The night was crisp with the chilled air that signaled the snow from the tops of the mountains. To some this would be a warning of storms and fall that was to come, but to the small village of Norn it was just a reminder that even in their summer the nights were crisp and summer would not last. The fields were in full flourish, and a regular target for an easy meal from the local wildlife. So Norn residents had taken up putting up sentries. To discourage the thieving beasts and if any were to try, well the meat was always welcomed. The fields amd their yields were precious things to the Northern tribe. For grain, and corn kept longer than meat or fish and was far more steady a source. Not to say they did not have bad years, but those were discounted as bad luck or the work of evil spirits. Displeasure of the Earth. So for that year the offerings would triple in hopes of appeasing the angered being so their crops would flourish the next growing season.

However, this was not the only reason the sentries had been posted. For this was the first year the village had called to do such a thing. Something that had taken much thought from the Shaman and the Chief. The village was not so close together and along with the great fields of grains and corn, were the more private gardens of roots and herbs. The private huts that house each families' meat well off the ground. Though some preferred to dig cellars, large holes covered with stone or wood. The houses themselves were mostly wooden, with dirt flooring though older houses had taken stone and many had woven reed mats across them. Roofs were of thatch, wood or the rare tiles. But the latter was rare for clay had more and better uses than being put upon a roof. The roads were dirt, some stones packed into them closer to the center of the village. For flat stones, when not needed for a house, were agreed that they would do better to be added to the village's streets, for the mud of winter made things difficult and frozen mud had made more than one set of boots ruined. And so the large wooden platform- the speaker's stage- where Shaman, Chief or another would speak to large gatherings was set near the center of the village. To it's side was a large fire pit. A communal fire that was used during feast days, to burn sacrifice, or when game was too large to store away all the meat. The stones about it were blackened with the hear of large bonfires and ashes lingered within the pit.

Still the leaders of the tribe were worried and they were not alone. For hunters had returned with strange reports of odd tracks and missing kills. Things that could be explained away as a beast or animal of the forest. But one had returned held up between two friends, his blood flowing from a cut in his scalp. His arms covered in scratches from something's claws, and bite marks upon his same arms and one upon his throat. He babbled about a evil spirit in wolf shape, and spoke his story only to the chief and shaman. He had been hunting, as was obvious. But when he had taken aim at a wolf who was feasting upon a rabbit, the arrow had been led astray! For no wolf would know he was there no matter how crafty, and his arrow would not have missed! When the wolf turned upon him, he shot again and this time the arrow had struck a tree that the wolf had dodged about. A evil spirit for sure! He did not get a third shot before the beast was upon him, a large slamming of their power upon his head and he had fallen to be savaged. The two other hunters agreed they had heard snarls and raging of a wolf and when they had come, they had seen the wolf like figure disappearing. A creature possessed by a evil spirit, though they had no more than a glimpse of the fur and rustle of leaves as it passed. They had went off hunting for the spirit several times after that, but never did they see it. So the two hunters, and their wounded friend grumble and spit. Making wards against bad luck and never entering the woods at night. The Shaman had thought upon this and had said his piece in the fact that he would think longer upon it. He would also seek out what spirit they angered, or who might have been sent against them. "Though-" He said. "I do believe it is of the North. For the Wolves of the North are most deadly and should it have descended from the plains of ice then it will be even more so."

So his warning was headed and the chief did not look askew at foreigners. For they were not of the great glacier that laid to the East in the valley between the mountains. So now he looks upon this clear, summer day and wonders what the world will bring. And if that spirit has left for good. His problems as chief were many, and many were petty. This was neither part of the many, nor was it petty. The man sighed and went to whittling his new knife hilt upon his door's stoop while he waited for breakfast. Many of the other villagers were either leaving to fish or hunt, or waiting for the sun to break the haze of morning to begin their days. A raven looked down at the man from the roof, and squawked. A reminder of Fate and Change, or so thought the man. Who would walk into the stream of Fate or fight it's currents today?

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