Warmth
It was strange to him, he had never considered it a need before. In the palace of bronze, that he once called home, he had no real reason to worry about it, even when the metal walls siphoned the heat out of the chambers, they could still afford to provide adequate warmth to each room. It was one of the things that being wealthy allowed them to do. One of the perks of royalty.
Which is why, when he woke, Gascon could hardly understand what had happened to him. Sure, he had been cold before, the wasteland that surrounded the mechanical city of Hamelin were no desert, and teaching Marcassin the Frostbite spell had come with a few mishaps. But this was far beyond that, the cold seemed to seep through his muscles to freeze his very being.
Unable to understand why he felt like this, believing initially that he was dead, he cracked open his eyes. Seeing dirt beneath him, and flurries of snow falling upon the dark earth. The heavy blowing of the wind brought with it a bitter chill, along with the sharp stench of salt water. Howling, it battered at his body and bit at his skin, leaving a sharp sting on his being, and a deep ache in his muscles.
Letting out a sharp gasp, he felt a wave of icy chill overtook his legs, they seemed to float for a second in the haze of pain, before being placed back to the ground, feeling heavy. Drawing in a shaking breath, his throat seeming to crack as the cold air passed through it, he lifted his head slowly, straining to do so. Looking at his feet, he saw them submerged in dark water, the frozen waves lapping at his knees eagerly, as if it were consuming him. Sharply but shakenly, he pulled his feed from their murky depths, only to be met with a beating from the wind, the air only serving to make him colder.
Shivering he turned his attention from the dull numbness in his limbs to his frost-bitten surroundings, he has washed up on a shoreline, the ground specked with white powder held numerous darkened and jagged planks and shreds of wood. Their sturdy material soaked with the salted water of the sea, many being drawn in and pushed out by the waves, their pointed sides scraping the rocks embedded within the earth.
Violet eyes scoured the shoreline, many more blades of wood scattered the frosted shoreline, plates of ice lined the water's edge, scattered across them were rusting metal bolts and screws, from joining the ship together, this was definitely the remains of the ship. Desperately searching, the young teen hobbled to his feet and strained his eyes in each direction looking for others. But the winter landscape bore not a single other soul in sight.
Shaking breaths billowed in the wind, turning to small clouds as they met the sharpness of the frozen air. Gascon turned from one direction to the other looking for anything or anyone who could fix this predicament, seeing no-one, but a small sactual being tugged at by the waves. It's soaked leather body stamped with a snout that represents the nature of the city it was created in, Hamelin, his old home.
Sighing in relief and thanking whatever deity granted him the thought to grab his bag during the storm, he limped forward towards the dark brown, waterlogged object. Retrieving it, he searched its contents, finding his pistol and several bullets, grabbing the barrel of the gun, he pulled it up out the depth of its holder. Tilting it with his shivering hand, he emptied it of its waterlogged contents, hoping to prevent the metal from rusting. Drawing in a shaking breath in relief, his throat cracking from the icy wind as it passed through his mouth. Granting the shoreline one final scan, he turned and hobbled as quick as he could inland, his arms wrapped around himself as his body shuddering from the stinging cold. His teeth chattering as he drew in shaking breaths, gasping as he did so.
The squelching in his boots alerting him to the state of his clothes, his skin to frozen to feel anything at this point. Soaked in salt water, the fine woven cloth covering his body slowly crystallised in an icy layer as the snow coated him, biteing at his skin and stabbing at his muscles as it settled. His tunic sagging from the weight, dragging his shoulders downwards. His fine woven red jacket, now a torn mess, the golden trim that coated its sides now scratched and fraying. The red fabric of the coat soiled and torn, some cuts delving deep enough to cause damage to his dark green tunic, its material, too, torn in several places from the battering of the ocean. The once purple trousers that clad his legs, now took on a brownish tint from the dirt that encrusted them. Looking down at them, Gascon saw they were torn in several places, along with his own skin. Despite the wounds that littered his legs, he felt nothing, the ice that had settled within them too strong to allow him to feel them. Shivering from the same cold, the feebly scrambled towards an incline in the terrain, perhaps it would provide some shelter against the bitter cold.
He was disappointed to find that it didn't. The high reaching rock provided little shelter against the battering of the wind and the sharpness of the chill. Breathing deeply to keep himself upright, the young prince placed his hand against the coldness of the stone, barely feeling anything through the pain the ice had brought through his skin. The ache that had settled deep into his bones, begun to thaw into a numbness, drowsiness starting to overtake him, eyes drooping he had the urge to lean against the grey surface. Shaking his head to keep himself awake, he pushed away from the rock.
