Southward Bound

[GloriaPreussens 798]

 

Frigid and biting cold pierced the thick furs, three figures, dark splotches moving across a sleet white background, the sky an impenetrable glare of stark grey, broken only by intense moments of blinding flurries. Fingertips threatened their owners with bouts of pain and numbness, gloves so thick that in even a temperate forests winter they would overheat the wearer, only offered brief defense against the climate. This was a lawless place, the inky black nights uninhabited of any civilization, the only light coming from the meagre fires of the trekking figures, always on watch from the howling that plagued the night, and the rustling of padded foot along the forever frozen snow.

 

 

Fourteen dawns, each as bleak as the last, the sun unable to break the cold of the clouds above, and fourteen nights cold enough to make even a Frost Witch shiver were endured. Had the men been any last apt in their skills of survival, they’d have been dead quickly. It was only the third day before their horses had succumbed to the cold, carrying a majority of supplies, the once lively beasts were butchered for meat, and equipment discarded, burned and forgotten.

 

Passing ruined remains of some lost tribe or cultures, warnings from nature to turn back, for the likes of men were wholly unwelcome here. However, as is the nature of men, these warnings were ignored, the grim resolve of the ambitious tested against the unrelenting force of the world. Considered foolish by those complacent to live mediocre, and uneventful lives, though nothing ever came easy that was great, and this was indeed a night insurmountable task, to rediscover what was lost far from the prying eyes of the warring nations and marauders.

 

 

Blued fingers and beards made stiff by two weeks of relentless frost and snow, eyes once sharp now dulling, it seemed a mirage in the snow ahead, a massive structure, the worst of the powder had been falling for near on four hours, howling wind confusing the senses only broken by the shrill cry of wolves stalking the party. Setting off in the early morning hours, the party knew their time was short, the pack was waiting for them to fall before setting in and time was short. As they moved quick as the snow-storm allowed, a structure, preserved in stone came before them, decrepit and in ruin; a refuge.

 

 

Barricading themselves inside, snow piled up on moisture rotten furniture, a once great table in the center of a grand hall, decayed tablecloth draped about it, they set to building a fire to warm themselves. It was not long before they set to explore, many halls caved in and forgotten by time, and perhaps would have been forever, but for a stroke of raw luck. Taking the worn and eaten away table cloth, black and green in color, they climbed to the highest tower as soon as the storm relented, knowing it had been defeated by the resolve of Man once again, they draped the colours over the battlements, to catch gusts of wind, signaling their victory, and the start of an old idea, made new again.

[Vaynth 3005]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.