Civilization did not prepare me for the wilderness, just as civilization is not prepared for the wilderness. Only the wild can be prepared for the wilderness.

The Exiled Dragon, Karsh

The man (for so he regarded himself) was foraging. His life allowed few luxuries, of which his favorite were truffles. They grew best in a small group of trees found where the northern face of the Gerudo Summit pulled inward and a massive pattern of odd markings could be found etched into the cliffside. Reaching this location was challenging, after crossing the long flat plain above his home, the descent was sheer and lengthy. Then, of course, he would have to go back.

Although the stand with the truffles was desirably remote, with an incredible vantage over potential approaches, it was too small and otherwise too ill-provisioned to have served for his home. Instead, he had chosen to build (to the best of his still rudimentary abilities) his dwelling in the corner of a small plateau above the Vatorsa Snowfield, where the rocky cliff face made a sharp turn and thus could serve for two walls. A simple wooden barrier from one to the other completed the triangular perimeter, and he had done his best to roof the place with branches. This convenient turning had decided the specific location, but the real reason he had settled in this area was the nearby copse of trees. The access to lumber, rare at these elevations, was essential to building anything permanent. There were also wildberries and coldshrooms growing in abundance, and a short climb to the plain above gave him a hunting ground for game.

He had found this place a few months after his mother was killed. At first, he had simply fled. Following the path of least resistance, he had retraced his mother's route through the Risoka Snowfield, only stopping once he had reached a narrow outcropping past the Statue that overlooked Hemaar's Descent. It was as much distance as he could get without leaving the field of his experience, which he had felt would put him at even greater disadvantage. He had made the simplest possible camp there, striving to be as unnoticeable as he could. When he had reached the limit of his patience and the hunger of his stomach could no longer be ignored, by either will or magic, he understood that it was time to get moving. He had stepped out into the plains (which seemed obscenely exposed) with great trepidation. There would always be risks. He considered the Sheikah demons and feared their famous all-seeing eye. Every shadow terrified him with the promise of a hidden assassin. Dread and rage, anxiety and hate, hunger and thirst—his mind was full of all. The first task had been sustenance, and the second shelter. To these ends he had explored the Highlands.

The ramshackle lodge had been his home for some time. The seasons were indistinguishable in these regions, so reliable measurement was as impossible as it was unnecessary. Perhaps two years, approximately. The days faded together. There were periodic crises: a wolf that nearly savaged him sleeping, a windstorm that destroyed his first roof, and a scare when the Bokoblins camped in the small valley below nearly burned his forest with a drunken spray of fire arrows. Running beneath it all was the through-line of survival: food, training, secrecy. It was continuous with his previous life on the Mantle. He had been taught well. He hunted with little difficulty, collected fruit and fungus, and prepared his meals following the example of his mother and her instruction. The skins and bones of animals were essential to him. The former furnished his hut and kept out the cold, the latter served as disposable tools. He spared no degree of care to the few belongings he had stolen away with on the fateful day. He would have died without his mother's cloak (the most precious of his heirlooms) and he would not have survived without his sword and bow. He trained with these weapons as he had done all his life, working through the forms of his mother's preferred style, as often as he could. Physical condition was crucial. The man lived in the wilderness and the trials of the wilderness can be punishing. The hunter must be swift and sure.

The man also spent his days in study of magic. He was, of course, always careful to practice a security routine that would alert him of approaching danger. This had been some of the first magic his mother had taught him. After the spell of warmth, of course. In his younger days, the man desperately wished to learn the art of lightning that Gerudo stories so exalt. Despite warning him that it was not her personal strength, his mother set him the same exercises that she had learned in her academy days. It was clear, more or less immediately, that he had remarkably poor aptitude for the subject. After this disappointment, they had shifted his studies entirely into the piecemeal witchcraft that the mother had picked up in the course of her travels, and found there was much in this disparate magic that suited him.

