This is the opening of a re-write of the opening scene with a different character, in a different circumstance.

In the small and remote mountain-forest village of Nowhere Please, the night-time wind blew. It blew across the roofs of thatched houses, pressed tight like a formation of soldiers on guard. It blew through all seven of the town’s cobbled streets, all packed end-to-end with people — people trying to sleep, trying not to cry, whispering to each other. It blew up and over the seven-foot-thick wall of solid stone that circled the town like a constricting corset, or possibly, given the circumstances, a chastity belt. It blew down and out towards the trees.

Just beyond arrow shot of the walls, from between those trees, gazing out at the town’s defenses — in the light of three full moons — lurked viscous red eyes. Hungry eyes. Hundreds of them.

In Nowhere Please’s town square, long blonde hair waved in the breeze. The fair features of a young maiden glared up in defiance at the three men sat at a table that had been hastily set up. Her long, pointed ears twitched.

Her hands were bound behind her back.

Her knees were on the ground.