The Whitehairs chosen to receive the spirit fell like the dead, returning to consciousness in a series of grunts and spasms. The Gibbor ran among them, the renowned Gibbor, wearing only breeches, stained blue with woad, and shouting gibberish at the sky. Only Oren had kept silent on these occasions, his spear and shield ready as he watched the sky. 

         Even with the excitement of the callings, she’d barely been able to keep her eyes from him, fascinated by his severe beauty. She yearned to reach out and touch his skin. It was an innocent wish for she was still a maid, but the need was real. She’d wanted to connect with his world in whatever way possible, to feel herself drawn in. When he’d actually looked her way, she’d shivered back among the limbs. 

         He hadn’t seen her.