Morning is well underway and Frey is still recounting that awful night, now three days past, when the Volya finally returns to her lodge. Her old heart softens at the sight before her: the two young women seated close together by the hearth, and Morwen, upright, awake, faint color warmed into her once-bloodless cheeks.

She is strong, the old woman thinks.
Seeing that they have broken their fast, she introduces herself as Runa.

She is quietly astonished that Morwen so effortlessly understands their speech, yet she sets the question aside. The girl is clearly not ordinary. Power clings to her like frost, and Runa cannot shake the sense that her arrival is an omen. And then there is the matter of the Pale.

If what Frey has claimed is true, everything changes. It must be spoken of with care.
Yet caution has always been Runa’s quiet way, the ground on which she earned her station over long years of experience.

Could it be that the old ways are stirring again? That the gods of our ancestors have not abandoned us after all?

The questions buzz like hornets at the back of her mind, but she will not swarm the girl with them. Not yet.

She studies them a moment longer in silence, and it occurs to her that the best medicine for Morwen is already happening. Today is a rare blessing. The sun is bright, the air unusually gentle for the season, the forest pulsing with the scent of change. So Runa, with a tone both gentle and immovable, shoos them both out of the lodge under the pretense of needing space to work.

The village is in full swing as the girls walk side by side, their boots crunching softly on the hard packed snowy paths. Smoke rises from various cooking fires and chimneys, hammers ring from the blacksmith’s shop, here and there a few children run the paths, stopping to stare and whisper at the stranger walking among them.

Morwen is enchanted by every sight and smell, her senses dancing with new things all around her. She can’t help but stare wide-eyed at it all; wooden beams of houses with life-like carvings of all manner of creatures, intricate patterns sewn into clothes, colorful round shields mounted on walls, it all tells of life, of art, of warm, strong vitality these people flaunt against the harsh climate of their home.  She marvels at how the village seems to have integrated even the forest itself into its structure, only clearing trees where paths are needed.

As they walk, people look up from their work;  mending cloth, splitting wood, scraping hides. Most greet them with small smiles or a lift of the hand, some tap their fingers to their ear in that quiet village gesture, and a few simply watch in silence. Morwen’s skin prickles under the attention, but she feels no malice, only wary curiosity towards the stranger among them. All around her she notices talismans at every throat, some antler, some bone, each etched with a single rune.

At the corner of one home, an elder sits on a stump, gray beard long enough to brush his belt, his thick horns so tall they nearly touch the lintel behind him. He works with patient hands, carving new amulets from polished stone, the soft scrape of his knife steady as breath.

When they reach what Frey calls the Gathering Lodge, one brave little girl breaks off from a giggling pack of children, to pull on the hem of Morwen’s coat and she kneels to greet her. With the impetuous, unassuming curiosity of a child, the little one reaches up to touch the line that marks across Morwen’s nose, her wide eyes a deep, forest green.

“Why is your face painted?”  she asks. 

Morwen smiles softly at her.
“I wish I knew, if it means anything.. Do you think it looks pretty?”

The girl nods and touches the long white hair next. “Mhm! Blue is my favorite.”

“Well then, I suppose that’s enough meaning for me!”
Morwen gently pokes the girl's upturned nose and it sets her to giggling again. An infectious grin across her face, the girl taps her ear and runs off to rejoin her whispering conspirators.

Frey explains the gesture as a sign of respect, a formal greeting or farewell of her people, whose name, the Kuunafolk means “Those Who Listen”. Morwen’s head begins to ache a little, in part from so many new things to learn and see, but mostly her own incessant questions she can’t answer.

Who are my people? Do they have a name? Where did I come from?

Frey notes the troubled look on her companion’s face and takes an arm in hers.

“Let’s go to a quieter place; come, I’ll show you my home.”