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All he knew was pain, and the bone-shattering cold of the stone beneath him.
Samriel forced his eyes open amidst the approaching shadow of unconsciousness and gasped, the sound ragged and painful. He gingerly sat up, shaking hands instinctively touching his sides to check for broken bones. Finding none he relaxed a little; grimacing not long after as the mark – the Anchor – blazed to life on his palm, illuminating the cavern around him. He checked his equipment next – struggling for several seconds before he was able to unsling his bow from his back. His quiver was almost completely crushed, his bow cracked but still intact. He looked around him, and found most of his arrows shattered around him. By his guess, he only had a dozen or so to his name that were still intact.
Have to get out. Move.
He forced himself to his feet, spitting blood to the floor from where his teeth had punched through his lip upon his landing. He took a moment to steady himself and resling his bow to his back, the room spinning a little before settling, his head throbbing in time with his frenzied pulse. He stumbled forward, nearly falling as new pain exploded through his legs. Nothing was broken – he knew the pain of broken bones well – but between that, his head and his back he would be dealing with severe bruising and headaches for some time to come.
Keep going.
After several laboured steps he managed a light jog. The Anchor continued to pulse – seemingly newly awakened by what had transpired in Haven. He pushed himself onward, ever onward, as the structures of the mine shaft around him shifted and grew sparse, until only empty cave walls surrounded him.
Samriel stumbled slowly to a halt after some time, the pain now spread to his whole body. He leaned against the wall nearest to him, tempted to slide down to rest at its base and let oblivion take him. He shook his head a little to clear it. What would Ari say if she found out I died alone in some abandoned human mine? The pounding intensified as he stumbled forwards once more, urged on by the sight of more wooden structures ahead. A few steps in he spotted an opening ahead – a way out. He could smell the storm outside, billowing towards him.
“There.” He croaked, his bloodied lips stinging as he drew breath. He rushed forward, newly invigorated. A loud crack split the air from up ahead, green light piercing his eyes as something manifested.
“Who’s there?” Samriel knew it was futile to ask, but did so anyway. Spirits manifested, their spectral hands reaching for him. He moved without thinking, bow slipping into his grasp on instinct. In a blink he drew and nocked, and let two arrows fly. They hit their mark, the entities fading – only to be replaced by more.
He drew again, but the tension proved too great for his already damaged bow. It cracked and splintered under his grip, and he barely dropped it in time before the string lost its tension; though despite his reaction, it still cut his hand. More shades rose from the ground, stronger ones this time. A sinking feeling settled in his gut as he staggered back – but as he did, the Anchor suddenly surged with heat. Moving on instinct he thrust his hand towards the rapidly approaching horrors and in a flash they were consumed by green flames surging from a miniature rift torn above them, leaving nothing but ash behind.
Samriel stumbled forward as the Anchor released its hold on the rift, the blinding green light of the conjured flames fading slowly. His injured hand throbbed, blood quickly soaking the sleeve of his undershirt. He shakily tore off a strip of cloth from his scarf, and bound the wound the best he could. He let out a wheezing sigh, temporarily drained from the force of the Anchor’s power. He took a second to breathe, though did not let himself sit down. He knew if he did that now, he would never stand again.
So once again, he forced himself forward, towards the exit.
As he left the mine the wind outside stole his breath away, leaving him temporarily stunned. As cold as the caves were, nothing could have prepared him for the fierceness of the blizzard’s chill. He tightened the neck of his coat the best he could as he continued toward, eyes flickering over the still smoldering remains of a wagon. He wondered briefly if the fire would warm him. After only a moment’s consideration he tore his eyes away from the muted flames, and squinted towards the hilltop. There, fading fast beneath the falling snow, he could spy tracks, both from horses and people.
Keep going.
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Samriel lost track of time in the storm. His chest and lungs hurt with each breath he took of the thin mountain air. He counted his steps at first to keep himself lucid, though quickly lost track as the wind tore through his armour and left him shivering violently. The overwhelming cold of the snow sank through the soles of his boots as well – he was now beginning to regret not having them repaired when he had the chance. The piercing wind howled around his long frozen ears, which throbbed with a powerful, sharp ache that melted in with the continued pounding in his head. He knew now that he had a concussion, and now that he was aware of it, the approaching haze of unconsciousness loomed ever stronger. But still he fought it, refusing to give in. He thought of his clan, and of the face Ariwyn had made when he’d promised her that he’d stay safe. He recalled the last letter he’d sent her, just a week prior.
I will see her again. I have to.
A distinctive howl pierced the roar of the storm around him, and a very different kind of chill sank into his bones. Amidst the pounding pain and the delirium brought by the cold, Samriel laughed, the sound wheezy. The Dread Wolf has come for me. Another howl answered the first, coming from the treeline to his right, this time. He closed his eyes, eyelashes nearly freezing together as the wind shifted direction. A wolf pack, then. He cracked his eyes open the best he could against the blistering snow and forced himself to walk faster. They were stalking him, potentially kept at bay by the pulsing of the Anchor. But he did not know for how long. Keep going.
Samriel shielded his face from the howling winds, though despite his best efforts he felt his eyebrows and hair begin to harden with ice. The mountain began to slope upwards and he nearly stumbled; but his spirit stubbornly refused to break. His body wanted to, but he did not let it. He started the painful hike upwards, frostbitten hands grabbing at jutting rocks to haul himself up further. He shakily reached back and pulled one of his remaining arrows from his quiver, and used it the best he could to further haul himself along, sticking it into crevices in the exposed rock to act as an anchor. When it broke, he grabbed another. Then another, until he was on his last – and it thankfully was the last he needed. He hauled himself up the shelf and collapsed to the stone below, though only laid there for the briefest of seconds before staggering to his feet once more.
Through his frostbitten senses, he smelled something else amidst the unrelenting frost around him. Samriel blinked several times, weary eyes gradually focusing on the remains of a campfire. He stumbled forwards, his hands reaching out to grab the makeshift cooking hanger suspended over it. He spotted something glowing amidst the ashes collected beneath.
Embers… Recent?
He could barely move his legs now, but forward he continued to stumble, making his way towards a break in the rocks above. A roaring filled his ears separate from the wind around him as he struggled forwards, his vision slipping in and out of clarity and darkness. As he drew closer he smelled cooking food in the wind, and nearly collapsed. Just a few more steps. Just a few more steps. Ariwyn’s face swam in his mind’s eye, and he swore he could see her standing in the crevice, urging him forward. He reached out in a haze, new strength surging in his frozen legs as he made the final steps forward.
As he cleared the corner and into the miniature ravine he caught a glimpse of a camp, and several cookfires burning amidst temporary structures. He wobbled dangerously, his eyelids fluttering as several figures suddenly rushed towards him from where they’d been gathered.
“It’s him!” Cullen. His knees gave out from under him and he fell to his knees, not even noticing the pain that it brought.
“Thank the maker-” Cassandra. Samriel’s eyes closed, and he started to slump to the side. He was safe. He made it. He keeled over and slumped into the blanket of snow below him, no longer noticing the cold as he plummeted into unconsciousness.