It started with a pang, a sharp twist in the pit of her stomach. That almost hungry, almost rumbling feel took hold and squeezed.

Winter.

The time of scarcity after the year's plenty. The time when the wise kept a wary eye on their larder, and prayed in the night that they'd put enough back, put enough by to not only see themselves and their families through, but to keep their tribe, their circle fed as well.

The time when hearts fluttered in fear as much from love or lust. When sorrow and worry dogged a person's steps, fearing what the morning might bring. Fearing what the night might bring.

Fear struggles to break free, sought to choke hope and faith in a person's breast. Tightened throats around breath and speech.

Winter when snows lay thick and deep and cast the world in whites and greys. When the sheer monotony and cold was often enough to send people over the edge even without the pinch in their belly from not enough. When tempers were short and patience shorter.

When people guarded their homes and loved ones close and tight. When raiders came slinking out of the cold and dark like sunken-bellied wolves, desperate to survive.

Winter, the season when the redneck's self control was at its weakest. When her anger was most likely to break free.

Winter's touch already lay light on the land, and heavy on her shoulder.