Private Tales I miss the mountains

[Hath Charosh]

Hath lifted one hand to his chin and brushed ice from his beard. Whilst he always enjoyed visiting the tribes in the spine, he had been raised on the savanna and the cold always bit deep.

He took two steps back from the ledge and looked towards Bula. This pass was ice troll territory. They had intended to pass through it within a few hours.

Then the winds had whipped through, carrying ice and debris. They have been forced into shelter.

At the other end of the pass, half a tribe was heading into a trap.

"We'll have to brave it soon," Hath grunted.

 

[Bula]

Something akin to the beginnings of a disgruntled snarl twitched the corner of her lip. The orc's gloved hands rested up on the hilts of her axes, the feel of their hafts against her fingers familiar and comforting. Black braids hung around her face, flecks of snow and ice caught in their thick strands. A few steps brought her nearer to the downfall of ice.

"Now," she corrected, glancing sideways at Hath. As she spoke, she dropped to one knee, a single hand releasing from its axe to touch the ground beneath her. A wave of spirit energy swept along the path between them and the tribe down below. Whatever it returned darkened her brow as she stood up and, without a word, left the shelter they'd found.

As to be expected of the shaman, she had a way of heading straight into the dangers that might lay ahead. Clearly losing her eye and nearly dying on more than one occasion was not enough to crumble her resolve. There was no denying that she was a product of her mother though, in the way she moved with determination. She was confident, but not in the way of arms.

Bula called back at him, without even looking over her shoulder, "Or they die."

In the distance, a horrific sound echoed along the mountain's ridges and the rumble of tumbling snow seemed to come from the way they'd come from.