Authors Note: This story was heavily inspired by the short story To build a fire by Jack London and in some ways by the video game The Long Dark.
This is my first published story, or published anything for that matter, so constructive critisim is welcome and encourged. Let me know of any grammar, spelling, formatting , plot inconsistencies and other mistakes in this and any other story that I may publish. I can't grow as a writer without knowing what I'm doing wrong. If you think this story sucks, tell me why, and If you think its great also tell me why so I can know what I'm doing right and wrong.
The wind stung his face as he shuffled along through the dunes of snow. He could tell the feeling was slowly starting to leave his fingers. He knew it would only be a matter of time before he couldn't feel his hands. He figured that he was about a days walk from Dawnstar, judging from how long it was since he left. He should have listened to the old man back in Dawnstar, the one who warned him about leaving for Morthal. The old man had argued that he would not get to Morthal before the blizzard hit, and especially not to go without the proper supplies. He had foolishly thought that he had enough supplies and was properly prepared enough to make it to Morthal before the storm hit. He was fatally mistaken, and now here he is. Freezing to death in the middle of Skyrim. Between the wind stinging his eyes and blowing the snow into his face, he could hardly see two paces in front of him, . He suddenly stopped and fell down on his knees, his legs unwilling to move any further. He noticed that he had stopped underneath a large pine tree, its branches sheltering him from some of the wind. A thought came to his mind. If he only could start a fire, then he would be saved. He shrugged his pack off his shoulders and fumbled with the latch. He had a hard time gripping anything, as the numbness in his fingers had progressed up both of his hands. He felt a surge of hope when he emptied his pack and saw the piece of steel and shard of flint. He moved his hand over them and tried to grab the objects, but they kept slipping out his hands. His hands were too numb to grasp anything. He was so focused on making the fire that he didn't hear the rustling of the branches above him. All he felt was cold and all he saw was white. He was too tired to try to dig himself out of the snow mound on his head. Instead he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. The next day a traveler on the road to Morthal came across a frozen corpse lying face first in the ground, his head covered by a mound of snow.