Chapter 1: Snowblind
Posted: Wed Sep 24, 2014 1:29 pm
A fresh layer of snow coats the twilit forest. Pines frosted white are outlined by the setting sun and icicles like deadly daggers cling to their branches. the cold permeates everything every surface covered in hoar frost brittle and white. A single plume of smoke rises in the distance as snowflakes, like tiny patterned feathers, gently twirl down enveloping the ground in a deadly embrace. And eagle cries overhead as, outlined against the snow, a train of figure trudges on along the ground. It is two cold to talk, even breathing scrapes the lungs with icy daggers so they continue on in monotony. They leave deep impressions in the snow a trail leading back, miles and miles, slowly but surely disappearing under the constant silent onslaught of the snow.
Clouds of breath rhythmically form around the mouths of the figures, trailing back behind them as the winds pick up and steal it from them vanishing toward the sunset. the travellers are weary but press on knowing that to stop now is to die alone and forgotten in the tundra, their body soon to be buried under a soft blanket of snow, taking them, forever.
Eventually, the source of the trail is revealed, a small village, no more than twenty houses. Houses made with stone and wood, as thatch would freeze over and stone will not warp. The smoke lazily curls up around a tall stone chimney, the tallest structure in the settlement. shoddily shored up with metal. now that they look closer the whole village is built badly, the stones ill fitting and the wood roughly joined. A flag may once have fluttered atop the chimney but now sits still, frozen in a still visage. A golden bull outlined against a red field. Obviously to all present as the symbol of Racoa.
Wearily and with much satisfaction the travellers file into the tavern, A leaning assortment of wooden beams as stone buttresses, patchwork repairs that suggest that the cold is not the only enemy faced by the locals. it is nevertheless warm and inviting.
( Describe your character entering, you are not here of your own free will. the only reason you have not run from your captors is that deviating from the path is certain death. it is a hundred miles to the nearest settlement. your captors all carry weapons but are to orderly to be Racoan soldiers and not orderly enough to be Kardrens. for the moment you must humour them.)
"All right you lot" says the grizzled leader of your captors, "Its been a long few weeks so tonight I'm allowing you to drink,That includes you as well our unwilling guests so I suggest that you enjoy it." He gestures towards a table in the corner, "stay over there, keep relatively quiet, and the drinks are on me."
Clouds of breath rhythmically form around the mouths of the figures, trailing back behind them as the winds pick up and steal it from them vanishing toward the sunset. the travellers are weary but press on knowing that to stop now is to die alone and forgotten in the tundra, their body soon to be buried under a soft blanket of snow, taking them, forever.
Eventually, the source of the trail is revealed, a small village, no more than twenty houses. Houses made with stone and wood, as thatch would freeze over and stone will not warp. The smoke lazily curls up around a tall stone chimney, the tallest structure in the settlement. shoddily shored up with metal. now that they look closer the whole village is built badly, the stones ill fitting and the wood roughly joined. A flag may once have fluttered atop the chimney but now sits still, frozen in a still visage. A golden bull outlined against a red field. Obviously to all present as the symbol of Racoa.
Wearily and with much satisfaction the travellers file into the tavern, A leaning assortment of wooden beams as stone buttresses, patchwork repairs that suggest that the cold is not the only enemy faced by the locals. it is nevertheless warm and inviting.
( Describe your character entering, you are not here of your own free will. the only reason you have not run from your captors is that deviating from the path is certain death. it is a hundred miles to the nearest settlement. your captors all carry weapons but are to orderly to be Racoan soldiers and not orderly enough to be Kardrens. for the moment you must humour them.)
"All right you lot" says the grizzled leader of your captors, "Its been a long few weeks so tonight I'm allowing you to drink,That includes you as well our unwilling guests so I suggest that you enjoy it." He gestures towards a table in the corner, "stay over there, keep relatively quiet, and the drinks are on me."