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Nerd In the North IV

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

It had been hours.

Hours.

Greg Veder had been trudging through the snow-blanketed forest for what felt like an eternity, his shoes sinking into the powdery white bullshit. The boy's legs burned, each step feeling like he was wearing concrete boots instead of his drenched wet sneakers.

Hours.

It had been hours of this shit, and the only thing keeping Greg from losing his mind completely was the steady stream of bear-themed tunes he belted out at the top of his lungs.

Hours of belting out "Bare Necessities" and "The Bear Went Over The Mountain" on repeat. His playlist of bear-themed tunes was embarrassingly short, but hey, Ash seemed to dig it. The little bear cub trotted alongside him, looking way too chill for a wild animal.

"...forget about your worries and your strife," Greg warbled, his voice cracking on the high notes.

But whatever, no one was around to judge his vocal skills except Ash, and the bear couldn't exactly post a review on UTube.

Thank god for Disney, he thought, glancing down at his fuzzy companion. Ash, the bear cub he'd somehow acquired like a fucking animal companion in an RPG, trotted alongside him, seemingly unbothered by the cold and Greg's atrocious singing.

"I mean the bare necessities, that's why a bear can rest at e-" Greg's impromptu karaoke session screeched to a halt as he burst through the treeline, his jaw dropping so fast he nearly got whiplash. There, nestled in a small clearing like a goddamn winter wonderland postcard, was a village.

"Holy shit on a shingle!" Greg whooped, his face splitting into a grin so wide it threatened to break his chapped lips. "Ash, buddy, we fucking did it! We found civilization! Or at least, like, the medieval fantasy version of it."

Without wasting a moment, Greg hauled ass towards the village, the snow crunching under his feet. His mind raced with possibilities. Oooh, I'm gonna get one of those big ol fantasy turkey legs and some mead and a busty elf tavern wench to sit on my lap and a-

But before he could get too lost in his Tolkien-esque fantasy, a strange feeling prickled at the back of Greg's neck. It was like the vague unease of realizing you left the oven on mixed with the oh-shit sense of incoming danger usually reserved for horror movies.

What the-

Without really thinking about it, he stumbled slightly, his foot catching on a hidden root beneath the snow. As he pitched forward, an axe whistled through the air where his head had been a split second before, embedding itself in the snow with a meaty "thunk."

"Jesus H. Christ on a cracker!" Greg yelped, scrambling back on his hands and feet like a demented crab. His eyes bulged as a wild-eyed man who looked like he'd stepped straight out of a How to Be a Fantasy Barbarian handbook burst out of the trees, another axe already in hand.

And he wasn't alone. Two more extras from the Barbarian Casting Agency followed close behind - a burly dude wielding a sword that looked like it had been used to butcher a few dozen hogs, and a woman with a spear who seemed like she'd never seen a shower.

Granted, all three of them looked like that, but she had some especially grimy skin.

"Hey, hey, hey, w-wait!" Greg's voice cracked as he scrambled back, crab-walking away with wide eyes. His eyes darted to where Ash was already scampering away, the bear clearly having more survival instinct than him. "Ash, run! Use those fuzzy little legs!"

Talking to a bear in English. Yeah, that's totally normal, Greg. Good job. With a yelp that sounded more like a terrified Chihuahua than anything else, Greg leaped to his feet, yanking his sword from his back. The blade felt about as light as a railroad tie, and the cool energy that had been zipping through it earlier felt like more of a weak fizzle than the surge it was before.

"Wait, wait, hold up!" he babbled, his voice pitching higher with each word as he held the sword up.

But the barbarians didn't seem interested in talking. The axe guy charged forward with a roar that sounded like a pissed-off grizzly bear with a megaphone, his weapon whooshing down in a deadly arc.

"Fuck fuck fuck me!" Greg's internal monologue went full R-rated as the barbarian swung at Greg's midsection with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. ShitshitSHIT! Greg barely managed to get his sword up in time, the impact sending vibrations through his arms like he'd just used a baseball bat on a steel mailbox.

"Shit!" Greg gasped, his muscles screaming in protest. Jesus, it's like trying to block a fucking wrecking ball!

He staggered back, arms feeling like overcooked ramen noodles from deflecting that blow. The sword, which had sliced through a weapon like it was made of marshmallow fluff just hours ago, now felt like a heavy dumbbell.

