Saint's Eve thoughts...

It was in the oldest days, that the man first came among them. In the quiet times, when that slowly populated region had only just begun to grow, and man to know a firmer shelter then the skins the true descendents of the land had taken for their own. Cloth, and sticks, some would remark, though such things were often said in that time, and unaccounted for amidst all turmoil’s faced. When lights, a an act of some seemingly greater power, at last were in the dominance of electricity. It was a better time, old men would say.
Better, save for the man in the trees.
Of this figure, little could be sure. Only that he was old, and cruel like the willow’s that held back the swampy regions due south of the land. Strong, and mean spirited, or so the children were told. Children, who became adults. Adults, who taught their youngest the way’s that they had known, the stories grandparents swore was true. It was in that way, that myths were made. Folk tales, and heroes to stem from the smallest of seeds. Dead kernels, buried away, and spoken not again of until some other plant had taken root, and it was said that this greenery was the first one. Mistakes, and the combining of old legends, that was the stuff of those provinces. Not to say, that some did not write narratives for him.
One such, was the recollection of another elder man, who said that this little figure, bumbling about the dark forest paths, had been seen first coming from the north, in the wintering months of the sleepy to-be town. On a raft of ice, or so the legend goes, that had trapped in it, the poor man’s foot. Surely, he had been caught upon some fishing attempt upstream, and waiting until the ice broke, found himself on a trip the likes of which he surely did not wish. Only a young man, armed against the cold in the lightest of garments, had risked the steep bank sides, and offered his hand to the bedraggled stranger, who with no effort grasped this limb, and coupled with his strength twisted free. A quaint tale, but of the three best, it explained little.
Second, was that he man had come from the plains of combat. Coward, or simply lost, it had been his good luck to sight down a maiden, that afield was gathering for her family the fall’s scarce crops. Stopping just briefly to ask directions, to or away, as is the case of whomever tells the story, he was besought by the roguish way she spoke, and how confident her eyes. Deciding that flight, or bloodshed, was second to her passionate accompaniment, he allowed himself be led back to the farm house where she was born, and had known her life until then. Amongst the men, and not a few women, he was an instant success. Rich, in the ways of the world, and cynical enough to share a drink to the darker days. He fathered only three children, which once was a few number, and lived happily with the girl whom had led him unto this paradise, for more then a decade. Until at last, the local countrymen learned of his flight away from the conflict between patriotic, civil men, and those still under an Empire’s rule. They were forced to take flight, and withdrew to a tiny villa, by which his wife to painful leave of him. Giving life, to an heir. A daughter, as charming as her parents had been.
Last, and though well known, the source is lost, is that he was no mortal man. His wife, no simple townswoman. He, a thorny man of ice, a spirit, who ate men where once he lived, and was trapped by the path he had set foot to, for the forest closed in to far on each side. By night, and the cover of darkness, did he hear the cries of an adulterous voice; one which had been spurned from the humble, Christian villa, in the name of the safety of their souls. A pagan. Devil worshipping, and succubus in all her ways. Together, they spawned only a girl, who shone with all the radiance they did not seem to posses, and for her own sake, where the two cast out. Was she given the safety, and shelter of another’s house, while into the woods were her parents given chase, and the mother falling by the edge of a cruel knife that she had sustained trying to keep the babe. That he had grown colder still, after his beloved had been lost to him, and watched. Waited, for his daughters return unto his fold.
It would be a surprise, if you had not already figured out, that this was not a tale of them. Not specifically, of course. Not of their lives, though this may be blatantly forgotten, and the story squirm away from the authors wishes.
Some stories do that, and it does not make them any less for it.
This is the tale, it could be said, of that daughter. That sole heir, which the town, for whatever reasons, kept to themselves. Her life, and the world in which she was born into. By the actions of good Christian folks, and heritage. By the actions of vengeful folk whom were fools, and power, depending on what light you prefer to see it in.
What is sure, amongst all the tales, is that the girl was not an ordinary girl.
Her name, was Isabel.