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Once upon a time, in the Black Forest - of all places - there was a little girl who wore a red hood. Her mother told her to take some goodies to her sick grandmother to make her feel all better. Little red riding hood happily obliged, packing her basket with all manner of sweets, baked goods, jams, honey, and milk. Once her basket was completely full, she set off into the woods to Grandmother's house. Along the way, she met a wolf. That's pretty much where the fairytale stops being accurate. You see, her name wasn't Little Red Riding Hood, it was Crimson, and it wasn't a wolf. It was a waerwolf. She wasn't afraid, because she had been training to hunt them since she was a child. She did, however, lead the waerwolf back to Grandma's because Grandma was also a Red Hood and was ready with her crossbow in hand when they arrived. And the huntsman? That was Grandma's supporter, a black hood who pledged his life to her in the service of killing waerwolves and keeping the Black Forest safe.
That story has been told for generations to all of the girls who dream of wearing the red hood and serving the village. I've probably heard that story a thousand times and for a good reason. Crimson, the first Red Hood to train under the great huntress Grandma, was my grandmother. Now, at the tender age of 17, it's my turn to take up the mantle and join the hunt. The only problem is I have already tried and failed once before. And even worse, I lost my arm in the process. The competition to be trained as Red Hood is fierce, and the girls who desire to fill those training positions are conniving. Despite the loss of my arm, I continued my training in the hopes of getting a second chance, and now my time has come.
The leaves of the Ollar Tree have turned red, a clear signal that it's time to train new huntresses to beat back the scourge of the Black Forest and show those nasty waers who's boss.
My name is Sanguine, and I will earn my way into the Red Hoods, even if I have to give up my other arm to do it.
