The Bleak

     Winter turned the blackness of night to a hazy blue and clothed the cabin in a mantle of pure white. A light emanated from the single window, a lamp flickering there. The glow pierced the darkness of the cold night, a tear in the cloak of darkness. It only let one know how alone you truly were in the Bleak. The wind howled, tearing at the senses like brambles at fine clothing, blinding wanderers with ice and snow. The stars could not be seen overhead as the storm began to unleash its fury.

     The blizzard swirled around the hut, all but obscuring the glow of the lamp from whoever may have seen it. One did. The half-mile distance to the cabin may as well have been twenty leagues. The Traveler’s hands were frozen stiff, his thick cloak almost board-like from the ice. Foot after foot he managed to trudge through the snow, his eyes locked on the faint light to the north.

     He had long given up on using knowledge to escape the Bleak. Only years upon years of gathered instincts drove him forward, a whisper in his ear that he was not walking in a circle.

     The light grew.

     The Traveler wanted to spit, but the thought of another icicle dripping from his bearded chin kept his saliva in his mouth. He wanted to wipe his nose, but he kept his hands huddled underneath his cloak, wrapped tight around his body. Only the faintest sensation of cold and wetness came from his reddened face.

     Perhaps only a quarter mile remained. His mind knew the pace he kept, his body did not. The steady beat of his boots into the icy powder ticked away in his head. Another foot, another yard, another span. His mind kept the rhythm. His body grew numb. The light grew in strength. He thought he could see the outline of the cabin now. His mind told him only a hundred yards were left.

     The wind pushed him around, set his course to a stumble. His hands came out form his cloak, he flailed for balance. When he found it, he could not see the cabin. With a desperate slowness, he turned in a circle, looking for the light. He could not see it. Instinct told him north, north, but he could not see north. The stars refused to be revealed, even for the tiniest moment.

     The Traveler spat and another icicle formed on his beard, white as an old man’s from the snow. And then, sure that he could not see the light, the Traveler gave up and sat down to await his death. The blizzard raged and froze him solid.

     When the light of morning brought respite from the storm, he was revealed to be only fifty feet away from safety, yet he would never be found. He would remain one of the many objects hidden under the mantle of snow that draped the Bleak and made it the most dangerous environment in all of Andul.

     That night, another blizzard came, and the cabin was also lost to the world.