Hidden far from the networks of flying machines and magical transportation, pockets of life are untouched by the world around them. And in these lonesome islands of civilization, the ancient rites of seemingly dead religions still resonate through the generations.
In such a village, nestled under the shadow of a great and impressive mountain, is the small village of Xanan. For generations, Xanan has existed as a place of prosperity, where the fruit grew plump and ripe, and the livestock produced milk and cheese. The people there were happy, and they had little to worry about.
But, all times of prosperity have to end, and for one reason or another, the time of plenty leads into the time of want.
“Winter is long this time,” says the village elder, stroking his beard.
“We hardly have the stores to sustain ourselves,” says the chieftain. “What can we do?”
“There is one thing we could try,” the elder muses. “But I had not heard of it since I was a boy.”
“Anything we can use to save my people and protect my legacy,” says the chief, bowing his head low.
“Then, listen to me carefully.”
—
“Tirna, my dearest daughter,” the chieftain says. “It is fortunate that you have entered the years of adulthood. Eighteen years ago, your mother gave you to me, and now I must ask you to do something great for our people.”
Tirna bows her head low. “Am I to be married to a neighboring tribe?” she asks.
“No, not yet,” says her father, a frown upon his face. “You must go on a pilgrimage and beseech the ancient spirits of our people. You will find the old shrine atop the mountain, and there, you will give this offering.” He says this, bringing to her a bundle, heavily burdening her.
“But father,” she says, “this must be the last food for the family.”
“No, enough for me. I will fast, and because of that, I cannot make the journey.”
“Father, you’re wasting away as is. Please, take my food, please…”
He holds his hand up. “No. You shall need it for the journey. Now, rest and prepare yourself for the journey through prayer and meditation.
—
Tirna stands at the foot of the mountain, staring up the mountain path traversed only by wild animals. Behind her, the people of her village watch with expectant eyes, sunken with the hunger that the famine had brought. She gulps, turning her eyes away, much brighter than her kin as she had fed as requested.
“Oh, don’t you worry about how we had to refit your traveler’s outfit, dear,” says one of the sewing matrons. “The mountain can get cold, and you can use the extra energy to make your way up the mountain.”
“The fat will burn away and reveal your strength underneath,” says another. “Like all good deliverers of the ancient sacrifice.”
She nods and adjusts the strap of her climbing pack, for within it is the sacrifice brought to her by her father in offering to the ancient spirits that protect her lands. Without looking further back to her people, she hikes up the trail with grim determination. She knows that she must make her way up to the top; along the way, she knows not what to expect.
As her figure disappears around the rocks and the naked trees, her father turns away, making his way to his hut, the elder's words reverberating through her mind.
“Yes, we were able to return to a time of plenty, oh great leader,” he had said, “I was a young boy, and my sister was chosen for the great task. She was a hero to us all, yet she had never returned to us again.”
—
The mountain path steepens the higher that Tirna gets. Eventually, she must crawl up along the mountain, her dedication strong, even as her body screams, fighting the weight of the sacrifice and the biting cold against her body. But she must not waver. She must make her way to the top and deliver the offering, lest the people of her village die.
This is a more significant duty than she would have ever expected of herself. All her life, she had prepared herself for marriage and for motherhood. She was no priestess who knew the ways of the ancient religions. She was no warrior who fought the beasts surrounding her home and offered their meat for her people’s sustenance.
Life had offered her one path, yanked it away from her, and offered another. All she cares for, climbing up this mountain, is that she does this duty and then returns, finding happiness as she had desired… in marriage and motherhood.
The last few feet of the path is a vertical cliff. Behind her is the nearly steep drop down the mountain. Getting down would be a terrible ordeal, but that is not what she cares about now. Instead, she hops up, grabs the ledge, and pulls herself over the edge.
She collapses on the summit. The platform she lays must have been made by her ancestors oh-so-long ago. The features of this place were worn away by time and by snow, which currently sprinkles itself upon her face. She picks herself up, trudging towards the center, where a large stone sits tall and regal before a slab laying before it.
When she reaches it, she falls to her knees, pulls the package complimentary, and dumps out the contents.
Skins and furs flop out, unraveling and revealing the rocks within.
“W… what? The food? Where’s the sacrifice!?” She scrambles through the material. “No… did someone take it? I have to… I have to go back?”
But as her heart fell and she turned to look over the edge of the mountain, a great shadow rose from the edge, wings spread, and eyes burned of flame.
“No,” says a booming voice. “You are the sacrifice!”