Iskra
This world is a wasteland, nothing can grow
Dutiful as ever when it comes to his one job, Iskra hauls chopped wood throughout Snowcloak. From felling trees, to limbing them, to cutting them into segments, which are then split into squared and triangular logs perfect for staking, Iskra and the other woodcutters of Halo beat the wild woods into the fuel of their world. Like a little fire fairy, he drift from brazier to pit to sconce, feeding the everburning flames with evergreen wood. The bag thumps at his back, logs clanking like charms behind him, scattering a trail of bark and small kindling in his wake. It scatters with the dog fur already meshed into his jacket, small splinters needling into cloth, never to be removed again.
Iskra draws to a pause near one house he believes belongs to Sah. He doesn't know the man well, though they have met, and he sees him in passing here and there around the region. Thoughts of a wooded conversation about death and oil-fed fire bring a strange mixture of rage and glee back to Iskra's blood.
One hit from Sah...
Iskra draws to a pause near one house he believes belongs to Sah. He doesn't know the man well, though they have met, and he sees him in passing here and there around the region. Thoughts of a wooded conversation about death and oil-fed fire bring a strange mixture of rage and glee back to Iskra's blood.
One hit from Sah...
I used to have strength, but I ran out of hope
