Brilliant sunrise light streaks through a small gap in the shuttered window, beckoning the new day - today - the last day of Unknowing. Looking around your room, you breathe deeply, letting the warm air chill as it fills your lungs. Your whole life is here. Will it change after the Proving? Various baubbles and nicknacks clutter the wooden shelves and several dangling astronomical instruments crowd the low ceiling. You remember your father showing you how they work, explaining their various functions and sharing a smile as he told you how he broke them.
Are you ready for what is to come? Your mother certainly doesn’t seem to think so. Your father can’t say - he may have some divinatory insight but, “to shape the world by the ‘may’ or the ‘can’ is only to guarnatee the most fundamental timidity. It is in the choices we make that we truly determine an outcome.” His soft voice instructs your thoughts as you dress, donning the thick leather and fur attire that protects and warms you.
The village outside is a bustle with excitement and energy - even as early as it is, villagers dash to and fro, calling to each other and making their own preparations. The Proving is today! Today is the day our children become adults! Let us begin the celebration with our labor.
As you expect, you find the main room of your house still dark, the curtains drawn tightly over the windows, the clean living space lit only by embering sparks that cackle from the dimming of last night’s fire. Slumped in front of it, asleep, a golden man wrapped in a star-patterned robe, glasses slipping from the end of his snout, an enormous tome open in his lap. Docar, your father. Curiously, you bend over his sleeping form to see what he read as he fell asleep. Thin, scrawling, stabbing handwriting fills the pages - it seems to be written in a language that you don’t know. A mischevious smile tugs the corners of your mouth - you aren’t technecially an adult just yet. You blow gently, a subtle stream of cold air like an icy finger poking your father’s forehead.
Your father shouts, snorts a firey exhale, and spasms, jumping up and sending his book clattering to the floor. Standing there coughing, he says, “Gods above and below, Kier.” he stoops and collects his tome, “You know I hate it when you do that.” You grin toothily at him as he stretches, twisting and turning, raising his spindly arms above his head. After touching his toes a few times, he rights himself and grins back at you. “Happy Proving, darling. Breakfast?”
When Docar prepares food, he seems to need to open every single cabinet in the kitchen. Truly, it is incredible the amount of mess he can make - potions, herbs, root vegetables, the loud clanging of pots and pans. Docar reaches above his head, finally selecting a wide heavy bottomed cast iron from the hanging rack. Using this, he lightly sears strips of meat - just a kiss from the pan on one side. As he cooks, Docar begins telling you about his book - it was written by a gnomish philosopher way back, almost a hundred years ago now. As he talks, you notice his eyes and movements seem automatic - he’s talking to distract himself from something. A few minutes later, he presents you a plate piled with meat and over easy eggs cooked in the meat fat, and a brimming glass of goat’s milk. For himself, a small bowl with just a few strips of raw meat and a short mug of coffee. The smells of the morning sizzle and tingle and you share a lovely breakfast together.
What about adulthood demands that all things must change?
As you swallow the last strips of meat, the door in the kitchen swings suddenly open and your mother stumbles in, followed by her snow white rabbit, Xihuu, whose nose twitches nervously as he sits back on his hind feet and stomps the floor absentmindedly. Miynkic slumps into a chair next to Docar and leans her head on his shoulder, sighing deeply, her eyes closed. You see her clothes are covered in rapidly melting snow, tattered and ripped and she is bleeding from several small cuts on her neck and face. A large bruise forms under her left eye. Gathering components and materials alone can be dangerous work. She has never asked for your help. “Good morning, love.” she murmers to Docar. “All the breakfast gone?”
”Darling, sweet,” Docar nuzzles her head with his, “you don’t think I’d serve you a cold breakfast?” He pushes his glasses farther back up his snout, winks at you, and gets up to begin preparing food for Miynkic, who sits upright and slowly opens her eyes to look at you. Fresh smells brighten the room. Docar slides hot coffee to both of you. Miynkic leans over the table, clutching her steaming cup in both hands. “Happy Proving, child.”
There’s always something about her voice - her cold eyes - this is your day! You take a deep breath. Nothing will throw you off today. “Thank you, mother.” A little stiff, sure, but so is she!
Miynkic smiles and looks down at her hands. She takes a small sip of coffee and exhales as she seems to relax, now leaning her chin on one hand and clutching the mug with the other. ”I hear from Morne that you’ve declared for the Hunters.” Her voice is tired and comfortable - this doesn’t appear to be a test.
You nod, smiling, cautious, “Yeah! That just seems to be the most useful, you know? And…” your voice lowers slightly and you glance down, “It would be interesting to go to Mon’maulk someday…”
”Don’t get ahead of yourself, child.” Miynkic stares intensely into your eyes, “You first must pass the Proving, which I’m sure you will.” You blink in surprise, and she continues. “For all your poor attention and abysmial studying ethic, you’re capable.” She suddenly stands, pushing the mug away from her. Her back is to you as she says quietly, “Perhaps your shortcomings are not your own - perhaps it is a symptom of my own flaws as a teacher.” She steels her posture and turns back towards you. “I made you something. A hunter sometimes is hunted.” Reaching into the folds of her robe, she produces a small amulet and hands it to you. “I spent last night searching the mountain for the final component of the spell that makes that amulet work. There’s a cave on the northern steep where you can find crystals that - well, never mind. This will protect you in the event that you bite off more than you can chew.”
