The wind howled through the frozen land, a fierce roar that seemed to rise from the depths of the earth itself. Snow swirled violently, turning the air into a white, blinding vortex. The storm was relentless, as if the land itself was trying to bury anyone foolish enough to wander in its midst.
Kraka, Chieftain of the Er’Dovaz, walked ahead, leading his small group through the blizzard, each step heavy with purpose. His eyes, gleaming beneath his thick grey fur, scanned the horizon—or what little could be seen of it. His broad shoulders moved with the steady rhythm of a warrior accustomed to both the weight of his armor and the burden of leadership. His instincts, honed over years of living in these brutal lands, whispered that something was wrong, something more than just the storm.
His class, [Chieftain of Lost Souls], told him so.
Behind him, Nogg’s voice barely carried through the wind. "Chieftain Kraka, are you sure about this?" The young Gnollish [Warrior of the Tribe], his light grey fur dusted with snow, kept glancing nervously around, as if expecting the tempest to swallow them whole at any moment. His amber eyes flickered with doubt, his ears twitching beneath the cold.
Kraka didn’t answer immediately, his sharp senses focused on the world around him. There it was again—that tug. Not physical, but something deeper, something primal that resonated within him. His soul was being pulled, as if a voice was calling to him from the very heart of the storm.
“I feel it,” Kraka finally said, his voice low and steady. “A soul, lost in the snow.”
Nogg snorted, his breath freezing in the air. “I don’t feel anything but cold. This storm is going to get worse. We should head back.”
Kraka turned his head slightly, his gaze cutting through the snowstorm to meet Nogg’s anxious eyes. “There is something out here,” he said, his voice calm but with an edge that silenced further argument. “Something that needs us.”
Without another word, Kraka pressed on, his paws sinking deep into the snow. A scent drifted toward him, faint but distinct—a human. His nostrils flared, recognizing the smell immediately. It was unusual, to say the least. Humans didn’t belong here. Their fragile bodies weren’t built to survive Borealis' unforgiving climate. A storm like this would have killed one in minutes.
His pace quickened. “Follow me!” he barked, urgency clear in his tone.
The group closed in behind him, their movements graceful despite their size and the harsh conditions. They were Gnolls, creatures built for survival in these frozen wastes. Their keen senses, particularly smell, cut through the chaos of the blizzard, guiding them forward. The snow crunched under their paws as they pushed onward, the storm swirling violently around them.
Varra, the youngest [Huntress] in the group, suddenly halted, her silver fur almost blending with the snow around her. “There!” she called, her voice sharp as she pointed ahead. A figure lay half-buried in the snow, almost indistinguishable from the frozen landscape.
Kraka knelt beside the motionless body, his eyes narrowing as he examined the figure more closely. A human male, young, barely clothed—just a strip of fabric around his waist. His skin was pale, lips blue from the cold, and his dark hair was matted with frost.
Varra bent down, her fur brushing against the human’s chest as she pressed an ear close, listening. Her face tensed as she concentrated, filtering out the wind's roar.
“He’s alive,” she whispered, her breath fogging in the frigid air. “Barely.”
Nogg stood behind them, his fur bristling as he spat into the snow. “Humans don’t belong here. What’s he doing out in a storm like this, dressed like that? We should leave him. Let the storm have its due.”
Brakk, standing a little further back, folded his arms across his broad chest. “He’s right,” the [Veteran Warrior] growled. “If he’s still alive, it’s only a matter of time before the cold finishes him off. We should keep moving. The storm won’t wait for us.”
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Kraka’s gaze was steady as he looked up at the two of them. “We don’t leave lost souls,” he said simply, the weight of the words settling heavily in the air between them.
Nogg hesitated, his eyes darting between the human, Kraka and Brakk, his mentor. He shifted on his feet, the doubt still clear in his eyes, but as Brakk stayed silent, he said nothing more.
