What was once a drizzle had turned to storm and with it, the flickers of snow had turned to a blinding blur of white noise. Outside an ill-prepared man would be dead within the hour.

Good thing she was not then, Mira mushed as she broke another practice wooden sword over her knee. A waste, they were made by good craftsmen and would fetch a good price in the markets of Frostguard.

But just one glance at what should have been a firewood pile next to the fireplace dashed her hope for any of that.

The firewood was gone. And well, she needed something to burn. It annoyed her but oh well.

Still, Whoever the looters were, they at least had a brain between them, otherwise she imagined they would have gone only for the jewellery and the armoury, not that they hadn't. The splintered wooden sword she threw into the fire pit was one of the few practice weapons that had been left behind by the looters.

Taking a knee, Mira pulled her hand forward, the bone charm still held securely in the slot made for it in her glove. [Fire]+[Direction].

She breathed in deeply, drawing forth what was inside, a boiling molten liquid that ranged and thrashed much the same as the winds outside. Or at least that was how she always thought of it, for something so malleable and ferocious couldn't be anything other.

The people of the faith called it holy and the men of the academy called it lifeblood, maybe there was truth in the latter, the evidence seemed to suggest it was so—catalyst and anything related to it required materials from living beings as a base—but Mira had a much simpler name for it, 'Power.'

A power that worked as she envisioned it, manifesting into her hand holding the catalyst, flowing into it and igniting the catalysts one at a time. And as the words dictated, a fire was born in her palm, which [Direction] allowed to be sent the way she wanted—into the fire pit as a constant flow that lessened as she slowed the flow of 'lifeblood' into it and when she saw the wood taking to the flame she cut it.

The dry practice swords had taken to the fire like moths to a flame and that was a comforting thought for Mira, the wind had begun howling and banging against the windows.

The jitters that the windows made each time they clattered against the wind made her mind turn to her mare who had decided to walk up to her and get closer to the fire, she would have died out there, freezing in the cold and that would have lengthened an already long journey back to Frostguard.

Pulling her hands over to the small leather sac hanging by the mare's side, Mira pulled it off and laid it on her side. It was a tall thing, pulling the thing open she started laying out her supplies. Wrapped in a leather bag was smoke-dried jerky, she set it aside and pulled her knife—a curved blade with a bulging end. The last thing she pulled out of it was a small steel engraving pen and bone pieces carved and scraped into small round tablets able to hold one rune each.

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The rune she intended to carve, [Fire]. Just fire. So when lifeblood was sent into it, it would ignite and turn into a ball of fire. One which she could throw. And as the casters usually called the whole thing, Fireball.

Fireball, what a waste of time and effort, in usual circumstances but in these cold hills where everyone wore layers upon layers of wool and cloth…if even one layer took to the flame—Mira smiled as she picked up her engraver and started her work.

Slowly she shifted the pointed edge through the bone, scraping out little bits of bone and dust as her desired shape started to form. But it was going to take hours. Though as her gaze passed over the storm outside she knew she had the time. No rush.

And even if she was in a rush? What good would that do? The storm was howling, winds breaking against the wood and the snow stacking ever higher, the mare would go nowhere in this weather.

Still, it was not all bad, yes, she was delayed in her work, and yes this keep had been turned into a slaughterhouse but none of that was on her mind, rather it was the atmosphere, she enjoyed it. The cold whistling winds outside and the fire inside that baked her in a nice gentle warmth—the contrast of such gave her a nice tingle inside, a comfortable one at that, she loved this feeling. She always had, ever since she was little, lying in bed and reading books, enjoying a nice fire next to her bed as the world turned to ice around her.

Maybe when she was back in Frostguard to repo—"Hello?" Startled, Mira snapped to action. Tools dropped. Her hands went for her sword as she jumped back. Eyes quickly readjusting to the source.

There a child stood in front of her. A little boy. Head peeking from the side of a wall.

"Who are you?" She hissed, a voice magnitude harsher than what one would use with a child, but she didn't care one bit. Neither did her mare by the unconcerned way it was asleep by the fire.

"Um," The boy's breath hitched as he ducked back inside.

"Who are you?" She asked again only to be met with momentary silence. But it was soon cut, a shrill voice, a child's voice came, "I—I am, Marmot! Marmot Glade. Heir to the…"

Mira sighed, letting go of the tension in her limbs, right obviously. Who else would be stupid enough to raise a child here?

Well regardless, he was an orphan now, huh, won't the title of the lord of Seawatch fall to him?

"I am Mira Heylel, Bastard of the Dracina family. I carry a letter for the lord of the Seawatch keep which is most likely you, m'lord," This time her voice was gentle, gentle enough to draw out the boy from behind the door, the little guy's face matched that of the woman Mira had found on the gate, his hair too, the same muddy brown.

"Eh? My father…is not back yet. Mother said she would go and look for him and she isn't either."

He probably won't ever see them again, Mira concluded not that she was going to tell the boy, especially in this weather, she was going to have to dredge the kid along with her to Frostguard, to meet her father. And she would rather not have a crying and grieving child to take care of.

So she made a lie of omission and switched the topic, "Then," She paused as she turned to the windows, the storm had no desire to lessen, so she would have to entertain the kid somehow, "Do you want to listen to stories about my time in the capital?"

One could almost see the innocence in the snowflake's smile, it was a more telling answer than anything, and of course, he did.