Come on, magic sword! Greg pleaded silently, his heart doing a drum solo against his ribs. Don't fail me now, you Excalibastard!

But the sword didn't seem to be in a cooperative mood. It flickered weakly in his hands, the cool energy that had zinged through it earlier now little more than a tired fizzle.

"I'll gut ye like a fish, boy!" Axe Guy snarled, his breath hitting Greg like a slap of rancid meat.

"Wow, okay, first of all, invest in a fucking Tic-Tac, dude," Greg wheezed, ducking another wild swing that nearly took his head off. "And second, what is it with you guys and gutting? Is that, like, your go-to threat? Because it's getting a little old, not gonna lie."

The burly sword guy let out a bellow that sounded like an enraged walrus and charged, his blade glinting viciously in the weak winter sun. "Stand still, ye wee southern shite!"

Greg yelped and pirouetted out of the way with all the grace of a drunk ballerina, catching himself from face-planting in the snow. "I'm from New England, that's like super North!!"

"Die!" Axe Guy shouted.

Greg stumbled back, his feet tangling in the snow like an uncoordinated Bambi. "K-kill yourself!"

The barbarian's response was another wild swing. Greg ducked, feeling the whoosh of air as the axe passed inches from his bowl cut. Mom's gonna be so mad if I come home with an undercut but also… Stop taunting the scary murderous barbarians, you idiot! the sane part of his brain screamed. But the rest of Greg was running on pure adrenaline and pants-shitting terror, his mouth moving faster than his common sense.

The spear woman took a jab at him, her aim scarily accurate for someone who looked like she skinned bears for fun. Greg barely managed to parry, the impact sending judders up his arm.

"We'll make ye squeal, kneeler!" she hissed, her eyes glinting with malice.

"Kneeler?" Greg panted, his brow furrowing even as he backpedaled frantically.

He was cut off by Axe Guy's roar as the barbarian came at him again, swinging his weapon like he was trying to win a gold medal in the Fuck Greg's Shit Up Olympics. Greg parried desperately, his arms screaming in protest, his sword growing heavier with each blow.

Think, Veder, think! he ordered himself, his mind racing like a hamster on meth. You've seen every fantasy movie and played every RPG. What would the hero do in this situation?

But his mind was blank, a buzzing white noise of panic and the singular thought of oh god I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die.

And then, in a moment of crystalline clarity that felt like the universe's sickest joke, Greg remembered a move from one of his favorite video games. Fuck it, he thought wildly. If I'm gonna die, I might as well die like a fucking weeb.

With a scream that was equal parts battle cry and terrified shriek, Greg spun in place, channeling every ounce of his strength, every iota of his fear and adrenaline and sheer, pants-pissing desperation into the motion. The sword arced through the air, a blur of celestial white against the bleak gray sky.

There was a moment of resistance, a sickening sensation of blade meeting flesh and bone. And then, with a wet, meaty thunk that would forever be seared into Greg's nightmares, Axe Guy's head separated from his shoulders and went tumbling through the snow like a gory soccer ball.

Greg stared, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as his brain struggled to process what he'd just done. He felt like he was going to puke, cry, and pass out all at once, his stomach doing a triple backflip as the reality of the situation hit him like a sledgehammer. Oh cool… it doesn't get easier.

The spear woman screamed, a raw, primal sound of rage and grief that cut through Greg's spiraling thoughts like a knife. She charged, her weapon aimed right at his heart, murder in her eyes.

Greg reared back, bringing his sword up with shaking hands. The taste of bile rose in Greg's throat, his face turning a shade of green that would make the Jolly Green Giant jealous. He reared up, pointing his sword at the other two barbarians with shaking hands. His voice came out as a strangled squeak, wavering and cracking like he was at the very start of puberty all over again.

"F-fuck! God, why do you guys keep making me kill you?"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

As Greg yanked his sword from the back of the spear-wielding woman, her body slumped to the ground with a dull thud. She joined her fallen comrades on the blood-stained snow, looking more like discarded ragdolls than the fierce warriors they'd been moments ago. The metallic stench of blood mixed with the crisp winter air, making Greg's stomach churn.

"FUCK!" he shouted, his voice cracking like he was going through puberty all over again. The silence that followed felt almost as oppressive as the fight itself. His hands dropped to his sides, suddenly feeling like they were made of lead.

