And so it was that Arran, on his 18th year, found himself in the dead of winter as it had settled in the northern reaches of the Rocky Mountains in what was once known as Colorado. Trees now barely indistinguishable from the snow all around, as the roads were even less visible. None traveled much in these parts lest it was absolutely warranted, and yet, Arran marched on, his boots leaving behind the only tracks to be seen. However, in any time of the year there were those who preyed upon the unsuspecting. For he was Arran of the Barbarians that had settled what once New York, named so for their brutal conquering of all that tried to oust them from the remains of the great concrete jungle. To a barbarian all beasts who were fool enough to attack were to be either sport, food, or clothing. There were little else they could be after all. He strode along the snow covered road as harsh wind blew, his blonde mane whipping in the wind. His only protection from the elements being a thick bearskin cloak he had fashioned himself from a misguided beast who thought he was easy prey. 

   Arran, through the whistle of the wind could make out voices, and the unsheathing of weapons from the nearby trees, the shifting of snow as his would be attackers moved closer. Throwing off the pelt, revealing his chest and arms to the bare cold, the torn open pocket on his brown cargo shorts flapping in the wind, as Arran unsheathed the broadsword strapped to his back, blocking a blade strike from his would be murderer. The attacker was a scraggly and scrawny man, a tooth missing in his sneering face. He would soon be missing more. Arran grabbed him by the neck and slammed his head into a nearby tree, before he drew back and rammed his boot clad foot into the bandit's back. A crunch of bone was heard as the bandit slumped, his body giving no sign of breath nor life. No sooner had the bandit's body grown as cold as the snow around them, than a voice echoed over the winds roar. 

  "ALRIGHT! DROP THE SWORD AND HAND OVER YOUR MONEY!" Said a voice as Arran turned. Behind him he saw a young woman with tan-colored skin, short black hair and icy blue eyes. 

"I've already killed your friend girl, what makes you think I wouldn't be able to do so against you?" Arran questioned, his sword held tight as an owl flew down, instantly transforming into a woman, in her late thirties it seemed if Arran had not missed his mark. She was dressed in red robes, hardly the kind of clothing for this weather... though given what Arran had just seen her do, it was clear she was no mere woman. Her long hair was black as pitch, with pale skin, and piercing green eyes that seemed to look past the Barbarian and into his soul itself.

"Stand down Vexia." The woman said as Arran held his sword firm in his grip, glaring at the woman.

"Shawn was a good man, well not good, but he knew how to get a job done. Tell me why I shouldn't kill you for killing one of my best hands?" The transforming woman asked as she looked at the barbarian before her with a piqued curiosity.

"He was one of your best, Witch? Then your standards are not that high. He attacked me, and met a fools end, thinking I was just some common traveler. He ignored the sword at my back, and the fact I was alone in these parts, the signs of someone who is no stranger to the harshness of the wild." Arran said as the woman looked him over, specifically the finely crafted sword in his hands.

"You're Arran the Barbarian aren't you? No mistaking that sword, you Barbarians know how to craft a blade I'll give you that." The woman said as the barbarian before her still kept his guard up.

"You know of me then, Witch, but as it stands I know nothing of you." Arran said, gripping his sword tighter in preparation for the battle that might come.

"My name is Rhanna, Shaman of the Goldman Tribe. I won't kill you-" Rhanna began, but a curt laugh from Arran cut her off.

"I believe you would try to kill me, the result would not be in your favor though." The barbarian said, his lips curving up into a smirk as if to goad her to accept his challenge.

"... Whatever you say kid, but my point is this. I'm short a man and from what I've heard of your skills, you'll do nicely." Rhanna continued as Arran, sensing no lie in her voice, let his guard down, but kept his sword clutched tightly in his right hand.

"And what use would you have for me Witch?" The Barbarian asked, the wind blowing his cloak and hair.

"There's nothing here for my tribe to take during this time of year, but if this rumor I've found out is correct, we'll have more than enough to sustain us for the next few years, and of course enough to pay whoever decides to help." Rhanna said as Arran raised his brow at her.

"And what is this rumor?" Arran asked as it was now Rhanna turn to smirk.

"Across the way over in The City of Sin, there's been word that a particularly wealthy crackpot has died, but his fortress of a house remains guarded by mechs, and booby traps. I want what's in it. If you agree, you'll be welcome to Shawn's share. If not, I'll simply bring the full force of the Goldman Tribe after you, and no matter how skilled you may think you are... no one survives that." The Shaman said as Arran nodded. Untold treasure, that was certainly enticing... and far better than having to fight his way through a bandit tribe.

"Seeing as how you're down a man because of me, I suppose it's only right I take his share and accompany you." Arran said as Rhanna nodded.

"We're moving out in two days, we'll get you back to camp and get some food and drink in you." The Shaman said as she turned once more into an owl. 

"Follow me." The owl spoke as the woman, Vexia, and Arran followed the way back to the Goldman camp. Arran walked ahead of the woman, Vexia... and if he was being honest with himself... the chill of her glare was far greater than the cold of the snow.