers hall had many doors, the rogues and the warriors only a few.
The choice of those doors could be your home until you passed the tests.

Four children, four friends, stood in the warriors options. To the far left was the Paladin and then the Paragons doors. There was a gap, and then two more doors, one for Warlords, and the final door for Reavers. Very few went in the Reaver door, the guild had a way of weeding out those who desired to be come unholy death knights.

Kahran spoke up first.
"Well I was born to be a Paladin, so, my way is clear guys".
Two boys and the other girl smiled at their friend, they all knew where her heart lay.
Jennal was next.
"Ultimate combatant, thats me, Paragon training here I come".
Kahran placed her hand on his shoulder in a friendly geasture.
"I look forward to the day we fight side by side".
Jennal threw her a wink, he wasn't sure if she noticed it, she did, and her blush was almost imperceptable.
Mehial took a step forward towards her door before stopping and turning to her friends.
"Warlords, its not all for ill you know, one can lead great hero's to great deeds".
"You'll be great", said the last of their group, Michka.
Michka looked across the four doors, all these years of training, he had learned the lessons, but he still had not decided. He glanced from left to right. 'Paragon beside Jennal', he thought, 'Warlord beside dear Mehial', he pondered.
Something caught his eye, for just the briefest of moments. Something between the four doors. He turned to the attendant beside the entrance corridor.
"Was there ever five doors here"?
The man mearly shrugged his shoulders.
Michka turned back, the gap in the wall forgotten.
Mehial had stepped back, she planted a kiss on his cheek, said "keep that block up", and almost leapt through the Warlord door. Kahran and Jennal had hugged, and as they parted, they held hands for as long as they could, until they too went through their respectve doors.
Michka was left alone. He glanced to the doors where his friends had left, and again, something caught his eye. Every ounce of his curiosity demand that he ask the attendant for information, but Michka resisted the urge.
Planting his feet on the groung, he took up the warrior stance, body at a sideways angle, one arm in a defensive position, the other prepared to strike, he focused all the will he could. And there it was.
Smack bang between the four doors, a fifth door, plain for all to see.

It was old, centuries old. Vines had grown over it, cobwebs covered it. Above the door and covered in dust, was one word.
"Tempest".
Michka had to exert all of his will, his mind wanted to turn to the left or right. He was on a knife edge, he actually wanted to turn away, to fall away. Michka strode forward and shouldered his way throught the door. As he passed through the door, the enchantment fell away from his mind, and he was in the Tempest Hall.
The room was long and broad and tall. There was a lower and upper level around the edge, leading to dormatories, which according to the dust and cobwebs had not had a visitor in many a decade. At the far end of the room there was tables , and beyond those, other doors leading to kitchens, toilets, and who knows what else.
An old man stirred from his sleep from one of the far tables.
"Student, what, student"?
Michka made his way to the old man, unsure on what posture he should take, strong, confident, respectfull, fawning. He went with caution.
"Cautious in the face of the unknown, yet with will to enter", said the old man.
"Are you the master here"? Asked Michka.
"That I am, and you are"?
"Michka", said Michka, "What is this place"?
"Hall of the tempest warriors", said the old master, "but you know this".
"Well no" said Michka, "whatever enchantment keeps folks away from your door, works really well".
"Hmm", the old master looked around at the cobwebs and dust, "I see what you mean, well here we train our bodies to channel ice and lightning over great range, for we are the fury of the storm".
"Isn't that like, a mage thing"? Asked Michka.
The old master raised an eyebrow.
"Those nerds missed the point of learning, listen up. Here we use stamina as an offensive weapon, its not just defensive".
"I knew it"! Michka couldn't help his outburst.
"Shut it when I'm talking boy!"
"Now where was I", said the old master, "yeah, you can channel your stamina through your strength, most don't even understand what that means, but if you do, you can use your warrior training to blast down bastards like, thirty yards away".
"So strength puts a limit on how much stamina we can employ"? Asked Michka.
"Good lad, you listened.
Michka took his longsword from his back, he took up the initial warrior stance, and focused upon a chair some distance away. He pooled his will power through his stamina, focusing endurance and constitution as he tightened and tensed his muscles in balance. He thought he could feel his blood flowing for a second, and then he swept the sword forward.
The crack of lightning blasted the chair into flinders.
The old master sat on one of the other chairs, and began gently banging his head on the table, between mouthing the word "bastard".
Michka sheathed his sword.
"I think if I use the other stance, maybe a palm strike, I could do ice".
The old master continued to bang his head on the table, "bastard bastard bastard".
"What"! Said Michka, annoyed that his efforts had not been applauded.
"You utter"! Said the old master.
"What"? Asked Michka.
"Took me two damn years to do that"!
And Michka knew he was in the right class.