Henrik stalked through the bulrushes with the stealth and grace of a jungle cat; his bow was strung tightly as he held it with a confidence honed by long years of learning his craft from the older men in the village. All fathers taught their sons the skills necessary to provide for their families from an early age around these parts.  Reaching into his quiver slowly he pulled the cord back until it thrummed tautly. The strings sang as he unleashed a flurry of arrows at an unsuspecting heron. He had been watching it patiently for some time from his clever hiding place. Sucking in a breath as he let go, he held it until he heard the telltale thunk of sharpened flint hitting flesh and grinned. His mother and sisters would not go hungry tonight. The majestic creature screeched plaintively as it fell with a great splash somewhere upstream. Waterfowl suddenly erupted from the undergrowth at the commotion and Henrik felled another brace of birds with an aptitude borne of many such hours crouching in the damp, swampy conditions; waiting and watching, watching and waiting. Unhurriedly he picked his way gingerly through the cloying mud and began to wade into the bitter chill of the icy river. Summer was still a good few months hence and he was glad of his leather jerkin and fur-lined boots.
Slinging his bow nonchalantly across his back, Henrik breathed on his frozen fingers and watched as his breath crystallised on the crisp spring air. It was cold even for this time of year, even for this part of the mountains, which did not bode well. It was beginning to worry the elders. Worse than that, there was talk that the Witch was stirring; an ill omen indeed. Pausing briefly to watch the sun rise as he collected the third of his days catch, he wiped his brow and sighed. Red sky, he mused, shepherds’ warning...
Parting the reeds, Henrik was perplexed by the absence of heron; surely it had fallen around here somewhere. He shrugged and traipsed further along the small river’s winding course. It was strange that such a sluggish little melt-water such as this should somehow wash something as large as a heron so far was a sore puzzle to Henrik. Perhaps I was wrong about the direction, he frowned, perhaps I missed and it was not a killing blow after all...
He pushed aside more rushes and gasped in amazement, for lying in the widest part of the stream was the most beautiful person Henrik had ever seen. His people were a hardy lot; more often than not weathered by their outdoor lifestyle of farming, hunting and shepherding. The sun shone on the silver of the man’s – for man it surely was from the mode of dress, despite the ethereal beauty – breastplate, another sore puzzle to Henrik who had never seen such fine armour on anyone, not even the local Lords and Barons in all their finery and best feast-day splendour could beat the exquisite detailing of the strange man’s attire. And a purple shirt! Henrik had never even seen purple dye before, this man must be important indeed to afford something so fine as all that. He had certainly never seen someone with such white-blonde hair and soft, pale skin; round these parts most people had brown or russet hair, their skin tanned and weather-beaten. Foreign, he thought. However, the most bewildering thing of all about this man by far was the fact that he had arrows sticking out of a chink in his fine armour; two of Henrik’s arrows!