Nysa Hawker, a girl in the medieval world was born with a gift no one quite understands. She hunts, she's sharp and she's cold, or so everyone thinks. She is sent on a journey to investigate the rumors of a hidden world beyond the ice wall, the wall...
Wy to susten othere is to susten the harte of selfe, but to wasten the soule. To atteyne plentie, thou must first susten thy selfe before an othere.
Translation: To feed another is to feed the heart of oneself, but starve the soul. To achieve abundance, one must first feed himself before another.
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The ice wall - A 150 foot tall barrier of ice that surrounds the perimeter of Earth at its edges, or so it was once thought.
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Once, just once, Nysa wishes she could walk a little further. Venture further. Discover more. Forbidden, the word floats across her mind like a whisper in the gentle breeze through the trees. As if the trees themselves had spoken it to her. A shiver runs down her spine. She keeps walking. Nysa always keeps walking, turning her head away from the massive wall of ice that signals the edge of the world as she knows it.
The rabbit she killed dangles from the string tied to the cord of her waistband. Thick leathers this time of year and dense furs for warmth. Nysa felt lucky she was able to kill anything at all, even if it was a measly starving rabbit. Though she was evidently a girl, the men of her village allowed her to run with the hunters for you see, Nysa was gifted. A "gift from the gods" the menhad once called it after she dragged back four deer and three rabbits one lucky spring afternoon. She rolled her eyes when she turned around. She assumed they were just lazy.
Nysa tilted her face up to the sky just as the first snow of winter dusted her nose.
"Shite," she curses quietly to herself, "shelter." Nysa looks around for the first time in a few hours of hunting and realizes she's strayed further from the village than she thought. This part of the woods is almost unfamiliar. Almost. She spins on her heels and walks back the way she came, but not before noticing something in the corner of her eyes. Her sharp eyes narrow to that subtle shifting in the distance, a glint of something black and purple. Purple. A color not common out here in the woods apart from the occasional hyacinth.
The blur of color vanishes just as quickly as it came, leaving Nysa on edge and aware.
"That almost looked like an eye, I don't like this," she thinks, quickening her steps until she sees the familiar markers of red streaks on big oak tree stumps. Her villages mark. One of blood.
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Nysa's legs are sore and aching by the time she reaches the village, but the feeling is one she is used to. She pushes her way into a tavern and sinks into a seat with a sigh. Once she's spotted, a small crowd forms.
