Second, I apologize for the length of this post.... Seems my "writer-ness" got a hold of my creative muse and they collaborated on this piece. I just couldn't figure out how, nor bear to, shorten it any further (and believe me it's shortened! :p ). Not the best I've written, but it is still a decent piece. Sorry folks.
))They arrived in Everfrost, the tall Shaman and his friend. The small Feir’dal female quickly sets to making her catatonic friend comfortable. Amber eyes of the wolf look up at him with a certain sadness. “I’m sorry I failed you, my friend.” she whispers. She lowers her eyes before her small form shivers from the cold. Her tiny fingers begin working her packs pulling furs and rope in preparation of travel. Her father had taught her to travel in this nearly barren land where survival was hard, and the weather harsh.
Lugging a large bear fur from one of her packs she set it upon the shoulders of the Shaman, a brother of sorts. Avoiding direct eye contact that would break her heart she sets about securing the fur tightly around his body. Smaller cuts of fur are tied around his feet, legs and head, with an opening in the front for him to breathe.
Whispered grunts and gasps slip past her lips that shiver in such cold while her petite and frozen fingers work to secure furs around her boots and leggings. She hunkers a large fur over her shoulders pulling the hood up over her head. Her mind wandering once to the others still at the battlefield. “No.” she thought, “They will be alright. They had heard me tell them to evacuate.” and pushes the thought of them away. She had to care for her friend, but first she needed to speak to him.
Holding her hand up to protect her eyes from the snow that swirled and blew around them she peers into the distance. It was far, it was too far, and she knew she couldn’t carry him. Worried eyes raise up towards the Shaman then lower with a sigh as her heart slowly breaks. The people were torn, the tribe drawn apart by their own beliefs. Were they right? Was she really nothing more than a witch? An evil infecting their people? She just couldn’t believe it was true.
A large polar bear trudges through the thick snow directly towards them, his growl low and rumbling. It was Pashen, a bear with the wisdom of the ages that she had unwittingly attempted to hunt on her first solo hunting trip. Their relationship since that fateful day had grown to a deep-forged friendship. Stopping in front of the small elf he lets out a loud groan bringing a smile to her lips tinted with a hint of blue from the bitter cold. The bear moves in position and Mujbura helps Stormfollower onto him before moving up to the bears head digging her frozen fingers deep into the fur behind his ear, “Thank you, my friend.”
So it was she led the way, though never allowing Stormfollower out of her sight. Picking up branches along the way she would place them on her back. Light hums fill the air around them as she sings soothing songs to keep her lungs and voicebox from freezing in the bitter cold. She points at a dome shaped structure that appears in the distance, “There.” she states to Pashen.
Reaching the structure she dismounts the Shaman from the bear helping him inside. She tries to ignore his state as he stands there silent while she prepares a bed for him. Pulling furs from her packs she lays them out before lowering her friend upon it. Avoiding his direct gaze she stacks the twigs and sticks then whispers a prayer to Tunare who blesses the child with a small fire. “Thank you.” she whispers feeling less than worthy.
Pashen stands outside in the snow ready to ward off any who would enter the area while Mujbura sits beside Stormfollower inside the now warm building. As instructed one ear remains quirked backward towards the small building to listen for any calls for help.
Quickly blinking away the tears that sting her eyes her tiny fingers pull a few small leaves from her pack. Her eyes never leave Stormfollower as she places the herbs into her mouth, her face cringing from the bitter taste. She chews the herb but doesn’t swallow before leaning over him. She pauses a moment, this was a brother of sorts. Shaking her head she reminds herself being taught this method by the other Shamans to help an unconscious person take much needed medicine. But this wasn’t medicine. It was, in all honesty, for her.
She places her tiny fingers on his cheek thinking, “Tunare, Gods of the North,” pausing for a moment she looks upon this great man, “Stormy,,,, please forgive me.” With that, she ever so slowly leans over him, hesitating for a moment just once more, before closing her eyes and lightly pressing her lips to his.
She parts her lips slightly allowing the now mixed solution to pass between his lips. She holds her lips against his gently until she hears his reflexes cause him to swallow. Swallowing down the herb she hugs the brother of her heritage whispering, “Stormy, please forgive me.”
Her eyes flutter within moments as the effect of the herb begin to take effect. The fire builds as orange and yellow seem to dance off the once white walls. It all becomes so hazy as she sits up looking around the small room. Normally straight lines of the ice blocks seem to twist and shift causing her to blink her eyes a few times.
Her tiny body sways as the herb begins to run deeper within her system. Fighting the drug she raises her eyes to the heavens whispering, “Mother, help your child. Gods of the North, help your son.” Laying next to Stormfollower she envelopes them both under the bear furs, the last words uttered, “We come into your arms, lead us.”
Darkness around, whispers everywhere, she feels herself moving but is unsure to where. Glowing amber eyes are the only light in the darkness even she cannot see in. She hears the whispers of many, too many to make out a single sentence. It was the voice of dreamers past, voices Stormfollower had always heard and mastered the skill to listen and understand. She finds her own lost voice as she calls out, “Stormy…?” She seemed to be walking, but in this darkness was unsure. She had watched others practice this art, but never herself. She calls out his name again. She had yet to realize she is lost in his dream, the dream of a comatose consciousness.
