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| − | Cold. Good gods above, below and around, it is cold. Sure, it didn't feel that terrible when he started; the fiery glow of that need to prove himself kept him warm for the first couple of days. Things were... average, as far as Northern snowstorms so. Which is to say the world was white for most of the day.
| + | #REDIRECT DarkheartOne/IdeaDump |
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| − | Still, the trek continued. After all, there were only two outcomes; success or failure. Success sounded rather good at the moment, as it included a warm fire, some heated cider and a nice woman to try and work salve into his frostbitten digits. Failure... well. Failure, as bad of an option as it was, seemed to be the foregone conclusion.
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| − | Day three draws to a close, and what was merely a constant rain of snow has become a driving, violent rush of ice, sleet and bone-slashing wind. Still, he is there, protected for the time being by his makeshift shelter... waiting. For failure? Success? A miracle? Who knows?
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| − | Laranth has an expression of vague confusion, as if even he's forgotten what precisely he's waiting for. "... may... not.. have thought this through."
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| − | Only the wind replies, howling like a sea of spurned lovers. If anything, the storm seems to be worsening, judging by that and the increased beating of ice against the lean-to's exterior.
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| − | "What... what am I thinking? I'm not going to be able to wait it out. It's either die walking or die hiding." Laranth stands (well, rises to a hunch -- he's rather taller than the shelter) and opens the door to the outside, in preparation for stepping into the howling winds. "Better to die walking."
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| − | The air hits him instantly. It doesn't exactly knock him back, but it's almost as if his clothes aren't even there, the cold seeping in and through him effortlessly. Outside, all is white, and the horizon is barely visible in the midst of the storm.
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| − | Laranth stares up into the endless horizon of white, squinting as if to find an answer there. "The way to Whitewall... right." Slowly, he begins to trudge. His feet sink at least six inches into slush. The storm doesn't stop for his sake, and seems to be practically fighting him at every turn... and all that is left is to keep going.
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| − | "C'mon, you old bastard! If you want me dead you're going to have to try harder than that." Laranth grins a little manically, and the storm's 'response' is to continue to slash with wind, strike with ice, slow down with wet, mushy snow underfoot. By now, Laranth can barely even hear himself speaking.
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| − | Laranth almost looks... defiant? Storm-mad? He just keeps trudging on, somehow managing to maintain motion.
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| − | Each step becomes harder than the last; a man, even one as strong as Laranth, can only fight the North for so long. However, that man stands more of a chance when someone comes to their aid. Which is odd, as what may well have been his last step ends with the snow around his boot melting in an instant, revealing lifeless soil and rock underneath. What was once simply a collage of ivory is now tinged with a vivid golden sheen... but where from?
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| − | Laranth collapses to his knees, catching himself on his hands... and taking a moment to realize that the snow he expected isn't there. He climbs to his feet and picks up a rock, chucking it into the distance. That *he* is the source of the radiance, an orange-tinged golden radiance growing in intensity, apparently has yet to register.
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| − | The rock hits snow, somewhere in the distance. Which is strange, as the howling of the storm has all but stopped, even though the winds are still whipping, and the ice is still battering him... or trying to, as it melts before it even touches him. What does come in contact with his body is a hand, a single hand, vice-like yet oddly gentle. Had it been on his shoulder before? That single hand remains, firmly clasped, as Laranth's very soul rings with a voice that is the sound of war, of victory. "Can you feel it? The flame in your heart? You, who would dare this to prove your worth, have been found worthy for more than mere succession. For now, Laranth, you are mine. The Sun beats in your chest... take its strength and illuminate the world!" The roar... is gone, as is the feel of that hand.
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| − | Laranth whips around, looking for the source of the voice -- unsuccessfully, of course, but by now even he can't ignore the red-orange glowing rippling around his body as he moves. "What? Well, either it's snow-madness, or... or... let's see how far this madness goes."
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| − | "... for a second, I thought you were a dead man, boyo." Another voice cuts through the waning storm, this one rather normal is deep and raspy, like it belonged to an old worked who had just a bit too much tobacco in his lifetime. As to where it's coming from... it's hard to tell, but it's close.
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| − | Laranth turns towards Whitewall as if about to take off and run, but the new voice stops him. "-- Hello?" ... and almost like a ghost, the source of the voice becomes visible. It... is huge, nearly nine feet of perfectly-white feathers adorning a muscular anthropomorphic frame. The only hits of color on it are his (yep, a quick glance down affirms that) black head-feathers adorned with curious silver markings, red beak and vivid silver eyes. With wings spread and arms drooping... it half-smiles. "... still. Luna save me. A Sunchild."
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| − | "So it *isn't* just my eyes going. I suppose so, then!" Laranth sounds confident -- almost cocky, really.
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| − | The birdman cackles a little, stooping down some to examine Laranth. "Wonder who died to make you, though... eh, not that it matters." For what is probably a barbarian, his speech is neat and practiced. "I assume you have a name, boyo."
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| − | "Laranth Karsosen. And yours? If you'd do me the courtesy."
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| − | The tern-totemed Lunar hehs, softly. "I got one name, but that's only for special people. You can call me Grass-Eater. And... Whitewall's that way." He points a taloned finger (and the corresponding wing) to the left of Laranth. "No point in making it this far to get lost and walk into fey territory. Bastards'll eat you."
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| − | "If I see any, I'll remember that." Laranth nods, with a smile.
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| − | "Smart. You stay alive now... you ever come around these parts, ask around. Ice Walkers know me. We can talk sometime." Grass-Eater nods, and his wings begin to beat strongly as he takes to the air. The storm has all but passed, and the sky is remarkably clear. The sun itself is shining in the distance as dawn comes around fully for Creation... and for one man in particular.
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| − | "I'll be certain to do so. The Ice Walkers are the ones to talk to, eh? I'll remember that. But if you'll forgive me... I've got business in Whitewall." Laranth gazes into the clear horizon and takes off running, snow melting under his feet. The orange-golden streak behind him intensifies and takes shape, until the massive form of a firebird flares behind him, as if to watch over his travel.
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| − | * Back to [[/RisingForce|Rising Force]]
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