The Killing Cold

(Closed to Arsene. Post count will be around 500 a piece until we reach that magic number.)

Harsh and brutal was the blizzard that slammed into the tundra later that afternoon. A sea of clouds as black as a raven's wing quickly fell from view as the horizon began to pale, snow immediately beginning to fall from the sky in sheets. Carried upon howling winds, the snowstorm was carried to the farthest corners of the wasteland, soon covering the landscape in a sea of white.

As mountains were hidden from view and entire forests were swept from sight by rolling dunes of white, the temperature plummeted to thirty below. While the storm continued to bay and howl, a powerfully built figure wrapped in a cloak of great, thick furs trudged knee-deep in snow as he moved towards what he last saw to be woodlands. His flesh mostly hidden from view in the deathly cold, not even Brom would risk his body to frostbite. Feeling the chill pass through his cloak and clothing and sink deep into his bones, the barbarian wondered how long before the dull ache beneath his flesh would begin to sap even his colossal strength. It was the first time in years that the barbarian could remember being truly cold.

At thirty below, Brom guessed it'd only be a matter of hours before he would begin to succumb to the killing cold, more than triple the time it would take for it to infect an average man. In this kind of storm, even the toughest of mountain men could be cowed.

As he continued to weather the storm, Brom's frayed mind turned to the hard-earned lessons he had recieved while surviving in the wastes of Salvar. It was almost certain death to wander out into the open. The bitter gusts would score and weather faces until they grew numb and eventually frostbite would set in. But, the greatest danger of all was the one that couldn't be seen.

In a whiteout, when the land was entirely flushed with gray and one could barely see their hands in front of their face, it is easy to be led astray and eventually become lost. Unable to backtrack to shelter because their tracks would melt away in the storm, fools would continue to wander in circles until their bodies gave in to the nature's wrath. Brom had even once heard of a tribesman who froze to death less than twenty paces from the clan's doorstep.

Interrupting his train of thought, Brom saw darker shades of gray begin to stand out in the snow-blind. Wandering forward until he reached a towering larch whose boughs were buried in snow, the barbarian leaned against the tree as he surveyed the area and found other trees springing up in the blizzard. As sure as he was that this was it, the Salvarian had every reason to reconsider his instincts with this place. It was not his homeland, but an alien wilderness far harsher than he could ever imagine.

"Siberia." Brom grunted as he wrenched himself from the larch and pressed on further into the forest, continuing on his hunt until even his towering sillhouette was soon lost in white.