The ritual was centuries-old, evoking a time when the world was newer and their ways rougher, more primitive. She watched as the offerings of food and blood were made, heard the ripple of amazement run through the assembled crowd as the fire took on the hue of new spring leaves. Overheard the clouds thickened, the sky grew dim, and a warm, humid breeze rolled through the clearing, brushing lightly across faces chapped by a cold, dry winter. She heard Tormund call out as phantom sounds and scents beset them, sending a prickle of unease down her spine. The air was charged,<i>alive</i>almost, in the way it was before a clap of thunder or a strike of lightning. She braced against the waves of wind as it tugged at her hair and clothing, her breath beginning to quicken in her chest.<br/><br/>Then, without warning, the fires died in unison, plunging them into gloom. They would have screamed had the darkness not stolen their voices as well as their sight. They were left adrift and helpless in a sea of shadows, until they were met by a silver gaze affixed upon the elder. At the voice, she flinched inadvertently. She hadn't been sure what one of the Fair Folk would sound like, but his words seemed to resonate all around them, thrumming within their chests. Alyss could make nothing out beyond the silver eyes shining out from the darkness, though from what she had been told, Fae could change their forms at will. You could never be quite sure what their "true" form was.<br/><br/>She watched, along with the others, as Tormund's eyesight and youth were restored. The miracle sent a murmur through the crowd, and though the display was nothing short of a miracle, if anything it only left her more uneasy. These were fickle beings, all the old legends said so. They held humanity in their palms like insects, and it was only by a whim that they chose not to simply snuff them out.<br/><br/>But there was no more time for thoughts or worries--she had been called forward. All eyes turned to the girl, who swallowed her fears and, staring resolutely forward, left the crowd to stand beside Tormund.<br/><br/>They had scrubbed the grime of farm life from her skin and brushed her pale hair straight and silky, as presentable as a peasant could be. Clad in a faded blue dress and bundled against the cold, she forced herself to look up at the silver eyes in the sky, her face giving no indication to the way her heart pounded in her chest like a beast fighting to escape its cage.<br/>"This girl offers herself as the tribute of flesh," Tormund said, resting his hand upon her shoulder. "She has no living family, has never been sullied by a man's touch. She gives herself over freely for the sake of the village."<br/><br/><i>No family.</i>It was no secret that she was a wanderer's orphan, though she would have at least considered the people who raised her as family of sorts, even if she had never truly belonged. As for being "unsullied", well, what boy would want a walking bad omen as their wife? She was the outsider, the charity case, the odd one who was tolerated but would never truly be one of them. One might have wondered, then, why she would have turned herself over for those who had never accepted her.<br/><br/>Perhaps, if she was not looked upon fondly in life, they would at least remember her for this.