It had been early in the morning, when the bruised indigo sky was still kissing the horizon, that Kolda had managed to nestle herself, still dressed, among the bunched furs that were strewn across her cot. The burnt orange of a fox pelt blended with the wild tresses of sun-kissed hair and golden skin, the clever features of her face buried in the soft strands with a distinct sigh of contentment. It was serenely quiet, save for the warbling of the morning birds in their joust for mates, and she found herself being lulled by the simplicity of the sounds. Their chirrups fused to make a melodic lullaby, whispering against the halo of her mane on the bed. Refusing, if only for a moment, to be so taken by it that she disappeared into a world of dreams too quickly, Kolda used one leather boot to push at the other, attempting to get them off with minimal effort. The furs beneath her whispered against one another, rustling as she worked to free herself; so consumed had she been in the task that she'd almost noticed the sudden silence outside. Almost.
Eyes of crushed summer leaves slowly opened and turned, gazing out into the shack that she called home. A lone candle flickered at her bedside table, seated in a copper lantern. Its bronze light washed over her workspace, accentuating the partial curves of her most recent commission with admiration, along with the dusty hearth, the drying herbs hanging from the stones, and two wooden dressers - one of which was slightly lopsided. From the window, which watched outward towards the woods, a dark lavender filtered through the looming trees. But all was too quiet. Until she heard the voices, so soft and gentle.
Before Kolda's hands could so much as work to lift herself, the wood of her door burst open, causing her to audibly shout.
A man, flanked by as many other men and women who could stuff themselves within the small space of her home, stood before her, with a disconcerting gaze. A man that she had seen many times before. A man, whose aura of ale and strangeness came as no surprise to herself, who lead the sad village of Vree. A crazed man, Iawar, and all the village followed at his heels. Kolda glared upon recognition, the candle alighting the invader. "You," she hissed. "I don't know what you think you're doing, you son of a heaving pig, but by Neis, I hope that Tanoh himself shoves his boot right up your-"
Despite the quickness with which her mouth could move, Iawar - with the help of the others - managed to gag her quicker. "Kolda, there is no need to blaspheme!" He exclaimed, his eyes wide with true indignation, his words pleading in and of themselves.
"We are on a mission from the gods themselves," an older woman informed her as she worked on binding Kolda's hands. Kolda recognized her too. 'You... you toad scum! I gave you that poultice for your son for free. Do you know how hard it is to collect lizard teeth!?' The words would have meant nothing, she knew, as she muffled her protestations against the cloth in her mouth and wriggled against their bindings. In truth, she still could hardly believe that it was happening at all. She knew that the villagers had lost minds ages ago, moving and talking in a constant stupor if only because that's what their bodies were trained to do, but this... this, whatever the hell it was. This was beyond them.
They bustled Kolda out of her shack and the cold of the morning bled through her muslin shirt, a soft wind dazzling the field of hyssops that surrounded them. By the grace of all that was unholy, the entire village seemed to stand before her, a sea of stupidly smiling faces and... were those tears? Tears that topped grins. They looked more than mad. They looked like a bunch of sadistic goblins. That feeling was not dampened by the large, oaken stake plunged into the ground amidst them all, one that they half-formed around. Were they going to burn her? The fear began to settle, the panic. Everyone would die sometime, but Kolda didn't imagine death by burning. She imagined being eaten by a bear or accidentally stabbing herself with her own carving knife, but the slow theater of a burning? What had she done? Surely, she'd messed with the villagers many times. She'd slipped buckthorn into a poultice and told her victim that the constant bathroom trips were necessary to the healing process. She'd made fake gods from the fabled west just to see how many phallic carvings she could sell. Was this her due?
"Kolda, you are a blessing from the gods themselves," Iawar announced. "You have bravely accepted your fate as a sacrifice to the Dragon of Vree!"
So that was what this was about. Kolda rolled her eyes and shut them tight. Of course it was. Of course, after seeing a winged beast in the sky once or twice, they'd name it after the village. Of course, after glimpsing such a thing, they decided that it wanted to destroy the village and one measly sacrifice would satiate it. Of course, after considering this, they decided that the stand-up citizen of their village to face the loathsome beast would be the woman who lived just outside its borders, the woman with no family name to speak up, Kolda of Vree. 'The fairies have eaten your brains and left you with cotton instead, you... you...' That was it. Possibly her last moments to face them and think of a proper curse for the wretches and she couldn't even come up with one. Too angry, too shocked.
The plan wasn't a burning then. It was being slow roasted and eaten. Or just eaten. Or the dragon wouldn't care and she'd just starve to death. At least she had a lovely view of the village in her final moments.
The goodbyes began, nauseatingly, as Kolda was hoisted onto the stake. Hyssops and weeds were woven through her hair, because the gods had a sick sense of humor, worthless trinkets left at her feet. The villagers that had pillaged her home moments before thanked her for her sacrifice, for her things; she was given her own fur mantled cloak, a sarcastic thank you tongued against her gag with a face of faux gratefulness. It took too long for the people of Vree to clear, to kiss her cheeks goodbye and bid themselves a successful day. They weren't even going to stay and watch. No, they were going to leave her there, away to the comfort of their own homes. To their lit hearths and their blasphemous jolly. Damn them.