Dira tightened her grip on her sword. Leather straps, discolored and worn thin from years of use of the blade by her master before her own time with it, bit into the palm of her hand. She felt it when her opponent decided to make its move. Behind that ridge with the coress-bushes. Dira tensed her leg muscles, concentrating on the feeling of her feet digging into the ground for good traction. You’re not moving forward; you are pushing the earth away from you – her master had told her. And that is what Dira did. She pushed. A flickering of air indicated her movement. Before the dirt dislodged by her launch touched ground again, she appeared above her enemy. It was the first opportunity Dira had to take a good look at the other fighter. A starved-looking thin woman, there was barely any flesh on her. Tendinous limbs with so little muscle around that Dira wondered how this woman could move at all.
I’m going to attempt to write stuff every now and then. It’s going to be rough. Read at your own peril. Read time: ~3-4min
So many lives were lost. What was left of their hope was little more than embers. After days, who knows how many, of unending pounding by this storm, they were the only two left. Their expedition had started with 72 people; only them, the two who started this disaster, remained. And he had thought they were going to die as well. Had been sure of it more than once. When the rope connecting him to Nathanial had slackened, he had been certain that he wouldn’t be able to raise Nathaniel back up again when he reached him. He could barely keep himself up after all. Damn this cursed storm. It appeared out of nowhere. This tempest blanketed a clear blue sky and replaced perfect weather with unending desolation. Thick, soggy snowflakes are whipped about with more force than their weight should allow. Each flake feels like wet leaves clinging to your clothes, like tiny hands that try to drag you down into the muck. And whenever they meet skin, they bring the sensation of small sharp biting pincers that burrow into the individual pores and attempt to tear it inside out one pore at a time. They are carried by a harsh freezing wind that never lets up but is never steady enough for you to adapt. Gusts of wind that throw pinpricks of ice under your hood. Bursts of air that entrench frozen barbs between the layers of your wrappings until your movement causes their spikes to scrape their way to your flesh, where they prick into you like thorns. Each sting introduces more coldness and relieves you of more of your fleeting energy. But also, there is that slight relief when the needle pierces, and the flesh heats in response. The small comfort of a droplet of blood leaving the confines of your body, relinquishing its warmth onto the surface of your unfeeling meat. Curse this damned storm. And now this.