Greg's arms trembled, not from the cold or fear, but from the adrenaline crash hitting him like a truck for the third fucking time that day.

Greg Veder stood over the bodies of all three of the fallen berserkers, his chest heaving as the adrenaline slowly drained from his system. The sword in his hand felt heavy, the weight of the lives he'd taken pulling at his arm like an anchor. He'd never killed before, not for real, and the reality of it hit him like a suckerpunch to the gut.

"Fuck!" The word burst from his lips, raw and ragged, his voice cracking under the strain. "Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!"

He wanted to throw up. He wanted to curl into a ball and cry. He wanted his mom, and his bed, and his normal, boring life where the worst thing he had to worry about was getting beaten up for running his mouth.

But this is my life now, he thought, a bitter laugh bubbling up in his throat.

His hands shook as he lowered the sword, the blade caked with blood and gore. Five. He'd killed five people. Five living, breathing human beings, with families and dreams and...

No. No, don't think about that. Greg shook his head violently, as if he could physically dislodge the thoughts. They were trying to kill you. It was self-defense. You didn't have a choice.

But that didn't make it any easier. That didn't erase the sound of their screams, the sight of their blood staining the snow crimson.

He'd been running on pure instinct, no skill or overwhelming power – just dumb luck and a desperate will to live. Tripping around and scrambling all over while barely avoiding decapitation wasn't exactly the heroic image he'd had in mind.

I'm gonna scream my head off when I get a bed and a pillow, I swear. As he stood there, swaying slightly, something brushed against his leg. He glanced down, half-expecting to see another attacker coming for his ankles or something.

Instead, he saw Ash, the bear cub, nudging him softly. The little guy looked up at him with those big, dark eyes, somehow managing to look both concerned and adorable at the same time.

"Oh... Ash," Greg chuckled weakly, relief washing over him at the sight of the unharmed cub. "There you are, lil guy. Thought you might've bailed on me. Can't blame you, though. This is some messed-up stuff."

As he bent down to scoop Ash into his arms, a distant uproar caught his attention. It was like someone had cranked up the volume on a medieval warfare soundtrack – shouts, the clashing of metal, and the unmistakable cries of people having a really, really bad day.

Greg's head snapped up, his eyes widening as he spotted the source.

The village.

The one he'd been so eager to reach, the promise of warmth and food and maybe even a bed driving him forward. It was under attack, at least two dozen figures climbing over the walls. Holy shit, he thought, his stomach twisting into knots. It's a raid. An honest-to-god, Vikings-and-pillaging raid.

Even from a distance, Greg could hear the terrified cries of the villagers, and see the small plumes of smoke already starting.

Oh, come on! Greg felt a knot of fear tighten in his stomach, like he'd swallowed an angry hedgehog. I can't... This is like, way above my pay grade. He stumbled a few shaky steps backward, his mind racing as he eyed the overwhelming number of attackers. Five of these guys were already hard, but twenty... thirty?

That was just straight-up unfair.

Maybe I could just... not? The thought crept into his mind, tempting and terrible all at once. This isn't my fight. I could grab Ash and just... leave.

Before he could spiral further into his moral crisis, a profound surge of energy coursed through him. It was like that feeling when his soul had expanded those few times before, but cranked up a few more notches. This time it was different – more potent, more demanding as it expanded outwards. And with that expansion came a choice, a fundamental decision that he felt in his bones, one presented to him not in words but in raw, overwhelming feelings.

One path felt orderly, bright and shiny, like the good ending in a video game. It promised light, peace, and the kind of prosperity you'd see in a tourism ad for a fantasy kingdom. The other path... well, it was definitely more powerful. But it also reeked of darkness, corruption, and the kind of rage that'd make a Sith Lord look chill.

Light Side... or Dark Side?

The choice hung there, as real and heavy as the sword in his hand. For a split second, Greg wondered what it'd be like to choose the dark path. To have all that power, to make everyone who'd ever laughed at him pay...

But nah.

That was edgelord territory, and Greg Veder was no edgelord. He was a hero, damn it.

Or at least, he was gonna try to be one.

