Damien
my fire is starved of oxygen
a flicker in the howling wind
a flicker in the howling wind
The Climb looked alive.
Even from the ridge, heat rippled off the land in slow, trembling waves. The air clung to their lungs like wet cloth, thick with sulfur and smoke. Where Halo’s cold bit clean, this heat pressed down heavy—the kind that didn’t just make a man sweat, it smothered him.
Damien had stripped down to lighter layers before they’d left the Tundra: a linen shirt gone dark with sweat, a sleeveless leather jerkin to guard against stray sparks, and a ragged scarf tied over his nose and mouth. His axe hung at his back beside a coil of rope and a skin of water that was already warm to the touch.
The barrels were large, treated and sealed in wax, their weight too much to shoulder. He [probably with help] had built a travois back in Snowcloak—ash poles bound with rope and leather straps, the barrels slung between them for balance. Ugly, heavy, and loud on the stone, but it worked. The scrape of it echoed faintly through the fog as they descended, joined now and again by the dull drag of another load. Everyone carried something.
He wasn’t leading. Either Noah or Iskra walked ahead—one or both of them likely knew the Climb better than he did. Maps and stories were one thing; walking a land that breathed heat and ash was another. He was content to follow for now, keeping an eye on footing and the barrels.
“Least the air’s not trying to freeze us solid,” he said in a tone that sounded like cool relief, though his voice was a bit muffled by the scarf. After a breath, he added, “Just boil us alive instead.”
The path wound downward through steaming fissures and slick stone. The glow of magma bled up through the cracks beneath their boots. Condensation gathered on the rock, dripping in slow rhythms that echoed ahead like the ticking of a clock. The deeper they went, the more the air grew damp and humming, the heat replaced by a heavy, watchful silence.
When the tunnel widened, he stopped short.
Steam rolled across a vast chamber, blurring the edges of glowing pools. Water lay in tiered basins, black and gold under the light of the magma veins that laced the rock. It should’ve been suffocating, yet the air here carried a strange sweetness, faint and clean, as though the place exhaled instead of burned.
Damien pulled the scarf from his mouth, rolling his shoulders to drop the weight he'd been carrying. “Not what I expected,” he murmured, gaze tracing the rippling surface. “Looks like Frey’s influence runs deep.”
He crouched by the edge of the first pool, the echoes of light painting his face in flickers of gold. “This'll do,” he began, straightening up, “Let's get set up. I'll light some lamps.”
Iskra Noah
(Aria is not present sorry!)
Even from the ridge, heat rippled off the land in slow, trembling waves. The air clung to their lungs like wet cloth, thick with sulfur and smoke. Where Halo’s cold bit clean, this heat pressed down heavy—the kind that didn’t just make a man sweat, it smothered him.
Damien had stripped down to lighter layers before they’d left the Tundra: a linen shirt gone dark with sweat, a sleeveless leather jerkin to guard against stray sparks, and a ragged scarf tied over his nose and mouth. His axe hung at his back beside a coil of rope and a skin of water that was already warm to the touch.
The barrels were large, treated and sealed in wax, their weight too much to shoulder. He [probably with help] had built a travois back in Snowcloak—ash poles bound with rope and leather straps, the barrels slung between them for balance. Ugly, heavy, and loud on the stone, but it worked. The scrape of it echoed faintly through the fog as they descended, joined now and again by the dull drag of another load. Everyone carried something.
He wasn’t leading. Either Noah or Iskra walked ahead—one or both of them likely knew the Climb better than he did. Maps and stories were one thing; walking a land that breathed heat and ash was another. He was content to follow for now, keeping an eye on footing and the barrels.
“Least the air’s not trying to freeze us solid,” he said in a tone that sounded like cool relief, though his voice was a bit muffled by the scarf. After a breath, he added, “Just boil us alive instead.”
The path wound downward through steaming fissures and slick stone. The glow of magma bled up through the cracks beneath their boots. Condensation gathered on the rock, dripping in slow rhythms that echoed ahead like the ticking of a clock. The deeper they went, the more the air grew damp and humming, the heat replaced by a heavy, watchful silence.
When the tunnel widened, he stopped short.
Steam rolled across a vast chamber, blurring the edges of glowing pools. Water lay in tiered basins, black and gold under the light of the magma veins that laced the rock. It should’ve been suffocating, yet the air here carried a strange sweetness, faint and clean, as though the place exhaled instead of burned.
Damien pulled the scarf from his mouth, rolling his shoulders to drop the weight he'd been carrying. “Not what I expected,” he murmured, gaze tracing the rippling surface. “Looks like Frey’s influence runs deep.”
He crouched by the edge of the first pool, the echoes of light painting his face in flickers of gold. “This'll do,” he began, straightening up, “Let's get set up. I'll light some lamps.”
Iskra Noah
(Aria is not present sorry!)
beware the night is closing in
and if i fall asleep, the shadows win
and if i fall asleep, the shadows win
