A quest of death. [Solo]

[Aliander]

[PLease delete]

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

The wind blew cold on the mountain that night, and not a footprint could be seen.

Ulrich's travels took him a round the entirety of Althanas, but never this far north. Never off the edge of the map. Here, there were monsters few would dare to face and the Wizard who ventured here in oilskins did so in desperation. His feet sank deep into the snow with each step. Extreme effort causing sweat to map lines into the grim of his brow even in this arctic climate of snow and frostbite. The wind and snow, erasing his tracks within seconds.

Lulls in the wind showed Ulrich enough that there was hope for shelter up ahead. Perhaps warmth if he could get a fire going. his outer layers would become wet as the snow melted, so waiting till dawn would be in his best interest, no matter how he would regret it in the morning. Perhaps his Quarry would have died from the cold, a frozen husk that would block Ulrich's path tomorrow morn. His luck had never been so good and there was no hope of changing tomorrow. If he would trip over a frozen corpse, it would be his own.

Monotonous motion.

Step. Sink. Pull.

Step. Sink. Pull.

Step. Sink. Pull.

Sweat dropped from the end of his nose. A clammy hand gripped the five foot tall hiking staff through seal skin glove. Eye's closed against the physical static filling the air. Searching now for the rock face which could promise shelter, sanctuary and survival. In the snowstorm, all he was now able to do was look for a slightly darker patch of rock before coming to the cliffside itself. Choosing an area and moving, quicker now. The snow upon the ground clawed at the soles of his boots, dragging him backwards as the lone figure for miles around pushed on. A spark of hope lay gently at the base of his stomach, urging him on. The rocks came close, close enough that the snow from the sky ceased to exist as it was blocked and revealed it all. And that it was hopeless. The small spark of hope he had carried for the final three miles was snuffed out.

Pressing hands against the solid and sheer surface of stone in front of his face, a sense of hopeless desperation replaced the spark of fire. Was there truly nothing here No hidden space? Arms wrapped around his waist in attempt to conserve the body heat which had quickly started to escape him as soon as he stopped moving. No longer with the energy to keep going after his race to the rocks, he threw off his gloves and plunged the naked hands into the deep pockets of the heavy arctic coat, before the cold brought with it a darkness which pulled gently at his vision. Swirling black. Ulrich looked around, and realised he had fallen to his knees and pressed his brow against the cliffs. The Darkness took him before the wizard was on his side. The snow cloying against what little heat was left. Melting, taking more Ulrich's thoughts were vauge, and clouded with detachment.

If only there was something more, he could have done.

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

"Fish! Fresh fish!"

The thick accent ran the words of the old fishmonger together into a single syllable. The sound of his sale stretching only half as far as the smell of his produce, which seeped steadily into the ever moving throng of people pushing through the street. Mixing artfully with the scents and sounds of the crowded marketplace. The only people the fat man attracted to him were the people already coming to his stall, his voice acting as a great beacon for his customers to follow through the crowd.

It moved through this passage of man without sight or consequence, it's quarry growing closer.

---

On the other side of the city, unaware of his coming fate, Ulrich had returned home to his squalid hovel/office in the capital of Slavar. Simply opening the door forced a chunk of the frame to fall to the ice caked ground. INtending to get a good day's rest before beginning work on his current job. A string of missing children in the city, the very idea of which was draining his spirit, pushing nightmare images of twisted possibilities into his mind. Sleep, now, was coming to him rarely. Often, it only arrived with the sunrise. He wasn't scared of much, but his own mind held him in paralysis more often than anything of the real world.

The door swung closed behind him, and while his eyes adjusted to the dankness of the space, coat and hat were removed. Placed upon their resting place beside the exit, on a creaky old hatstand which swung towards him menacingly under the leather's weight.

He froze before stripping off layer after layer. A miniscule creak, only a fraction louder than anything which could be made by the rodents sharing his accommodation raised the alarm of an uninvited guest within his space and it was, no matter how terrible, drafty and falling apart it was. His space.

With wand in hand, and walking as softly as he could, the wizard moved towards the doorway to the next room and quietly pressed his back against it. Breathing slowly he turned to scan the room for any intruders.