Looking upwards through the snowfall, he scoured the sky for an answer to his pleas, he noticed a dark stream of grey rising through the puffs of white. Eyes widening in realisation and hope, he scrambled in the direction of the rising beacon. Despite stumbling several times over jutting rocks and snowdrifts, his aching body determined to persist despite the icy chill that stabbed through it, increasing with each movement he made. Picking himself up from his knees once again, the trembling teen made his way up to a snowy mound, legs straining to carry him, feet sinking as the snow compressed beneath him. Finally breaching the top of the mound, he lay his eyes on the scene before him.
A cave jutted out of the rocky wall, sheltering the small camp before him and swallowing the light of the surroundings. The smouldering ruin of what he assumed was once a roaring fire, lay unattended and dying in an ashy pit surrounded by small grey stones, in the centre of the camp. The flapping of pelts that made the nearby tents, drowned out the faint howling of the wind that moved them. Their orange tinted covers coated in a light brushing of snow.
But all that mattered little compared to what lined the mouth of the cave, among the scattered snow and dirt, lying in a wreath of blood, were the broken, bloodied bodies of two people. A chill greater than the bitter wind settled in his chest and reached out towards his limbs, halting him in his path momentarily. His throat tightened as though he were about to vomit, the nauseating stench that clung to them merged with the chill of the icy atmosphere.
Rushing forward, the young boy saw the full extent of the damage. Their vacant eyes dulled on raged expressions, frozen with death as the ground was frozen with ice. The bodies were cut, straight lines cut deeply and neatly into the muscles of its fallen victims. Blood crusting across these cuts, drying in crimson clumps. The culprit of the damage likely with a weapon of sorts, this was an attack, not that done by wild beasts, the bodies were left too intact, the wounds to precise to be from that of hungry animal. One done by people, these were done by a malicious attack.
Panic surging through him, Gascon scrambled away from the bloodied corpses before him, looking outside the shaded hollow of the cave, he strained his eyes for signs of movement, anything that could be a sign of the returning threat that slaughtered the two before him. If they had both fallen, sword and axe in their hand respectively, then he stood no chance, not even with his gun in hand. Struggling to forgetting his plight with the frost-bitten wind in a desperate attempt at survival, he searched frantically for something, anything that could help protect him.
Then he saw it, top half of it flapping in the wind much like the leather tents, the cream paper untouched by snow or the fray of the battle. Held down by the weight of a cold dagger, desperately trying to escape the hold of the heavier object. Both nested atop a greying barrel. Walking closer to the flailing object, the teen moved his arms from his sides, painfully, as they felt like they had frozen in place. Moving the cold, sharp object from the paper, he held the fluttering object in his hands making out the words written upon its page.
Raids near the fort are dying down,
Caravans have stopped going that way,
The guard are getting suspicious, most likely the place will be searched soon,
Before then we have decided to leave,
Sleeping in the cold is hardly enjoyable, at least its only temporary,
We've heard the caravans near Solitude carry more anyway.
Reading the words over and over, as if he were trying to decipher any hidden meaning behind the individual words.
'Solitude' he wondered, what could that mean. He knew the words individual meaning well, he had experienced it more than enough. Sometimes welcoming it, other time not so much. The loneliness that came with it was all too familiar. Regardless, he continued, the words clearly stated criminal acts, dulling his grief for the fallen strangers. It being replaced by a revolting disgust. Whoever killed these… people, if he could even call them that, no doubt, were not a threat to him, probably looking for revenge or a stolen object perhaps.
Looking back at the corpses, he sneered with disgust. Perhaps it was just his upbringing, perhaps it was simply morals, but he couldn't stomach people like this, who steal for no reason other than personal gain. If it were for survival it would be more understandable, but this was due to greed. Momentarily forgetting the hypothermic conditions, he glowered at the bodies still lying in their blood, a few meters away from where he was. People like this made his fathers work difficult, planning adequate safety for innocent citizens took plenty of time and preparation, it needed to be often altered to combat the changes these fiends made to counter these defences. Eating up his time with work... taking from his time with family.
Perhaps it was selfish to hold a personal grudge against these people, but he wouldn't be freezing in the cold if it weren't for crooks like this. He would be at home with is family… spending time with them, laughing with them, not fighting every time he spoke to his father, and avoiding everyone afterwards. His heart clenched tighter and tighter in his chest as his thoughts continued, his eyes seemed to water. Shaking his head and blinking his eyes, he tried to focus on the moment, the here and now, he cold that continued to seep to his bones despite the smouldering embers that stood a short distance from him.
'Fire!' he exclaimed internally, scolding himself that he had let himself forget about the situation. Dragging his shaking legs, he made his way towards the smoking ring of stones, Thanking the same deity that it had a log pile close by. Reaching for a few of the drier pieces, he laid them in the smouldering pit, hoping they would ignite.
