Somewhere in the Aelvinnwode, Two Years Earlier

Three deer stopped by the brook and bent to drink. Barely a rill it was, gurgling over leaf rot and a few smooth stones, spilling from the Little Bowstring's waters as they swelled with the rains of spring. A pretty sight, the trio, graceful in the slender shafts of sunlight that pierced through the Aelvinnwode's dense canopy. Two were barely out of their fawn's dappled markings, and white hairs still salted their tawny coats. The third stood taller and sturdier, a doe perhaps in her third year. This one looked up from her drink nervously, dark and thick-lashed eyes darting nervously about the clearing.

Reynhild, crouched in the brush beneath a screen of new birch leaves, released her held breath and her taut bowstring at the same instant. The arrow streaked across the clearing and plunged nearly halfway to the fletchings into the older doe's breast. She lurched, but fell almost instantly. The two younger does fled into the green shadows.

Reynhild emerged from the brush and stepped across the brook to the fallen doe, her long slender limbs still twitching. The shot had been perfect and the deer would not have suffered long, but nonetheless she drew her knife and quickly cut the doe's throat. Hot scarlet blood gushed forth to vanish soundlessly in the soil.She had seen some hunters offer prayers for, or to, their slain prey. Reynhild was not devout-- far from it, in fact-- but she crouched  by the doe, silent, watching the light fade from her eyes, with a curious reverence that she supposed most reserved for religious moments.

"A fine shot."

She spun backwards on her heel and had a second arrow nocked and aimed before her mind caught up to her god-touched reflexes. A shape, obscured in a cloak that seemed half rags and half uncured hides, stood behind her, a dozen yards away. I didn't hear him coming. How in the names of the gods did I not hear him coming?!? I can hear a gods-damned butterfly alight on a log. 

The figure raised its empty hands, a gesture of placation. "You are the new bride of the young Fulcairn heir, yes? The... Rjurikan." The voice, deep, hoarse, thick with an accent she did not recognize, paused ever so slightly before the last word.


"Aye. Who are you?"

He continued as through she hadn't spoken. "Why did you slay the elder doe? The younger ones were fat and tender. They would be a fine meal for the table of a lord."

"The other two were too young to have bred. 'Twas a long winter, and the wolves have been many and hungry. I would never take a deer too young to breed, especially not after a hard winter when the herd will need new fawns."

She could not see the man's face, merely a scruff of ragged beard emerging from the shadows of a voluminous hood. Yet she somehow sensed him smile, or as close as he could muster.

"You do not walk in the shadows of the forest as a noblewoman would. No. You walk the forest as one born to it," he said.

"I am more at home in the forest than I have ever been in a castle keep," she replied, honestly and glad of it.

"Aye. Aye, I believe it. Yet you tread close to the Manslayer's lands. Turn back, lest you never return home to your keep."

She raised a wary brow. "Who are you?" The figure said nothing. His ragged cloak twitched in the breeze. "Wait a moment. I think I know of you. Lord Cullan told me of the Wilders' tradition, of how the five best woodsmen in Wilder's Gorge are chosen to each patrol a different region. He said only the best are chosen to serve House Fulcairn. I've met the others, and he does not boast idly. They have come to... respect my skills, and I theirs, and Lord Cullan granted me leave to oversee their patrols, while he and Corrac attend to other matters. But I've never met the fifth, the one who guards the border to Rhuobhe's lands. You are he, aren't you? Lwcan."

He was silent yet for a moment longer. "I do not serve House Fulcairn. I serve no one. Save perhaps Eirik. I live in this forest, and I watch over it. Few pass beneath its boughs without my notice. When it is required, I render aid to the descendants of the Ghost Among the Pines. He... he was worthy. He kept his oaths, and I keep mine."

Reynhild's eyes widened. The Ghost Among the Pines? That was what the rangers called Caedmon Fulcairn, Cullan's grandfather and Corrac's great-grandfather, said to be the best woodsman to walk Anuire's forests in a thousand years. But... surely this man didn't claim to have known him personally? The blood of the gods granted uncanny abilities to some, to be sure... but was unnaturally long life one of them?

 For a moment, they gazed at each other wordlessly, then Lwcan-- if it was indeed Lwcan-- nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes. Your House will have need of you in the days to come, Lady. You should sleep lightly and keep your quiver full."

"My name is Reynhild." She inclined her head slightly. "Tell me, Lwcan... if I call for your aid in the days to come, will you render it?"

"Aye, Reynhild. Aye, I will... Rrr..eeyn... h...ild."