The village had seen harsh winters before, when the frost grew killing and the wolves were driven down from the mountains seeking to fill their empty bellies with the sheep and dogs of the resident farmers. They had seen famine before, when the fall harvest was not as bountiful as it should have been and they became as hollow inside as the wolves. Not for centuries, though, had the land known a starving time such as this.<br/><br/>It had begun in what should have been late fall, which instead was early winter. Mornings of freezing rain spelled doom for the scythed hay and wheat waiting to be gathered from the fields. By the time the farmers had managed to bring their early harvest in, almost half of it was fouled by rot. Foraging parties had gone out to gather nuts and berries in hopes of replacing some of the lost harvest, but had come back with paltry results. Winter came down in force shortly afterwards. Normally, there was little to do in the village during the frosty months beyond staying warm, but even that quickly became difficult. The snows fell with a vengeance, as if seeking to bury the village in a white tomb, and roofs and boughs creaked warningly under the weight. Hearth-fires seemed unable to keep the cold at bay, and out in the barns, the livestock shivered, with the youngest and oldest succumbing to the bitter nights one by one. Between snowstorms, the menfolk went out into the surrounding forests to try and gather firewood in order to keep their families from freezing, and the women tried to cobble meals together from what little stocks were left. The children, too cold and weak to play, merely tried to stay alive.<br/><br/>The spring thaw should have come by now, but winter would not relinquish its grip on the land. Meetings were held to try and determine a way to survive. Even with food strictly rationed, it was growing difficult to feed everyone. Convocations of hollow eyes and hollow bellies murmured among themselves, wondering who would be the first to go. The almanacs of years past were consulted, but never among their records had they experienced such a brutal season.<br/><br/>At first, one of the proposed solutions seemed utterly ridiculous: beg the Fae for help. Nobody wished to draw the attention of the powerful, enigmatic beings, even when oblivion threatened. But there were old legends, older than the most venerated elders of the hamlet, that told of mortals striking bargains with the Fae. Sometimes, the circumstances warranting it were grim, much like the winter they currently faced. Other times, foolish and greedy humans sought power or wealth. No matter the cause, though, there was always a heavy price to pay.<br/><br/>...Desperate times called for desperate measures.<br/><br/>The summoning was held on a cold evening by a mass of villagers huddling and shivering just within the eaves of the forest. Torches burned in a ring around the clearing, casting orange light across the snow. The village elder stood with his back to the crowd, silhouetted against the firelight, ceremonial antlered hood atop his head making him seem like one of the very beings they were attempting to call. A heavy tome was held in his arthritic hands, but despite his frail form, his voice carried through the silent forest with a surprisingly-clear presence as he named the great lord Dwyn--their guardian, ruler, and reaper--beseeching him for an audience.<br/><br/>Within the crowd, a pair of bicolored eyes framed by pale hair watched the ceremony, expressionless face obscuring the gut-twisting apprehension brewing within her.