The Dreamweaver - age 40
The pure landscape is bleak and blinding. The colours are too strong for his eyes. He has been travelling for a few days to find the people on the icy outlands, in the area behind the matte white mountain. He could see the smoke from their village which means he is but a day or two away from the others.
He is tired but alert. The outlands are a treacherous stretch of beguiling white dunes. Few except for the most cunning and wise may survive here. It is better to be humble in the presence of the unknown than feign confidence in such a fragile body or with a mistaken ego. Many have perished here. He thinks he can hear their deceased whispers of caution in the passing winds.
He is being watched by something; there is a prescient prickle in his ears that has served him well whenever another’s attention is laid too heavily on him. It makes him uncomfortable and much more wary of the environs. His body is beginning to shudder and the winds whisper pass his ears - Heed the white veils.
A sudden blanket of snow whips up around him, disorienting his senses and wiping out his already limited vision. His ears start to ring heavily and his mind froze. His flight response is disabled. He cannot run.
\\ His eyes flew open in a dazed panic; his heart was thumping furiously. He was breathing too fast and the moment passed too soon. He had been restless in his sleep. There was something stirring and it was coming for him. He could breathe again and forgot his terror as sleep shushed his eyes and reclaimed his mind.
White haze replaced his darkness. He smells something sweet and smoky. It fills his lungs with warmth. The elder Inuit smokes the white sage leaves on his tusken pipe and looks at him with a wizened gaze.
If your fate is to be killed by the ozan, then nobody can save you. It will hunt you down. You can run for a while, it may let you, but your final breath belongs to the ozan. The tribe cannot save you but it can help you run, if the ozan is patient.
