The rhythmic, ceaseless snow fall mixed with a low, mournful howl of wind made for an impromptu lullaby that Betch the guard had been struggling with for the past three hours. In truth, Betch wasn't a guard, but only one of many Brothers of the Sway that slept inside the Caughton Monastery, but being one of the closest buildings to Skavia, everyone took a turn on the freezing stool. One path cut from the thick, dark, and deceptively quiet pine forests that marked the edge of civilization, while the other meandered downwards to the nearby village Tarn, filled with red faced, broad shouldered men, and women who didn't look much different. It kept the Brothers from breaking their vows.

Betch's eyes scanned the dark, yawning maw of the wilderness once again - then he jolted forward with a gasp, arms flailing, scrabbling for a handhold as he fought against the threat of his tipping stool. He found salvation as he clutched tightly the sill of the window facing east to the forest path, but his panic had sent his mug of steaming tea splashing frantically on the stone, then plummeting to the ground. He could hear the cracking of the ice crystals as his drink froze rapidly on the rough tiles. Groaning with disgust, Betch bent over to scoop up his mug, cursing his fool head off under his breath. Cursing his overbearing parents for pushing him into the service of a faith he didn't believe in, cursing his childhood friends for joining the Salvic army and leaving him all alone in Tirel, where it was so easy to get lost in a sea of foreign faces.

When he sat back up, he gasped again.

Not six feet beyond his window stood a little girl in an old brown parka, still in moonlit snowfall. He could see her small gold pigtails hanging from the fur lined hood, but shadow hid everything else. Betch didn't move. He knew he was holding his breath, but he didn't dare even breath as he glanced out to the sprawling, cold dark forest up the path. Sometimes the Brothers talked about seeing shapes in the trees when no one had been seen walking up that way. Disembodied children's laughter that would float out of the pines in those black, late evening watches, touching one's spine with fingers colder than the snow. Tales of ghosts were so well known in Caughton Monastery that they were more memorized than the hymns they sang.

The little girl in the coat moved, but Betch didn't. She had to lift her knees comically high, almost to her chest, to clear the snow banks in gray, wrinkled leather boots that looked a size too big. Carefully, he groped under his six cloaks for his chain as he drew closer to the window. He didn't reach it before she was tapping on the glass. If she was a ghost, she was awfully; the tale of black-haired Medinia, most beautiful, but abandoned and jilted bride of Tarn, said she would only appear behind you, and you'd never know until she sunk her burning-hot hand into your back to tear out your heart. The girl tapped again, then loudly swore at him. The obscenity jarred as badly as the near death experience he'd had mere moments ago with his stool. Slowly, he leaned over and pushed open the door to the guardhouse. She stepped inside quickly and pulled down her hood to reveal a pair of warm brown eyes framed by a fall of honey colored hair and a smirking face with an old, fading yellow bruise on the left cheek.

"Get me the priest Ickes," she snapped at him, stripping off her hide mittens, which he noticed were both different sizes, and shoved her hands toward his lantern, pulling its glass cage open, seeking the scant warmth of the fat, yellow candle inside.

"Tell him Alphonse Everret is back."