On the frost-kissed afternoon of the challenge, a rousing cheer echoed across the village as participants, clad in furs and clasping their basic kits, set off into the icy embrace of the Eldergrove. Some strode with lone-wolf confidence, while others huddled in small bands, their voices mingling with the sigh of the wind through the skeletal trees.
The day unfolded with a symphony of sounds – the crunch of boots on virgin snow, the scrape of flint against steel, and the low murmur of voices discussing strategies and plans for the trial ahead.
A skinny tailor named Huxley, known for his relentless work ethic and steady hand, wrestled with a stubborn fire. His hands shook, the wind's icy fingers making his attempts all the more challenging. Finally, after a long and arduous effort, the flame from his flint and steel ignited the kindling on the log and soon the crackling warmth of his fire bloomed in his small clearing.
He let out a tired but satisfied sigh, puffing his chest out as though he had accomplished some great feat. His companion, a stoic man named Waylan, merely grunted his approval as he wrapped himself in his cloak while tending to his own fire, a small pile of logs stacked in front of him.
Huxley made his way to Waylan and plopped himself down with a grunt, warming his hands with his fire and wiggling his toes inside his boots. "Three days and three nights," he said, shaking his head in disbelief, "can't believe I agreed to this."
Waylan turned towards his companion, an amused glint in his eyes, his lips curled into a thin smirk. "Surely you didn't expect anything less?" he replied in his cool voice. "This is Thorsten we're talking about."
Huxley shrugged and leaned forward to prod the flames with a stick. "I mean, yeah, but... survival?" he muttered, shaking his head again before adding a branch to the fire. "And those magical traps..."
As if on cue, a piercing scream echoed through the forest. Both men jerked at the sound and whipped around to locate its source, their eyes darting around for any movement or change in the landscape. After a moment of silence, they shared a knowing glance and sighed in relief as they returned to their fires.
"What in the bloody abyss was that?" Huxley muttered as he leaned forward to place another piece of wood onto the fire.
"Someone must have run into one of those traps," Waylan said with a wry smile, "and judging by the sound... I think it's the beastkin girl that joined us."
Huxley's eyebrows shot up as he let out a laugh. "Ouch," he said with a low chuckle, "poor thing."
"If anything, she probably had it coming," Waylan retorted as he turned back to his fire again, poking at the kindling with a stick. "I overheard her mentioning that she wanted to see what that old Arcanist's traps could do."
Huxley let out another laugh and clapped his hands. "True!" he said as he turned back to his own fire. "Sounds like her luck ran out."
A lull fell upon them as they resumed their respective tasks—the fire crackled in the silence and the howl of the wind filled their ears. Soon, another scream resounded through the forest, the sound less shrill than before and more akin to a growl than a cry for help. Huxley and Waylan shared another glance before rolling their eyes and shaking their heads with a small smirk on their faces.
"Go, warrior girl!" Huxley cheered as he puffed his chest out again with pride. "Go forth and conquer!"
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From his vantage point on the hill, Thorsten watched from a distance, his gaze keen, hawk-like, focused on the specks of light from the participants' fire pits. From time to time, a brief glimpse of someone wandering past his line of sight would cause his brow to furrow and his jaw to tighten. When he saw someone take a wrong turn or cross paths with one of the traps, he let out a frustrated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.
His breath clouded the air in puffs, mixing with the swirling snowflakes, an icy ballet that marked the passing hours. His weathered fingers traced the handle of his enchanted axe, the cold metal familiar and comforting. The engraving was barely visible under the layers of use, but he knew every groove, every curve of the sigils that marked his status as an Ulfhendar. His gaze softened, a flicker of memories lighting up the craggy landscape of his face. His years as a warrior had aged him, the weight of battles fought, and comrades lost etched into his soul.
He watched the flickering fire pits, their warm glow a defiant stand against the creeping chill of the winter night. His mind wandered to the villagers, their enthusiasm and nervous anticipation tangling with the sobering reality of surviving the Eldergrove's brutal wilderness. A smile tugged at his lips, a quiet chuckle escaping his mouth, the sound muffled by the hush of the falling snow.
Bold as a summer storm, they are. His gaze drifted from one fire pit to another. The flame was life; it was warmth in the biting cold, a guide in the forest's shadowy depths, a beacon for the weary. As long as those flames burned, the spirit of the villagers lived on.
Thorsten squinted, his keen eyes picking out a figure gathering firewood—Serrandyl, he recognized. Even from a distance, her fierce determination was unmistakable. He watched as she turned to help another participant, her muscular figure bending to assist the smaller one with their bundle. There was strength there, he mused, not just of the body, but of the heart as well.
He remembered the sly grin on her face when she’d announced her participation, the twinkle in her eyes when she'd mentioned the magical traps. It had amused him, that spark of eagerness. But watching her now, he saw more than just a thrillseeker—she was dedicated and earnest, ready to help anyone who needed her. Perhaps his original assessment of her had been too hasty?—
He saw Serrandyl plunge herself into one of the traps, her scream echoing through the forest like a song, and he let out a snort of laughter. Well, perhaps not too hasty then.