As luck would have it, they did. The steadily growing fire, cutting through the darkness, illuminating the cave walls with a gentle orange glow. The air seemed to warm up quickly, the smoke hardly a bother as the flickering flames blessed the surroundings with their radiating heat. It took a little longer for the warmth to restore his sense of touch again, his fingers aching as the cold left, seeming to melt away. He was still shivering however, the dripping clothes covering him, chilling him too, countering the breath from the flame that he desperately needed.
Curling his knees to his chest in a shallow attempt to keep warm against the flickering flames, his thoughts wandered to home. Namely to how he and his brother would often sit by the fire in the sitting room on the nights father worked late, reading his younger brother stories from his favourite books, roasting various foods over the open hearth, the last part without his father's knowledge, of course. Laughing when some the food fell off the stick, comforting his brother when his favourite characters went through strife, hugging and telling him how proud he was of him, wandering what the future held for them both. Never had he imagined that this is how his life would play out, he would have scoffed at the very thought, freezing to death in an unknown place… far from home.
Far from his family.
Suddenly the weight of the waterlogged clothes on his back felt like feathers in comparison to the weight of his actions. He had left his brother, his little brother, defenceless, despite being a powerful wizard he hadn't even reached the age of eight… hadn't even been left on his own for longer than half a day. And yet, there he was, far away, nested within the metallic, cage of a city, without his older brother to keep him safe. His heart felt even heavier as he watched the dancing flames.
Despite the weight threatening to crush him, the elder prince knew he couldn't stay like this, the cold still clawed at him, despite the roaring fire. The sodden clothes on his back would need to go, to be replaced with more suitable ones, even if they dried well, they were torn, and parts of the once fine fabric was now bloodied. Looking up towards the shaded barrels that lined the back of the cave, he scanned the wooden structures looking for anything he could use. The chill making him desperate, he would gladly accept rags at this point. Spying a small fabric bag nested between two of the circular objects, luck seemed to be on his side today, despite the circumstances he was in. Moving hastily towards the partially concealed object, he hoped his luck would stretch at least one miracle longer.
His hope seemed to pay off, as when he unlatched and removed the cover, he found what he would currently equate to gold… no, precious gemstones. Nested safely within the confines of the fabric bag, were the soft, yet dry fabric of a set of clothes. What he assumed was the underlayer of the outfit was creamish-white, spotted with darker patches. The over layer was a birch colour, again, dotted with patches of darker colours. Greenish trousers hid beneath the fabric of the other articles. All tied together with a brown leather belt, a small sactual looped onto it. The dark patches along with torn hems and sleeves implied that it had been used beforehand, perhaps one of stolen objects the previous holder had obtained. The quality of the material was far less than what he was used to, but he hardly cared at that moment in time, it was thicker than the garments he was used to anyway, probably how people survived the weather outside.
Pulling the article of clothing out of the bag, he noticed the length, much too long for him, it resembled a dress more than a tunic, pulling a face of discomfort to the thought. This was something he would have to fix, at least it wasn't too wide for him. Remembering the dagger on the barrel, the young teen, decided to rectify the problem. After cutting through the material, with some difficulty as the blade was not designed for this, he collected the leftover material in the hopes it would be useful to him later. Pulling the clothing close to him, he nodded, satisfied with the length.
Changing into the warm clothes, the tunic falling no lower than his knees, and discarding of his old royal robes, Gascon turned to the bag looking for other supplies to take. He found a red apple and a loaf of bread, small but welcomed, looking deeper into the bag he found a large leather bundle. Pulling out of its container, they rolled outwards revealing themself to be a pair of boots. Made from dark brown leather, they wrapped around and buckled on one side by three large, wooden buttons. Again, luck seemed to favour him, as they seemed to be in his size.
Taking them over to the side of the fire, he ate the spoils the bag provided, feeling a relief from the filling of his stomach, he didn't know he was this hungry. Finishing his meal, he grabbed a handful of the discarded cloth and wrapped it around his foot. Undoing and repeating the process until he was satisfied, he did the same with the other foot.
'These would make up for the lack of socks' he thought to himself, mildly amused. Finished with the other foot, he turned his attention to the tents. Rising from the floor, he moved towards the standing objects. Still moving in the wind, they seemed to block most of the chill, holding the warmth within he cave as they did so. Searching within their confines, he came out with a sleeping roll of some kind and a long fur cloak. Hooded, it was long enough to cover his torso and more, its dark fur a sharp contrast to the white outside the safety of the cove.
Moving the sleeping roll to the side of the fire, close enough to feel its warmth but not enough to risk catching alight from its flames. He opened it and lay inside, wrapping the fur lined fabric around himself, feeling the comfort. Feeling the last of the ice in him thaw away, he allowed fatigue to overcome him, watching the flames dance as he did so.
When he awakens in the morning, he would take what he needed and leave the sanctuary of the cave behind him.