He saw her instantly. Facing away from the door, seated at his desk like a common client and covered in what looked like a heavy cloak of gray wool which covered her from head to toe. The eye of the seer gave away her identity instantly. The Salvarian failed Seer. Prophet of the end times, twice. Both times a man with a sword saves the day, and the Seer is proven wrong again. Now nobody took her seriously anymore. Glynda Greenwater of Salvar, failed doomsayer, had come to see Ulrich Craggenmoor.

Who had changed his last name.

"Hi mum."

His voice was harsher than intended, but not by much. His greeting caught her attention and the figure turned, rising from the seat, the hood fell back to reveal a middle aged woman who was unspectacular in every physical way. Green eyes framed with lines of worry were inset to a round face which was beset with thinning hair of a deep brown, thick strands of gray were already infiltrating the rest.

If she was here, it was for one reason. He was going to die

Unless, of course, someone stopped it. Who did he know? A handful of magic users from his misguided ventures with the guild, a faun he didn’t know how to contact, a halfling, and a thief. It was a short list. Nothing on it raised much hope either. may as well use the rest of the firewood then. He beckoned his mother to follow towards the sitting room, where he could get a fire going and offered much more comfortable arrangements on the high backed chair that sat astride it. Ulrich himself took up residence upon a similar chair across beside it, the crackling of the fire giving birth to heat was all the sound that filled the room. He sat, patiently waiting for the conversation to start.

“My son, It’s all going to be worth it.”

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

Cold bit sharply into the exposed skin slowly covering the half conscious form in a thickening layer of snow. Opening his eyes was difficult, tiny shards of ice tore lashes from his lids, and all he could see was more snow and the impassable wall. Ulrich knew that he was beyond trouble. Not moving was death. Moving was pain, almost enough that he considered simply laying down forever and allowing the frozen wastes to take him forever. Bury him, frozen to time.
He still had a job to finish. It still had to be worth it. Dying in the snow, lost and alone.

This death was worth nothing.

Ragged breath pulled in ice filled air, filling his lungs with a violent cold which fueled him to drag his legs from the snow and, clawing at the cliff face, forced them support their own weight. Closing his eyes against the ebbing storm Ulrich summoned up the last scraps of his hope and will and shaped it into a barrier against the snow. A perfect circle expanded out from the wizard, visible only where the snow bounced away unnaturally.

For a moment anyway, his eyes could fully open and take in the terrible majesty of the landscape, what little was revealed to him were the outlines of Gods, carved into mountains. And ahead was a slither of possibility, a dark slice of rock. It was enough to replace his exhaustion with hope, a recess in the rock wall made promises of shelter. Readjusting the pack, the journey continued onwards.

Step.

Sink.

Pull.


His bubble collapsed after the second trudge in the snow. Pulling the top of his weather wear up around his mouth he continued. Kicking the way through terrain getting closer to the wall, Hands under his arms in an effort to maintain his fingers.

The cave materialised ahead. Dark, dry and best of all: not subject to a raging snowstorm. Even after confirming it’s existence, the wizard was methodically stumbling through knee high snow for an hour before coming up aside it. The great gash within the stone was fifteen foot high, ten foot wide. Crumbling stone, like scarred tissue outlined the entrance. Dropping to his knees inside, Ulrich’s pack fell to the ground and spilled it’s contents upon the floor. Uncontrollable hands, shaking non-stop could only push the items apart from each other in a mad crashing search.

Tinder, first he needed tinder.

It was sealed in a fragile drybox, Ulrich dropped his elbow down hard, destroying it with a screaming shockwave which climbed up to the shoulder and neck. His breathing jumped and darkness threatened to close in again before retreating back, halfway. His vision tunneling.
Flint. He needed flint.

It was buried now, in the mess of discarded survival equipment. Digging clumsily, Ulrich pushed aside a collection of hooks, rope and pins.The climbing gear he had hoped not to need, to get to the flint and steel beneath it. Staring up at him in silent, mocking judgement. An instinctive grab instead pushed the dual pieces away across the cave floor. His fingers refusing to open. A gamely crawl towards the piece, cupping the rock between his fists before cradling it against his breast and limping towards the small pile of wood and shattered box.

The spark came slowly, and when it arrived it came small. Dying in a puff of smoke, taking a curl of tinder with it. Forcing the flint between his fingers again, Ulrich Craggenmoor brought it down a final time, bouncing off the steel plate in a shower of sparks, covering the nameless camp fire with ignition.

He was out before his head hit the ground.