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Under the canopy of the forest and through the crunching undergrowth, Serrandyl hunted with the precision of a seasoned scout. She panted heavily as she trudged through the snow, sweat dripping down her forehead despite the winter chill. While her legs ached and her muscles burned with fatigue, she felt an exhilaration run through her as she stepped over fallen trees and shrubs, the scent of snow, evergreen, and earth filling her nose with each breath she took.
She detected the first trap not with her keen sight, but her sensitive nose. As she reached a bush, she paused for a moment to sniff at its surface. It smelled of elderberries. That was odd. She had learned that elderberries didn't bloom in winter. She followed the scent until she found a bush abundant with unseasonal fruits. "Here goes nothing," she muttered before giving the bush a gentle poke.
Poof! With a startled yelp, Serrandyl leaped back, landing on her bottom in the snow. Slender vines from the bush slithered out and squirmed their way beneath her coat and breeches, tickling her bare skin.
Her eyes widened into saucers as she shrieked with laughter, causing nearby birds to take flight from their roosts. She wriggled around, struggling to reach into her coat with her gloved hands to remove the clinging vines—but the gloves failed to a grip on the slimy ropes and they simply wormed their way further into her clothes.
Their assault left her dizzy and helpless, laughing uncontrollably as she kicked her legs in the air, her tail thrashing about wildly. In the middle of her hysterical laughter, she spotted a trio of participants for Thorsten's challenge walking past her location, chatting amiably amongst themselves.
One of them—a woman with braided blonde hair—turned to her with a furrowed brow and frowned. "Is everything all right?" she asked with a curious tilt of her head.
Stolen novel; please report.
Serrandyl struggled to compose herself and wipe the tears from her eyes as she smiled and waved her hand dismissively. "Fine!" she yelled, still giggling as she added, "just a false alarm! Also... if you find any elderberries, don't touch them. It's a trap!"
While the other two exchanged confused glances, the blonde woman chuckled and nodded her head in understanding. "Ah," she said with a shrug, "thanks for telling us. We'll be careful."
The group left and after a nod and a final wave, Serrandyl covered her mouth to stifle another burst of laughter as the vines continued to slither about her body. When she finally regained control of her breathing, she tore off her gloves, yanked off her coat, and peeled off her pants, before gripping the vines firmly between her claws and tearing them free from her skin.
Panting heavily and wiping the sweat from her brow, she grabbed her belongings and quickly put them back on before as the frigid air crept through her damp clothes and began to nibble at her skin. She grumbled in annoyance, flexing her sore muscles as she adjusted her layers again. "Ugh! Freezing!" she hissed as she shivered, rubbing her arms vigorously to keep warm.
She sneezed, sending a spray of droplets flying into the air, and hurried away from the cursed bush, vowing never to touch an elderberry bush again.
The second trap she encountered was triggered by her lack of attention to her surroundings—not due to negligence or recklessness but rather because she was lost in thought. One moment she was scouring the forest floor for pinecones to build her fire with; the next, she tripped over a gnarled root and tumbled forward, her fall broken by a prickly bush.
In an instant, her fur coat had transformed into an oversized feathered outfit, complete with a ridiculous cap and a large peacock tail. She glanced at her extravagant plumage, stunned by the garish spectacle, before the chilling cold settled in and drove her to stand up and elicit a string of loud, colorful curses from her lips followed by a shuddering sneeze.
Her ears perked as she heard Ebonheim's laughter far into the distance. Serrandyl blushed and glared at the canopy above, her tail swishing angrily behind her. "Shut up! This isn't funny!" she yelled, kicking the nearest tree with her foot.
Still fuming, she stalked off in search of shelter, pulling off her strange hat and clutching it against her chest. Without her fur coat, she couldn't resist the biting cold anymore and her cheeks flushed red as she shuddered violently. "Brr!" she mumbled as she stomped through the snow, glaring at the passing scenery as though it had insulted her family.
She needed to find shelter soon and start a fire—fast. Hopefully whatever magic turned her clothes into this travesty would only last for a short while.
Soon, she stumbled across a hollowed-out log and gratefully climbed inside, curling up into her blanket to shield herself from the bitter cold. There she remained, hugging her makeshift tent tightly and desperately trying to sleep through the evening hours. But every time she drifted off, she would wake up with a start, gasping for air and trembling from the cold, which was gradually getting worse.
"R—right. Gotta start a f—fire." She groaned as she untangled herself from her blanket and got to her feet, swaying slightly as she walked towards the opening of the log to peer outside. "Just gotta find some sticks."
Despite her urgency, she moved slowly and cautiously as she collected deadwood and piled them up near the log's entrance before retreating inside again. Then, with trembling hands, she used her flint and steel to strike sparks into the wood, coaxing the faintest glow into existence. Once the tiny flame flickered to life, she held her breath as she crawled out of her log shelter to toss the branches onto the fire.
