Private Tales Fellowship of Chance

[Singar]

Ragged breaths drew just enough of the frigid air to keep Singar on his feet. His entire body was numb with the cold. Entire body was saturated in an ever-growing film of water that he could not wipe away, which seemed to seep into his soul.

Each step he took sunk deeper into the snow, and made the feeling of being lost grow stronger. Eventually even his harsh breathing was drowned out by the wind.

Why, Skyfather? he wondered. His muscles roared with a dying fury like a wounded buck, fighting as hard as they could to move before the cold froze them in place. Then, like the wounded animal he saw in himself, he heard a cry above the wind. Anxious, desperate, dying. Though it was not that of animal. He had killed many, and he knew these were the death wails of a man.

Charlemagne... It had to be.

Singar closed his eyes, risking that it might be the last time he ever did so as to focus on the noise. His hunter's senses told him he was not far off.

The few minutes it took to reach the other crash site felt like strenuous hours. As he closed in his mind ran with the possibilities of what he might see. The snow was up almost to his waist, fresh so that he might almost swim through it as painful as that was. If Charlemagne was closer to death than Singar was, he felt as though giving the man a quick end would be kind. Kinder than letting him freeze.

When Singar finally laid eyes on Charlemagne he saw the man fighting for his life against the elements, the basest of lives, and a common death. But Singar could not allow the man to die so easily.

"Charlemagne!" he cried above the wind. "Reach out your hand to me! The snow has not taken you yet!"

In that moment as he reached to help the swordsman, he was grateful to have landed and survived where he did. All too easily both men could have perished out here. All too easily, they still had the possibility...

 

[Charlemagne]

Charlemagne's mind was that of a beast's. He clawed and howled in his rage, caught within the storm of his own emotions; a storm that would have swallowed up these damned mountains and smother the natural gale that had forced them into this horrid place. His shouts were unintelligible savage things, the fury and hate all that remained to warm his dying body.

He would claw his way up a few feet, steady himself, and then crash back down into the abyss as the snow collapsed beneath him. Each time he drew closer to the mouth of the avalanche. Each time the snow slipped beneath his fingers and plunged him further. It only served to deepen his rage. Was this how he was to die? Forgotten and destitute, slain by the fucking cold after surviving so many conflicts? It was cruel. It was unfair. He'd never paid any heed to any gods, perhaps this was their retribution. All the times he'd spoken out against them, and now they were taking their vengeance.

A small part of his mind urged him to cease the struggle. To flee from this mortal coil; to accept his fate and to pray to the gods for salvation. It whispered between his thoughts, quieting the howling wolf that had taken hold of his soul.

No.

"Fuck the gods!" He howled, rearing his head back to stare out the cavern-mouth that so eluded him. He glared beyond it, through the swirling clouds, to the stars and the heavens above. and whatever lingered within them. "You can't have me! You won't!" He clawed and clawed until his gauntlets were frozen cold and the joints in his fingers ceased responding to his mind's commands. His body was useless now, but his spirit was still willing. His lot was to resist. His purpose was to contend. Even here, at such an unmagnanimous end, as his body failed and the cold closed in around him, he would push. He would struggle.

"Charlemagne!" A familiar voice carved through the howling winds and further through Charlemagne's burgeoning psychosis. Singar had survived! The Orc's shout lit a new flame within Charlemagne. His fingers might not respond, but his arms could still move. The mercenary wriggled and spat his song of curses as he crawled back toward the entrance one final time, the last of his energy spent as he reached upward, the tips of his fingers just barely poking out through the din.

A brief feeling of touch echoed through his frozen fingers. Charlemagne did all that he could to try and force his fingers to close, and then, with one great show of the Orc's strength, the mercenary was ripped from his frozen tomb.

Fury gave way to gratitude. Delirium set itself aside. Barely able to stand, Charlemagne threw his arms around the Orc, pulling his savior into a brief bear-hug. "Thank you brother," he whispered, as he clapped Singar on the back, his voice hoarse and utterly lost from all his screaming.

He spotted his sword embedded in the side of the tree he'd landed beneath. With great effort, the mercenary wandered over toward the lost weapon. He heaved with what little he had left on the pommel, the sword breaking away in a shower of wooden shrapnel, it having only been slightly lodged by sheer luck alone.

The snow whipped around them with a great fury as he turned to regard his friend. "All that and we're still going to fucking freeze to death out here," he snarled, his anger with the world returning like embers that, whilst smothered, still crackled with life.

His head whipped about then as the sound of heavy movement from just beyond the next snowbank echoed out over the storm. It resembled the noise of horses on the gallop, though rather than the clop of hooves there was the crunch of claws.

Charlemagne tried to heft his greatsword, but his fingers couldn't properly grasp the pommel and his arms were far too weak to life the thing. He only offered Singar a brief look of defeated exhaustion as the sound grew so loud that it seemed its source was just over the hill.