#snow meets ice? more like snowdrift meets deadly blizzard

[proditoreques]

“...So who the fuck invited the snowflake?”

[misspelled-ramblings]

Downing the last dregs of her ale, Greta slammed her flagon down on the bar top and rose from her seat. A little unsteadily at first, and with all eyes in the room fixed on her, the behemoth of a warrior staggered across the warped wooden floor of the tavern. At the door she swiped up her broadsword: Oaksplitter, taller and fiercer than any man. Before she stepped out into the raging blizzard, the anguished howls of which shook at the timbers of the building, she turned one last time to face the expectant faces packed close in the warmth of that place. Her eyes drifted over those faces, picking out a few: Tulius, the doddery old man who had forged her weapon, his once razor sharp eyes now as dulled and weak as his aged body; Nyla, owner of the tavern, the only person who had ever succeeded in besting Greta in an arm-wrestling contest; Ely, smirking in the corner, his two bodyguards stood impassively either side of him with their very presence speaking volumes of the grudge-holding capacity of these people; and then, right next to the hearth, where he had always liked to sit – an empty stool. Drunk as the majority were those assembled in the tavern were, they were still good people, even - deep, deep, deep down - Goddamn Ely. No-one dared perch there.

Greta grimaced and her fist tightened around the hilt of Oaksplitter. She gestured, with one massive hand, to the absence by the fireside and addressed the members of the tavern.

“This beast has taken everything from us.” She said, her rough voice casting silence across the room. “We are forced to huddle in these places of refuge, hoping that it will not find us, but this is not who we are.” 

The crowded tavern mumbled in assent and a few people nodded. 

Greta’s outstretched hand became a fist, “We are warriors. We are men and women of the sword, the axe, the hammer – we do not cower in fear! We fight!” 

The mumbling grew louder. Someone towards the back of the tavern called out drunkenly, “Yeah we do!”

Greta smirked and pointed back towards the speaker. “This guy knows it. I know it.” Her voice hardened. “No more will we live in fear.”

She turned back to the door and, with a song of steel on steel, drew her sword from where it had been slung across her back. The deadly blade glowed in the flames of the hearth, catching them within its icy surface.

“When I return” – she said and a hush fell across the whole room as the very walls leaned in to catch her quiet words – “it will be with that accursed wolf’s pelt about my neck.”

The tavern erupted into cheers, a crescendo of stamping feet and the banging of flagons against the worn wooden tables. 

Not looking back, Greta shoved the door of the tavern open and stepped out into the storm.

Immediately the cheers from the tavern disappeared, torn away by the vicious wind. Shards of ice and snow stung her cheeks, and when the door swung shut behind her the soft golden glow had been spilling out onto the piles of snow was extinguished, plunging her into almost complete darkness. The howling of the gale about her head made it impossible to hear anything, leaving Greta feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. Stepping forward she staggered, her foot sinking into a snowdrift that was deeper than she had anticipated, and fell to one knee, soaking her woollen trousers in the snow. The fabric clung to her legs and she could feel the water already beginning to freeze again, stiffening around her calf like a second skin.

Suddenly the wind dropped.

It was only for a second, but in that second the howling about Greta’s ears ceased, and she heard a deep growl emanating from the darkness. Gritting her teeth she staggered back to her feet and tightened her grip around the hilt of her sword, taking up a fighting stance. Her eyes had begun to adjust now and she was able to pick out the liquid sheen of a pair of two, perfectly black eyes, fixed on her. Then the wind picked up again and the snow swirled and the wolf was once again hidden from her, but this time, instead of feeling uneasy, Greta grinned. Readying her sword she let out a great belly laugh, taunting the beast, and yelled,

“Come out and play little puppy!”

A howl, deafeningly loud and infinitely menacing, ripped through the wailing of the wind, parting it like a hot knife through butter. Greta’s brain barely had time to process the wall of fur and flesh that shot out from the blizzard before she could feel its hot breath on her face, and she let out a defiant cry and swung her sword with all her might to meet the beast as it fell upon her.