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Osse's post - Carthor
Carthor woke with a start. Sweat soaked his tunic, turning the course fabric cold and sodden. The fire, in its small stone grate in the middle of the ice-house, had burned down to coals, which shone gently in the warm air. Around him, Carthor could make out the forms of his companions, still enwrapped in the warmth of sleep, or if the warmth had turned to cold, as it had for Carthor, then in the shrine of open-eyed rest. Carthor stood, and dragging his coverings behind him, moved to the fire. Sitting on a small, round, cured hide chair, Carthor piled more of the carefully stacked wood onto the coals. The fire was soon loud and raucous in the small space. Breaking his fast on more of the smoked pink fish, which was as soft and subtle, like moonlight given flavour, Carthor sat watching the flickering, dancing flames until the light shining through the ice walls turned a lighter shade of grey. His comrades started to rise, adding their own stirrings to the growing noise of the shelter.
His clothes now dry from the fire’s welcome warmth, Carthor rose and slipped on his old calf-hide boots, ignoring the near jet blackness of three of his toes. They had stopped hurting, so Carthor didn’t mind if they decided to stay attached to the rest of his foot or not. The wool linings that he had asked Lissi to sew in at the beginning of the winter were ragged and worn, yet they still held some warmth. He’d have to ask get her to sew in some new ones next year.
Carthor swore under his breath, to vent the true emotions he felt when thinking of what he had left trudging through the icy forests and frozen stone of the Blue Mountains: Grief. There was no real escape though; Grief’s sinuous frame stalked him night and day, waiting for his wearied guard to drop.
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