Without hesitation, Greg chose Light. The decision clicked into place within him, like slotting the final piece into a jigsaw puzzle. Something fundamental in his soul felt different – firmer, unshaken. Even with the lingering nausea from the fight and the fear still gnawing at his guts, most of his panic dissolved. In its place was a newfound resolve, steely and sure.

He tightened his grip around his sword, lifting it from the snow with a renewed sense of purpose. The blade felt lighter now, humming with an energy that matched the determination coursing through him.

Okay, I'm guessing that's the call to adventure? Greg squared his shoulders, his gaze fixed on the village. It was time to be the hero he'd always dreamed of being, even if the reality was a lot messier and scarier than he'd imagined.

Rushing forward, he grumbled under his breath, "Let's go do the hero thing."

Achievement: Lady Killer (200 GP)

Roll: The Only Choice that Matters (400 GP) - "It is the gift of the gods that all mortals are born free. However, in the end, every mortal is offered a Choice. To side with Good, or to side with Evil. Some may falter when they see what they lose to that choice. You do not. The Choice of Good and Evil is not the choice of Necromancy or Healing to you, and you will find that even as you have sunken into the depths of Evil, you can draw upon the light of Good, or that as Good bolsters you, you can reach into the necromancy of Evil. Never will calling upon a power taint your will; you have made your Choice and nothing can change that."

Interlude: Gwenna

Gwenna's boots crunched through the thin layer of frost that coated the ground, her breath misting in the crisp afternoon air. The village of Frostfall bustled around her, a cacophony of familiar sounds that had been the backdrop of her life for as long as she could remember. The clanging of the blacksmith's hammer, the lowing of cattle, the chatter of villagers as they went about their daily tasks—it was a symphony she knew by heart, as comforting as a mother's lullaby.

Old Edda said this Winter would be a bad one, she thought, pulling her woolen cloak tighter around her shoulders. Old Gods be good, she'll be wrong. The rough fabric scratched against her neck, the homespun cloth a far cry from the soft silks and velvets she'd heard the southron ladies wore. But it was warm and sturdy, and that was what mattered

As she walked, Gwenna's hand drifted to the small wooden charm that hung from a leather cord around her neck. It was a habit she'd developed whenever she was lost in thought, her fingers tracing the intricate carved lines of the weirwood face. Her father had given it to her on her last nameday, a fallen piece of weirwood.

To keep the old gods close, he'd told her when she put it on.

And we'll be needin' them close, if this Winter is half as bad as Edda says, Gwenna mused, a small frown tugging at her lips. Da had made clear that Winter was nothing she had ever seen before, as she had only been barely more than a babe when Summer started but the longer the Summer, the worse the Winter was something he repeated often. As this Summer had stretched for so long, they were due for a harsh one, and the thought sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.

Shaking off the gloomy thoughts, Gwenna quickened her pace, her nose twitching as the scent of freshly baked bread wafted from Alin the baker's shop. Her stomach growled in response, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since breaking her fast that morning. She'd been too busy helping her father with village matters.

Or at least trying to.

Da says village work is for the chief, she thought with a huff, her arms crossing over her chest as she recalled the way he'd shooed her off, like she was still a babe clinging to her mother's skirts. I'm four and ten, old enough to help. I'll be runnin' this village myself someday.

"Gwenna!" A booming voice jolted her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see Alin himself standing in the doorway of his shop, his ruddy face split in a wide grin. "'Ad a taste of that fresh berry tart yet?"

Gwenna shook her head, a small smile tugging at her own lips in response. "Not yet, Alin," she called back, "but I will be trying it soon!" If there's time between all the chores, she added silently.

"Aye, well, don't ye be waitin' too long," Alin chuckled, his accent thick with the Northern brogue. "Berries won't last forever, what with th' cold comin' on so quick-like."

"I'll be sure to remember that," Gwenna promised, her smile widening a fraction.

As she continued on her way, more villagers called out to her, their greetings and small talk as much a part of the daily rhythm of Frostfall as anything else.

"Mornin', Gwenna! Off to help yer da again?"

"Aye, and he'll be lucky to have her, with that head for figures she's got!"

"Gwenna, tell yer ma I'll have that new batch o' candles ready by week's end, will ye?"

She answered each in turn, the warmth of the exchanges chasing away the last of the chill from her bones. This was what she loved about Frostfall, this sense of community, of everyone looking out for everyone else. As much as she felt a bit of envy toward the stories of the wealthy South, the tales of their spite and malice also tempered her thoughts just as much.