His studies had become progressively more autodidactic. Meditation was the core of his practice: at once the prerequisite for the magic of connection and natural oneness, and also the engine of his discoveries. The man did not know what was his own invention and what had filtered through to him as the suggestion of the wild. The man and his magic and the place of his ancestors were all intertwined. In his solitude, he had found himself in meditation particularly drawn to two areas of magic. The first was the construction of wards and barriers. He wished urgently to improve the security of his homestead and to evade notice from the hated Sheikah and the few Gerudo who occasionally climbed these mountains. The second was magic of healing. The motivation for both was obvious. The man would never forget how his mother had died, how they had been caught, how he had been powerless to intervene. So he trained in her memory, to honor her, and to earn the forgiveness of her restless spirit. He had sworn that he would grow into the power that she expected of him, the legacy of his bloodline, and become like voe of legend.

The man decided he was ready for a test. He packed every sword and arrow he owned, slung his bow over his back, and set out across the snowfields for the Summit's peak. He had avoided the Lynel in his explorations and his foraging. It was time, he thought, to face it. The hike would take him the better part of a day. Then he could camp outside the Lynel's territory, rest overnight, before attacking at dawn. He had a strategy, mostly taken from his mother's tales of battle, that he thought would give him the upper hand. As she had never defeated one in single combat (and not for lack of trying), he recognized that it would take more than good planning if he hoped to prevail. Lynels are horribly strong; the beast that had claimed the peak was white-maned. This breed is the strongest of the strong.

He woke and began his meditations. His strategy was to pray. He asked to borrow the strength of the earth and he asked the snow to loosen beneath his opponent's hooves. Such requests were the closest he had come to directly using the magic of connection that his mother had so strongly urged him to study. Of course, his prayers might go unanswered. He had a growing sense of his own smallness the more clearly he could feel the vast presence of his ancient mountain home. If his prayers failed him he would fight with his own power. His command of electricity could not even stun the grizzlemaws. He did not think the Lynel would be susceptible to mental assault, and their aggressive intelligence would not give him time to lay any trapped barriers on the field of battle. Still, even if his magic did prove useless, he believed he could trust the sword he practiced daily.

A first strike is possible. The man was an excellent archer, his accuracy honed by the wild animals that were his prey, and the first shot he loosed was true. The Lynel slumped to its knees, briefly stunned, and the man charged. He sent arrow after arrow as he closed the distance, each landing a blow to the creature's vulnerable head, building damage. With a last stride, he shouldered his bow and drew the great claymore that his mother had had forged with the secret techniques of the Goron smiths. In one graceful movement, he slid into position across the beast's mighty hindquarters, and rained blows against its unprotected back. The Lynel recovered within seconds, reared in fury, and sent him flying. It gave a ferocious roar, rising on its hind legs. The man sprinted into cover, just in time, before it slammed its savage spear into the ground and unleashed a terrifying spary of fire. He unslung his bow and nocked, fired, missed. His position was revealed, and there would be no time for anything but to stand his ground. The Lynel flourished its weapon and charged, with speed the man could hardly believe. Hitting a straight shot is infinitely harder if the penalty for failure is death—and the man would have died, because he missed, except that his foe's stride met some softness in the snowpack which sent him crashing to the ground.

The man leapt and struck. He had never felt so powerful, his sword had never felt so perfect. The Lynel cried in agony under this assault. Of course, it was not yet enough, and the monster regained its footing. It cantered away from the man, then jumped, its spearpoint promising instant death. But the man could see the blade would miss, which would give him another opening to fight. It missed the man but struck the earth, and this in turn sent a shockwave that knocked the wind from him. The Lynel seemed to smile. It was a look of acknowledgement. Again, the creature charged, and as it neared it took a mighty swing. This was a movement the man could anticipate. He dodged the blow, which gave him another chance to counterattack. His sword was doing damage, he knew, even if it was not visible. The beast turned to face him too quickly, slipping again, and again the man pressed his advantage. He felt a glorious thrill. He was winning. Then the Lynel unslung its bow. It nocked five arrows at once, they sparked with electricity, the bow was drawn almost indifferently—and in an instant the arrows flew home with perfect accuracy. He could hear the Lynel's amused laughter and knew he was doomed. Somehow it brushed the connection of his mind: You are not yet ready…

The pain was worse than anything the man had ever experienced. He knew he would not be able to flee. All he could do was sink into his meditations and call forth whatever broad healing magic he could find. It was all he could do, even if it would not be enough. The Lynel watched approvingly as the man tipped over into unconsciousness.