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A granite skinned elven woman stands in a warm robe in a warmer room, watching as large flakes of snow are carried through the dark of winter by lazy winds past the window pane. She is heavily pregnant, and has been for the better part of a year. A cup of tea steams in her hands, smelling faintly of mint and tasting of slightly too much birch syrup. Small flecks of dried dough cling to the undersides of her fingernails, leftover from the baking she was doing several hours earlier. Her child is due soon, the first to grace her village in 13 years. Children are infrequent, here in the Wood - a side effect of the long life granted to elvenkind, nature helpfully ensuring that Balance is kept and there are never too many mouths to feed and bodies to clothe.
The woman’s thoughts drift with snowflakes on wind outside. She hasn't settled on a name; not just yet. A name is, after all, a portentous thing, not to be chosen lightly. Perhaps something seasonal, like Joyful Spring or Brazen Flower; a name to celebrate the passing years with happiness and strength. Her own mothers suggested a more demure name, Babbling Brook, in reference to the sound the nearby river makes when it thaws in the first light of spring after the fading of polar night.
The woman frowns. She doesn't particularly care for that name.
A soft knock at the thick pinewood door announces another woman, just cresting 6 feet tall with strong arms. She is shorter, significantly so - some eight or so inches the smaller of the two women. An ungainly wooden rocking chair is in her hands - freshly fashioned by her own skills as a means to give her partner somewhere comfortable to sit in this room that was recently cleared for the two of them, soon to be three. She awkwardly foists it through the doorway with help from a neighbor who flashes a polite smile and a customary winter greeting to the pregnant woman, both returned in kind before they depart just as soon as they came.
The taller of the wives is guided by the shorter into the chair, giving it a small rock back and forth as if to test its abilities. Satisfied, she takes her carpenter’s hand in her own and squeezes lovingly just once.
Childbirth nearly kills her, though it’s all worthwhile, she believes. Any pain can be endured for her child. Now, and for the many years yet to come where she will serve as the young one’s guardian and caretaker, with her village’s help. The local priestess that had been present to assist with the birth carefully hands the woman her child, wrapped in bundle of cloth for warmth and comfort. Fuzzy red hairs adorn her crown, pointed ears still slightly stubby and stunted. She’ll watch both grow long, in time, she thinks with a smile as she looks down at her child’s face. Her eyes are scrunched and squinted shut, hands balled into tiny fists that slightly unfurl from time to time to grasp at her mother’s skin.
A small gaggle of eager onlookers has gathered outside the door. She can hear them murmuring to each other in anticipation, little excited voices breaking through here and there. They can wait, she thinks, just a while longer, for her to preserve this moment perfectly in her memories. She soaks in every detail, not wanting to ever forget - the sweat on her own skin, the way the cloth feels in her arms. Her child peeks its eyes open for just a moment, looking up the short distance to her mother’s face.
A pit forms in the woman’s stomach, despair rising within and wrapping itself around her heart, sinking it down beneath sorrowful waters. Two colors gaze back at her from the child’s eyes: a brilliant blue, same as the clear summer sky, and a shimmering yellow-gold. This child is not truly hers at all. It will have no name, no childhood as she dreamt of it - and no mother of this earth. The Twins have blessed the Wood with a Visionary child by her womb, though she will play no part in its upbringing. The others will be elated - it is an honor, it’s said, to bring a Visionary to this world. A great gift by which all those who live in the Wood can be helped to flourish by their guiding hands that know no attachments save for the Goddess, their one true Mother.
Tears overflow and stream down the woman’s face in silence. This isn’t a blessing, she thinks. Not to her.
This is a curse.
97 years later, a woman with burnt red hair intermixed with white streaks comes to the village. One eye, black as the void, cascades in tattooed streaks outwards across the left of her face. She’s come to help lay a soul to rest, that of a carpenter whose ghost has haunted the locals for several cycles of the moon. She knows not a soul in this village - it’s the first time she’s ever visited this far to the northern reaches of the Wood personally. The village elders receive her, expressing much thanks for the aid of one so esteemed and essential to the Goddess’ wills. If any may see a path to Balance, it will be her blessed sight, and other such formalities.
She does her duty quietly and alone, most of the villagers leaving a respectful distance between the working ranger paladin of the Moon and Night and themselves.
When she packs up to leave some three days later, a woman with ice blue eyes breaks the social barrier between formality and personality while the Visionary is tending to her mount. She comes with a gift of fresh spiced bread and sweet pastries, in thanks for her aid. The Visionary gratefully accepts the gift, especially the sweets - one of her favorites, though the village woman could not possibly have known.
She lingers a moment, studying the Visionary’s four-colored eyes as so many do before abruptly turning away, giving the more formal thanks to the Goddess for Her Visionary’s aid before leaving the stable in a hurry. The Visionary wonders for a moment the woman’s name, then decides it unimportant - she has accomplished the will of the Moon and Night, and must return to her travels, where others await her assistance in keeping the Balance of light and shadow.