Lost in the comfort of the familiar, Gwenna almost didn't notice when she reached the village gates. But the sight of Edric standing guard, his youthful face set in a serious expression that always made her want to laugh, quickly brought her back to the present.

He's comely enough, she supposed, eyeing the young man speculatively, but about as exciting as watching paint dry on a fence post. Still, a bit of harmless talk never hurt anyone, and it might just brighten up her day.

"Afternoon, Edric," she called out as she approached, a coy smile playing about her lips. "Lovely day for some fresh air beyond the walls, don't you think? I was hoping to pick some wildflowers. The meadow is just blooming."

Edric's brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his spear as he held the thing as firmly and as straight as his own back stood. "I'd agree on the weather, Gwenna, but you know your father's rules," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "He's said it many a time, he has, there'll be no letting you out alone."

Gwenna felt a flicker of annoyance rise in her chest, her smile slipping a notch. I'm not some babe in swaddling clothes, she thought irritably, but kept her voice light as she responded. "Was back two moons ago he said that, I know it. Surely, the flowers can't be as dangerous as all that?"

"It's not the flowers I'm worried about, and you know that well enough," Edric replied, shaking his head. "I can't let you go, not without extra hands and eyes to keep you safe. There's been talk of Wildlings movin' south, and with winter comin' on..."

He trailed off, but Gwenna could fill in the rest. With winter coming, the Wildlings would be getting desperate, more likely to risk raids on northern villages like Frostfall in search of food and supplies. It was a tale as old as the North itself, and one that never ended well for anyone involved.

Still, I can take care of myself, she thought stubbornly. I've been practicing with a bow, and I'm getting good. I could help defend the village, if it came to it.

She opened her mouth to say as much, to argue her case, but the words died on her tongue as a sudden, sharp sound cut through the air. It was a noise she'd heard before, in the practice yard when the men were training, but never with such a sickening, meaty thunk at the end.

Time seemed to slow as Gwenna's eyes widened in horror, taking in the arrow that now protruded from Edric's neck. The young guard's hands flew up to clutch at the wound, but blood was already seeping through his fingers, bright red against his pale skin.

"Edric?" Gwenna's voice sounded small and far away to her own ears, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a dream, a nightmare. Any moment now she would wake up, safe in her bed, with the sounds of the village coming to life outside her window.

But she didn't wake up. And as Edric collapsed to the ground in front of her, his legs giving out like a puppet with its strings cut, the horrible reality of the situation came crashing down on her like a ton of stone.

The young guard tried to speak, but only a wet, gurgling noise escaped his lips.

"No, no, no..." Gwenna whispered, stumbling backward. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest, drumming in her ears and drowning out the sudden screams and shouts erupting around her. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and a cold fear washed over her, as icy as the winds that howled down from beyond the Wall.

"Edric!" The name tore from her throat, high and panicked.

The Old Gods protect us, she prayed silently, fervently. This can't be real, it can't be happening, not here, not to us…

But even as the desperate thoughts raced through her mind, the sounds of chaos erupted around her. Screams and shouts filled the air, mingling with the clash of metal on metal and the ominous crackle of flames. Smoke began to rise from the thatched roofs of the village buildings, carrying with it the acrid scent of destruction and death.

But it was real. All too real. Above it all, rising like a clarion call of doom, came the cry that confirmed her worst fears:

"Wildlings!" The voice rang out, sharp and terrified. "Wildlings at th' gates!"

Gwenna's mind raced, her father's lessons on what to do in case of an attack warring with her instinct to run and hide. She could smell smoke now, acrid and thick, as the first flames began to lick at the thatched roofs of the village buildings.

I have ta find Da, she thought desperately, forcing her legs to move. I have ta-

She ran.

Gwenna's heart hammered in her chest like a smithy's anvil, the rhythm so fierce she feared it might burst forth from her ribs, and the taste of fear, bitter as winter berries, coated her tongue.

Gwenna's legs moved of their own accord, carrying her through the maelstrom of panicked villagers and marauding wildlings. The guards were trying their best but they were few and scattered and the wildlings were as savage in battle as they were in their looks. The rough cobblestones beneath her feet were slick with blood and melting snow, threatening to upend her with each hurried step. She ducked behind an overturned cart, the splintered wood digging into her palms as she steadied herself.