Kraka turned back to the human, his breath slow and deliberate as he extended a paw and placed it over the man’s chest. The cold flesh beneath was almost lifeless, but not quite. Focusing, Kraka called on the power of his Class, of his Skills. [Ember of Survival]. A faint warmth began to radiate from his paw, sinking into the human’s body like embers finding dry wood.
At the same moment, a voice, familiar and distant, echoed in Kraka’s mind.
[Chieftain of Lost Souls Level 32!]
[New Skill: Lost Lamb – Fortuitous Meeting!]
Kraka’s fur stood on end as the voice faded, leaving behind a sense of purpose. This meeting was no accident. Fate had brought this human to them, in this storm, at this moment.
“What does it mean?” he muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he studied the human’s face.
Varra knelt beside him, already wrapping the young man in thick animal skins to protect him from the biting cold. Her fingers worked quickly, yet gently, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“He’s cold. Very cold. But he’s strong. He will live, I can feel it.”
Kraka didn’t respond. His mind was elsewhere, turning over the significance of the moment. Humans had no place in this land, yet here was one—lost, on the verge of death, yet alive. And now, for reasons only the Voice knew, Kraka was responsible for him.
“Let’s head back,” he said finally, rising to his feet. His warriors fell in step around him, lifting the human carefully and carrying him as they would one of their own. The tempest raged on, but Kraka’s mind was quiet. He knew now that this human was tied to something greater.
As they marched through the blizzard, the storm howled like a living thing, the snow swirling in chaotic patterns, almost as if the very earth was restless beneath them. Yet amidst the relentless cold, a band of Gnolls carried something fragile but powerful—a spark of life, a thread that fate had woven into their path.
A flicker of warmth.
Of destiny.
Far from there, on another land, in the damp, dark depths of a cavern, a girl stirred and woke up. Massive white webs, glistening with moisture, decorated the ceiling. She chose to run.
On a bloodied plain, two boys—twins—awoke. Around them, corpses fell. They chose to play dead.
In a marshland under a pale moon, one girl and two boys awoke in murky waters, surrounded by small, shadowy creatures with long, clawed hands and bright, gem-like eyes. They chose to plead.
In the shadowy depths of an underground city, a young man opened his eyes to the cold gazes of dark-skinned warriors armed with sharp weapons. He chose to surrender.
In a dark, rust-covered fortress filled with the sounds of clanking metal and hissing steam, a girl woke up in chains, hearing the cackling of small, green-skinned creatures with mischievous grins. She chose to work.
In the heart of a rugged mountain stronghold, a girl and a boy found themselves surrounded by stout, laughing bearded figures wielding heavy hammers. They chose to forge.
In the depths of a shimmering ocean, a girl awoke to the haunting song of serpentine beings with glistening scales and enchanting voices. She chose to swim deeper.
In a dimly lit chamber, a girl awoke to the scent of incense and the soft whisper of chants. Shadowy figures with blindfolded eyes at her side, their movements graceful yet eerie. She chose to listen.
On a sun-drenched plateau, a young man stumbled into a tribe of reptilian beings, their scaled skin glistening in the light and their eyes keen with intelligence. He chose to faint.
In a sprawling, sun-baked arena, two boys awoke to the deafening roars of dragon-like creatures and the echo of a cheering crowd. They chose to stand their ground.
In a vibrant, ancient forest, a girl awoke among sweet beings with leaf-like skin and luminous eyes, their whispers blending with the rustling leaves, inviting her deeper into the trees. She chose to follow.
In the floating heights of a grand magical academy, a boy tumbled from the sky, landing amidst shimmering towers and gardens suspended in the air. Around him, robed mages with glowing eyes and arcane symbols etched into their skin in a language older than time. He chose to speak.
In the heart of an ornate throne room, a group of young men and women stood, terrified, confused. Tall figures with long ears and flowing robes regarded them with curiosity and—expectation. After a while, they chose to smile.
And this—well, this was just the beginning.