Plot before 'plot'.
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Picture an untamed, wintery wilderness. A place where spindly, tall evergreens dot the landscape. A deep ravine lay there, where two ice-capped mountain ridges oppose each other. So tall were these ranges, that the observer would have to strain their necks to the point of discomfort just to be able to see their peaks.
Today, those peaks were obstructed by dark, broiling clouds that scattered a fine dusting of snowflakes down upon the treetops. These treetops grew in density with the mountain's descent, as did the melting snow, forming ever larger rivulets that ran down the slope.
Down the water flowed, leaving behind the barren, freezing peaks. The streams flowed downwards, past the gnarled dry pines that grew from the rocky mountainsides like bristles on the back of a great beast.
The forestation grew in both density and diversity as the water neared the bottom of the ravine. Only a few scattered beams of sunlight pierced the thick canopy, most being scattered by the leaves of the softly swaying ferns below. A few singular beams eventually made it to the water's surface where they glinted with a golden light, illuminating the dusky forest.
Close to where the river lay, hidden in the forest's bowls, stood a quiet little camp. Its inhabitants were a group of pale, painted youths, dressed in wild furs and decorated in bone fetishes. They were completely silent as they made their preparations for nightfall, their movements showcasing a lifetime of experience in woodcraft.
The members weren't many, one or two handfuls of individuals, and consisted of both young men and women. They didn't speak to each other, choosing to communicate with hand signs instead -- perhaps hoping to avoid attracting the attention of the things that dwelled in the forest.
As the sun sunk lower in the sky, the mountain cast its grand shadow over the forest, submerging it in darkness. The wildlings had all settled in. Some buried themselves beneath dirt and leaves, indistinguishable from the forest floor. Others hid in hollowed out tree trunks or perched themselves in the high-up branches, keeping an eye on the camp perimeter.
The time had come for them to sleep and rest. They would need it for the dangerous task that lay ahead of them.
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It was a tight feeling in her chest, like a serpent winding itself around her heart, that woke Alrüna from her slumber.
She opened her eyes quietly where she hid, not so much as stirring a single leaf. She was a völva, a girl gifted in things that went beyond the physical, and it was her duty to warn the hunters when any abnormal threat drew near. The monsters that crawled in the darkness carried a taint, one that disturbed the natural spirit that suffused the forest air.
They had come to this dangerous forest to hunt a great elk for its antlers, hide and meat. It was a creature of spirit, every part of the beast being of great value to their tribe. This hunt would also serve as their coming-of-age ceremony.
Alrüna was much invested in the venture's success, for a child that had completed their coming-of-age would be allowed to travel beyond the tribe. There were many things she wished to leave behind.
She was born strange and fair, standing out from her peers in ways that would prove to be very undesirable.
Although völva like her were necessary, they were not loved. She did not blame her people for their attitude, as she felt the same way. She had heard many frightening tales from the seiðmenn who had mentored her.
Tales of dark, horrible things that had stalked the land but a few short generations ago. Evil scourges which no man could match in strength or magic, that brought ruination upon nature. The baleful scars they left upon the earth for all to see, if you were brave or foolish enough to venture there.
It was that very same evil that flowed in her own veins, mixed with the blood of man and bent to be a force of good -- yet its heritage could not be denied.
Rahl, the seiðmenn, had once caught her taking a knife to her own flesh, attempting to dig out the horrors that lay beneath. The old shaman had consoled her as she lay there, bleeding and crying. He was the only family she had. Her own had discarded her out of fear, fleeing the tribe and leaving her for someone else to raise.
For all the short years she'd been alive, her life had been difficult.
No-one had shown her any kindness, most not deigning to speak even a single word to her. Neither did she miss the looks the men started sending her way when she was but a child. It made her skin crawl. However, they were too afraid of the seiðmenn to do more than that, even though he'd been getting on in his years.
The girls and women were far worse. They pretended to be friendly, but slandered her as soon as she turned her back. They would trip her when she walked past, sending her tumbling to the rocky earth to tear her skin and brake her bones.
Rahl was helpless to do anything. Had he lifted a hand at one of them, their fathers, brothers and husbands would have undoubtedly jumped to defend them. Aside from his weird tricks, he hadn't the strength to contend with hunters.
She had remained stoic, putting up a strong front for the tribesmen to see, and only took solace in Rahl's arms in private where she cried herself to sleep.
The second worst thing she had suffered was when she'd reached eleven summers of age.