From her hiding spot, Gwenna watched in horror as Betha Bones, the village midwife, was cut down by a wildling's rusty blade. The old woman's eyes, cloudy with cataracts, seemed to find the village girl in her final moments, silently pleading for help.

Gwenna's eyes stung, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks, but she couldn't tell if they were from the billowing smoke or the sheer terror that gripped her soul. Around her, Frostfall crumbled, the village that had been her entire world reduced to blood and ash. The screams of the dying mingled with the cries of the living, a cacophony of suffering that made her heart ache.

Old Gods, hear me, Gwenna prayed silently, her fingers clutching the wooden charm at her throat like a drowning man grasping for a raft. Spare us from this unholy nightmare.

A thunderous crash drew her attention, and Gwenna's head snapped towards the east gate, the door not too far from where she stood. The smaller wooden barrier, meant more for traders and fisherfolk than defense, burst open in a spray of splinters. Through the gap strode a figure out of nightmares - a wildling, massive and menacing, his crude axe already stained with old blood.

Gods have mercy, Gwenna thought desperately, fear turning her limbs to lead as the raider started towards her. His strides were long and purposeful, a predator who had sighted his prey.

His eyes, wild and hungry as a starving direwolf, scanned the fracas until they locked onto Gwenna. The grin that split his face was something out of the deepest of nightmares.Yellowed teeth, more absent than present, gleamed in the firelight as he started towards her. Gwenna's breath caught in her throat, her limbs frozen in terror.

"Oi, what's this then?" the wildling called out, his voice rough as gravel and thick with a barbarous accent. "A pretty little kneeler, all alone?" He spat on the ground, the glob of phlegm landing inches from Edric's still form. Gwenna's stomach churned at the casual disrespect, bile rising in her throat. "Gonna have some fun with ye, I am."

Move! a voice in her head screamed, cutting through the fog of terror. Move or die, you fool!

Her body obeyed, but too late and too clumsy. As she scrambled backwards, her foot caught in the hem of her long skirts, sending her sprawling. The impact with the hard ground drove the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping like a landed trout.

Tears blurred her vision as she clawed at the blood-soaked earth, fingers scrabbling for purchase, for anything to drag herself away from the approaching nightmare. The rough wool of her dress scraped against her skin, a sudden, sharp counterpoint to the numbness of her terror.

"Ain't ye a lively one?" The wildling's voice was closer now, heavy with cruel amusement. His shadow fell over Gwenna, blocking out the sun. "Makes it more fun when they squirm."

Gwenna squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the killing blow. Regrets flooded through her - things unsaid, deeds undone. I'm sorry, Da. I'm sorry, Ma. I wasn't strong enough.

She waited for the bite of the axe, for the blinding pain that would herald the end of all she knew. But it never came. Instead, there was a wet, choked off gurgle, the sound of a man trying to breathe through a throat full of blood.

Gwenna's eyes snapped open, just in time to see the wildling's body, cleaved nearly in two, topple to the side in a fountain of scarlet. The spray of it was hot across her face, shockingly warm in the chill air. She gagged, the coppery taste overwhelming her senses.

For a moment, all she could do was stare, her mind struggling to make sense of the sudden, violent turn. It was only when a figure stepped into her field of vision, blocking out the grisly sight, that she blinked, awareness seeping back in.

It was a boy, she realized, not much older than herself. He was smiling down at her, but it was a shaky thing, more queasy than confident. In his hand, he held a strange sword, like none Gwenna had ever seen. It lacked a crossguard, seeming to be all one piece, and the metal gleamed with the pure, untouched white of fresh fallen snow.

Who in the hells? The thought flashed through Gwenna's mind, confusion momentarily overriding her fear. She'd thought she knew every face in Frostfall, but this boy was utterly foreign to her. His hair shone like burnished gold in the waning light, and his eyes, bluer than any sky Gwenna had ever seen, held a depth of concern she'd never found in the gaze of any of the village boys.

Before Gwenna could find her voice, the strange boy spoke and she saw bright teeth, whiter and cleaner than she'd ever seen in her life. His words were gentle, but his accent was unlike anything she'd ever heard in the North.

"Hey, girlie, you doing okay?"