When the heat finally permeated her bones, she flopped onto the ground and rested her head against the log's rough exterior, watching as the flames consumed the twigs and grew larger. Eventually, she succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep, snuggled close to the fire.
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The second day dawned with a sky heavy with grey clouds. Participants wandered through the forest in search of sustenance—both food and fuel for their fires—in order to prepare for the night ahead. They kept their conversations brief and quiet, listening intently for any unusual sounds that might indicate a magical trap. By now, most had figured out how to spot the subtle indicators of such traps, and thus avoided being caught in them. But Serrandyl, determined to see through each one, persisted in her foolish quest to explore each and every magical trap in the forest.
By the third day, even the hardest-nosed survivors had started to waver. Most of them sat by their campfires shivering from the cold, quietly praying to Ebonheim for salvation and promising to give her gifts for a tasty meal when she finally emerged from the forest to pick them up.
A sudden roar of winds broke through the relative calm of the forest, accompanied by a furious tempest of snowflakes. Several pairs of eyes peered through the dense foliage, glancing upwards at the cloud-heavy sky. The gentle snowfall swelled into a malevolent squall. Delicate flakes transformed into a tempest of white a howling blizzard that blotted out the sun and turned the afternoon into a twilight landscape of ice and snow.
Serrandyl's eyes hardened as the weather worsened. Lithe and swift, she cut through the icy gusts, ignoring the discomfort as she raced to find the other participants.
"Follow me!" Her voice boomed across the wilderness, bouncing off the leafless trees and calling out to the others hidden within the blinding snowstorm. "I'll guide you back!"
A ragtag group of participants, mostly ones her age, scampered to her, their eyes wide with panic. Their frightened whispers reverberated through the woods like a song of dismay as they pushed through the storm to follow Serrandyl's direction.
"Hold on to each other!" Her voice, a resonant command that rivaled the storm's fury, cut through the howling winds. "Don't lose sight!"
Several did as she instructed, forming a loose chain and following her closely as they headed back to the village. Despite the brutal conditions, they pressed on, stumbling through the drifts and sinking waist-deep into the snow. They would pass by Huxley and Waylan who sat huddled together, both miserable and half-frozen, waiting for rescue.
"Ebonheim! Goddess save us!" Frantic calls began to echo through the storm, panicked voices cutting through the gale as people shouted to one another.
Ebonheim emerged from a nearby tree, her aura blazing brightly amidst the swirling snow. A comforting warmth washed over the group, instantly dissipating the bite of the freezing temperatures and calming their fear. "It's okay," she said with a reassuring smile, "I'm here."
Serrandyl breathed a sigh of relief as she gazed at Ebonheim. "I'm going to go around and find the others," she said, nodding to Ebonheim before sprinting off through the blizzard.
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The snowstorm swirled around Thorsten like a frothing sea of white, its icy tendrils reaching out to seep into the marrow of his bones. He stood his ground, his face steeled in the frigid wind, his brows furrowed in deep thought.
Something was amiss; The sudden escalation of the storm was not lost on him. The nature of the tempest was too violent, too out of the ordinary to be a mere trick of weather. In the back of his mind, a nagging suspicion stirred, a memory from his past days as an Ulfhendar—warriors who held dominion over the icy wilderness and its magical creatures.
A memory of one creature, in particular, came to mind. A winter wolf—a beast of legends whose presence could conjure brutal snowstorms. Did the valley contain such a creature? Was it hiding somewhere, patiently biding its time before unleashing its wrath upon the unwary?
His answer came in the form of a guttural roar.
Through the haze of snow, a large silhouette gradually appeared, darkening the field before him. Its outline blurred as it prowled towards him, yet he could make out enough to know that it was huge.
A creature emerged from the blizzard, each step a deliberate imprint in the white expanse. Its fur, a crystalline white, almost glowed against the snow, its form undulating with a savage, silent grace that belied its monstrous size.
"At times like this, I wish I'd been wrong," he muttered under his breath.
The winter wolf's ice-blue eyes glowed with a spectral light, an arctic fire that bored into the shelter and found Thorsten's gaze. A shudder ran down his spine, the memories of his Ulfhendar days flooding back, a deluge that consumed his senses and transported him back in time.
Thorsten's past surged forth, a tide of vivid recollections. The years fell away, revealing a younger version of himself, standing tall and proud in the role of an Ulfhendar. He remembered his first encounter with a winter wolf, a duel to the death on a frost-laden field, where every breath stung his lungs and the landscape was as white as the beast he battled. He recalled the terrifying majesty of the creature, the raw power it wielded over ice and snow, the way it could transform a calm winter's day into a chaotic snowstorm.
The Ulfhendar's creed echoed in his mind—a promise he had whispered in the heart of countless snowstorms: I am the storm's end. I am the beast's bane.
The wolf's haunting howl rang out, echoing through the frozen forest, heralding the battle to come. It pawed at the ground, ready to attack, while Thorsten merely watched, letting the familiar dread settle in his stomach. His fingers tingled with anticipation as he drew his axe from its sheath and braced himself for battle.