(this amulet contains a shard of pure crystal, as clear as glass. While carrying the crystal, when you would take damage as a result of a spell or magical effect in the space you occupy when you start your turn, reduce the damage you take by 2d6. When you would make a saving throw to avoid an effect based on the space you occupy when you start your turn, you have advantage on the saving throw. During the spell’s duration, when you would take necrotic, poison, or psychic damage, you can end the spell as a reaction to gain resistance to the triggering damage type until the end of your next turn. To activate the amulet, click it open and reveal the crystal. Once the amulet is opened, it’s effect last for one minute and it cannot be used again until the end of your next long rest).
Miynkic stares at you for a second before nodding, turning on a heel, and vanishing into her study, slamming the door behind her. It feels impossible to you, but the face she was making as she left was that of one about to cry. You’re clutching the amulet a little bit too tightly. Your mother doesn’t “give” things - she shows you how to make it but she would never make it for you. You feel soft hands on your shoulders as your father hugs you from behind. “She’s worried about you, love. Try to rest before tonight. Well. Maybe you don’t need rest. Do whatever you want.” He kisses you gently on the cheek and also vanishes into his study, climbing thin spiral stairs two at a time, clutching his book under his arm.
It’s somewhat unsettling how the day of a big event can feel just like any other day. You know that you should be excited - you have been hearing about this and preparing for it your whole life. You know people who have failed the Proving; you should be nervous. But as the sun climbs high into the sky and begins its dancing descent, as you and Novnick go from house to house to check in on the villagers who need simple remedies and regular attention, as you laugh and tease with other young adults as you work - The Day Of Proving feels just like any other day.
Night falls. Torches light a jagged trail through snow laden crags - it cuts up, higher, to the peaks above. Yowethilti, “Highest”, gets in name not only from its altitude, but from the fingering stems of stone that reach up, hands grasping at the moon as if to pull the mountain up by her force. Having climbed this trail at sunset, you stand at the highest point, a rough flat shelf. Snow whips around you and you absently clutch the amulet you recieved earlier, watching as your friends prepare for the Proving in their own ways. The moon shines at her brightest. Next to you, Paskek, a short boy with reflective black scales, hugs his cloak tighter around his stout body and whispers “Somna, we run for you. Watch over us.” The atmosphere is heavy with anticipation - now that the moment approaches, all the anxiety seems to hit at once - this is it.
Villagers begin to assemble. You know most of them will be at the bottom of the peak to cheer your arrival and success, but several of your friend’s parents have made the climb in order to say their final blessings. Among them, you expected to see Docar - he typically accompanies the contestants to the summit to explain the trials and set them on the right path to begin - but he is not there. Instead, you see Morne, a powerfully built blue scaled man, blind in one eye where a scar cuts deeply across his face, bare chested with simple furs wrapped around his waist, taking the place at the front of the assembled and preparing to speak. Morne is the Master of the Hunt, a respectable man and fierce warrior. You admire him, but as he begins to speak, you continue to scan the crowd for your father.
”Youths! This is the day you prove your mettle! By Somna’s light! You run the old paths, through the sheer of the eastern peak…” as Morne’s bellowing voice carries on the wind, you see a light in the swirling mist - a flash of gold, spinning, for an instant. Looking to your neighbors here, their faces are determined, cold, intent - they have not seen the light. Now above you, it breaks, shattering, kaleidoscopic, into thousands of spectral colors and a golden scaled hand reaches through, like tearing through a rift, scattering sparkling showers down around you. Hazy, disoriented, you see a jet of lightning rip through the air - Morne has finished his speech and your friends surge forward. The Proving has officially began.
Hesitant, you move, blearily wiping your eyes and stumbling to keep up. One last look over your shoulder - the golden hand is pulled back and the rift is closed. You shake your head and run. There will be time enough for answers after the trial. Already, you find yourself at the back of the pack, gathering rope and knotting the hook, leaping -
The cold mountain air surges, whipping around you as you turn and heave -
the hook catches on the rock above and you rapell - no time for caution, you do nothing to break your fall, instead leaping from the rope, tucking, rolling, bouncing up in a full sprint on hard stone, wrapping up your rope as you run. A thin trail, snaking through trecherous cliffs, moonlight just catching the narrow curves and bounching stretched shadows at grotesque angles. It becomes instinct for you. Rocks fall as the many pounding footfalls threaten the heaving snowdrifts above you and before you, the path breaks, leaving a rough gap in the narrow way. Running with your might, you leap, letting loose a roar from deep within -
”The witch is of the world, the world
the Endless is of the cold, the cold
and the witch will run forever
and pull the sun for heat
for the witch will not relent and that is the song we will sing and the Story we will always tell”
Blood splatters the white earth.
Paskek’s body convulses and
before you can act, a tear, a sundering and
the wolf stands to face you, its muzzle dripping red, a mouthfull of flesh
you have mere seconds to act
a bellowing roiling cold swells within you and your teeth freeze and you stand with ice in your blood and in the air - the wolf is frozen before you, its lunging snarl staining the blue with blood red streaks.
Shadows blur around you and shouts ring in your ears. No one is meant to die in the Proving - the wolves have never attacked like this - you stumble to Paskek, little rabbit, and fumble in your component pouch for your herbs - please have the right ones! With one hand staunching the bleeding, you mix herbs with snow, spit, and dirt and plaster the mixture into the wound - it just doesn’t seem like enough! Your hands shake - and suddenly, Paskek’s eyes snap open, he gasps, his wounds closing as your mixture takes effect. You pull him to his feet and both take off running, following the sounds of shouting and wolfish cries.
”There once was a witch who loved a fairy -
the twinkling silver wings and shimmering white skin -
there was magic in their touch and in their song -
the witch who loved the fey