Frey gazes into the night sky outside the Great Lodge for a while, though the stars are covered by clouds. Around her, the people of her village mill about, making their slow way to their little homes that dot the forest clearing and paths. Two men work to stoke the great fire in the center of the Gathering Place, to burn and offer warmth and light until morning, though even full day brings little more than wan, grey light this time of year.

Mostly they think it keeps the Pale at bay, and Frey isn’t sure they’re wrong. Fire seems to be the only thing that wards them off. Something about the night chill and the thought of them sets her antlers itching and she idly reaches up to rub the forked tines. Two forks now, meaning she’ll be marrying age by Summer.

That thought offers her neither comfort nor revulsion,  just a distraction, if anything. She can’t imagine who she’d dance with anyways, it’s not like either the single men or women of her clan have shown much interest. Being an orphan, while not precisely looked down on, means she has no material wealth, and little status. 
The Volya exits the Lodge and Frey stares after her, admiring the old woman’s grace and power, the way people part for her, nod respectfully, even bow a little. The way her tall antlers reach up almost to the lower branches of the great trees. Beauty and power mingle together in her walk, her bearing. I should go and ask her now. Frey almost moves, but her feet seem rooted to the ground.

She knows she’d be a good apprentice, she already has a way with finding herbs and the animals in the forest don’t speak to her, but they don’t shy away from her either. She just never quite comes up with the courage to face rejection. If she’s told no… well then she’d have no Path to walk. What would become of her then? Without a Path she wouldn't be rejected by the village, exactly, but nor would be welcome most places. She would simply be on her own, tolerated, mostly ignored, fated to wander and work for herself. Some didn't mind this fate, preferred it even, but Frey knew she didn't have the skills or the strength to survive alone. Ever since she was a fawn, little tines of her antlers barely showing Frey had dreamed of being one of the Volya, the women that guided, treated, spoke and cared for their villages. When she was all but five summers old, winter hares would rest in her lap, the big black squirrels would eat from her hand, and even a shy fox had once permitted her to touch its tail. The signs were all there, she knew she could walk that Path. If only she could work up the courage to ask for it...

The old woman disappears around the corner of the lodge, up the hill to her home at the summit, and the opportunity is lost. With a tired sigh Frey finds her feet, but she doesn’t go to her own shabby home quite yet. Instead her feet take her into the woods to the north, to be alone. To think.