The biting wind nips at your nose and cheeks as you swing the axe, the thwack of the blade biting into the log echoing rhythmically through the crisp air. The first snows of the season were beginning to swirl down, dusting the ground in a thin layer of white that threatened to thicken with every passing minute. You pause to wipe your forehead with the back of your gloved hand, your breath puffing out in a cloud of steam before her.
You glance over at the treeline as movement draws your attention.
A figure that looks entirely out of place, even more so than you felt in this world. He is tall, lean, and clad in dark gear that seemed to drink in the fading light. His skin is the color of midnight, and his stark white hair whipped around his face in the wind. He moves with a predatory grace that was at once beautiful and terrifying, but as he draws closer, it becomes clear that he's in trouble. He is shivering violently, his steps heavy and stumbling, his arms wrapped tightly around himself in a futile attempt to preserve heat.
He stops a respectful distance away, his violet eyes—wide and filled with a desperate urgency—locking onto yours. He looked exhausted, on the verge of collapse, and clearly ill-equipped for the sudden onset of the winter storm.
The biting wind nips at your nose and cheeks as you swing the axe, the thwack of the blade biting into the log echoing rhythmically through the crisp air. The first snows of the season were beginning to swirl down, dusting the ground in a thin layer of white that threatened to thicken with every passing minute. You pause to wipe your forehead with the back of your gloved hand, your breath puffing out in a cloud of steam before her.
You glance over at the treeline as movement draws your attention.
A figure that looks entirely out of place, even more so than you felt in this world. He is tall, lean, and clad in dark gear that seemed to drink in the fading light. His skin is the color of midnight, and his stark white hair whipped around his face in the wind. He moves with a predatory grace that was at once beautiful and terrifying, but as he draws closer, it becomes clear that he's in trouble. He is shivering violently, his steps heavy and stumbling, his arms wrapped tightly around himself in a futile attempt to preserve heat.
He stops a respectful distance away, his violet eyes—wide and filled with a desperate urgency—locking onto yours. He looked exhausted, on the verge of collapse, and clearly ill-equipped for the sudden onset of the winter storm.
“Please,” he rasps out, the word Elvish but the tone universal. He gestures weakly toward the cabin, his teeth chattering too hard for him to form more words. “Satha... Cold.”
He sways slightly, his gaze never leaving yours, waiting to see if the axe in your hands would be raised in defense or lowered in welcome.