For over three years, she had walked, over cobbled roads she had trodden, through forests she had passed, large rivers she had crossed, in ice and in sun. Her clothes had seen better days, her shoes had holes in the soles, her wrinkled skin sagged more than it should. She shielded her crinkled kind eyes, clouded with worry, as she tried to scry into lands a few miles away.
She could see snow filled lands that lay ten days ahead of her.
Picking a dried leaf from the ground, the old lady muttered something under her breath as she powdered the leaf and blew it. Following the trail left by the leaf, she continued to walk, her heart pounding a little fast with the excitement.
She had heard rumours of the village of Arghya, a village that existed in no maps, a village that had become a part of the lore over the ages. But it was said, that the village could be seen by those truly seeking it for a valiant purpose, for the village was a direct link to the Gods.
How much of this was true, nobody knew. Many men and women had tried to solve, in vain, the mystery behind the village of Arghya. Some had disappeared without a trace. Some had come back, frost bitten after roaming on the ice lands for days without food and water. But no one had seen Arghya.
She, however, was destined to play the part of a messenger of the Gods, and that she would, gladly, for the greater good.