#haha get ice mummified idiot

[sixteenth-days]

ghost iskall for the art trait swap? 👉👈

-vaish titiro

It’s storming out, but Iskall knows how to handle himself in snow. It’s his thing, in fact. In his name and everything. As long as he gets back to his cozy starter base in the next, say, fifteen minutes, he’ll be perfectly fine and curling up with carrot-ginger soup to wait out the blizzard.

The problem being, of course, that he’s lost.

He knows his starter base is around here somewhere, although being that he’s been down in the cave base recently he’s not as quick on the mountain navigation as he’d been start-of-season. He’ll be fine, though. As long as he stays moving, keeps struggling against the driving wind, watches his steps. Remembers where he’s going. Figures out where he’s going.

As long as he doesn’t let his eyes slip closed.

It’s dark out. He’s going numb. He’ll be fine though. As long as he... As long as…

As long as…

It’s bright out. That’s nice, if a little glaring. He must have made it through the blizzard, hypothermia derps and all, if he’s waking up to snowmelt rather than to a jolting respawn in his bed, little trickles of water like the snowbanks are sweating falling off to the rocks below. Oh, wow, he’d been close to the edge there. And properly snowed over. He’ll have to check in on the integrity of his electronics once he digs himself the rest of the way out of here…

His hands go through the snowbank. Right through, as he tries to lever himself out, with no sensation but a little whoosh of cold.

He doesn’t look down. Instead, he tries again, feels that distant little frigid feeling, hits something solid. His arm sinks in, spoon into soup, and then he can feel his arm again. Stiff. Frostbitten. Solid.

He looks up at the pale sun. Something glitches horribly, black and pink, in the electronics of his left eye.