Solo Glazed in a Kiln of Storms

[Soma Whitevine]

Fourth of Fall, 514 AV ~ The snow fell in thick, drifting sways as the fur-swathed man shifted silently across the vast tundra floor. The distance was grey, and the clouds matched its dull hue. Breath curled around the edges of his mask as his eyes scanned the horizon. He was warm. Partly in thanks to the thick coat bound so firmly to his sturdy frame, and more credit owed to the soothing sensation of his Goddess' mark wafting along his wrist. He raised a hand and adjusted his hood, tugging it tightly around his head as the wind billowed past his sides. He had originally come out to hunt with his friend, Ralm, leaving his precious city of ice with her and seeking to preserve some rations in what had appeared to be the semi-calm weather. The skies had been in a mischievous mood all morning, and it had filled him with wariness, a premonition swiftly proving accurate as no more than a mere fifty bells had passed since his vacating of the city; and a blizzard rushed in. At some point the pair had been separated by the thick winds, and for most of the day Soma had been searching for her. The young man quietly gritted his teeth. And now he was here. He tightened his grip on his spear, continuing to study the ever-swirling fog of snow and ice before him with a pointedness that left his iris a solid silver. Not that anyone could see. Vision was swallowed by the wind. He wasn't necessarily afraid, his comfortable stride showed as much, and he'd survived expeditions out into the wilds before with his father when he was young. What did put him on edge were the denizens around him. There was only what could be considered a few stretches between himself and Avanthal, yet he knew better than to underestimate nature's children. The edges of his cheek puffed beneath the mask, pudging slightly against the covering as he paused and took a moment to survey his surroundings. In the far distance he spotted a lone, barren tree. He weighed his options, lightly stretching his legs. He really hadn't wanted to spend all night outside, but he could if he had to. He knew better than to traverse the wastes during a time like this. He could find a place to burrow. The alternative was wandering the area and potentially getting far more lost than he would've had he simply remained still. His lips pursed and he sighed. That was it then. His legs broke through the snowfall with ease, the barely formed piles sifting and passing by his body like water. Indeed it was water, as his hand had slipped beneath the sleeve of his arm to gently press against the bracelet-like snowflake wrapped around his wrist. The mark pulsed with warmth and filled Soma's throat in the form of a sigh as he moved, thin rivers left in his wake that soon froze shortly after. As he approached the barren trunk the man hauled his pack and spear against the wood, dropping to his knees and bracing his hand to the floor. He closed his eyes and stilled his thoughts, falling into the motions he had practiced so many times throughout his life. Depth permeated through the ice beneath him, and he grimaced as he absorbed the information in light laps of comfort against his palm. Uttering a silent thanks he tensed his body as he began to manipulate the layers of permafrost and frozen water underneath him. He allowed the bottom-most layers to shift into frozen water, trickling lazily into various tunnels and cracks in its new-found liquid form. Furrowing his brow he pulled the melting sensation closer to his frame, a bulge forming in the earth as the ice creaked upwards from the stress of containing the water. He pushed, mentally, allowing the formation to relax and cease stressing. The result was a small crater of melted water surrounded by snow. He sat back on his knees and began to push the half-formed sleet into the barrier around his little basin, steadily packing into it and erecting a shallow form of protection from the storm. His jaw clenched, invisible due to his hood, and he strained his arms as he shoveled into the slowly growing shelter. "Petch it all, Ralm." He grunted, his hands patting down the frozen material. He was worried about his partner. The two had met in the Whitevine hold, spending much of their time burrowed in studies and swapping jokes. Ralm was a short, spit-fire of a girl, prone to fits of rage when spurned and quick to comfort a friend in need. He held her close to his heart and would cut down anything that put her in danger. That having been said, given the current situation, his ability to act as a guardian was a little challenged. He exhaled heavily after several more bells of work, slumping in a heap against his pack to rest. His shelter was complete, a thick dome erected around his body, and with his task finished he braced his back against the tree to rest. Now all he had to do was wait. His eyes squinted behind his mask, reflecting to a light mix of pink and red as consternation filled his chest. He really didn't like this sensation, being out of control in what he considered to be his own element. Worst of all he felt responsible for Ralm's well-being, and knowing that treading outside would lead to what could be a very ugly situation; frustration fought for dominance. He quietly fiddled with the shaft of his spear, gliding his thumb along the finished surface in an effort to relax. The polished substance felt soothing to the touch, a familiar comfort in an otherwise stressful situation. His eyes flickered once more as he began to put himself at ease. Reaching into his coat he tugged out a little, skinny knife, quietly setting himself to begin slicing into the edges of the shaft. He had always admired ornate designs. The curvature, and unique setting each depicted gave off a sense of spirit and personality, he believed. As his blade whittled away paper-thin slivers, he nestled into his coat, contenting himself to the moment. Some pieces of art displayed a story, and others were meant to represent some sort of concept. Soma always preferred attacking both, his creations a mix of soulful and meaningful. The man tugged his mask aside a moment, licking his thumb and carefully sliding it across the marks he had made. Half-formed and only slightly visible, the faint beginnings of a design had started to appear along the handle, grooves similar to finger prints resting along the wood. He smirked. The one truly difficult thing about wielding the spear, he had found, was control. He set back to the carving as the memory flashed through his mind. He'd been merely seven years old at the time, in the wilds with his father in a furious gale not unlike the mournful howling outside his makeshift fort. Bundled in small furs and insolent with the vibrancy that came with youth, he had decided to lunge after a small white rabbit, flailing and swinging his weapon like a madman. It was only after he had collapsed, exhausted and irritated, that his father squatted beside him and suggested he hold the pole with both hands, and stab, rather than sweep. Shifting, he softly slid his knife back into his coat pocket, his intent gaze flickering over the spear. What appeared to be the indent of a hand wrapped around the center, and top mid-section of the staff. He curled his hands along them, feeling their depth against his fingers. Pausing, he slowly took out his knife and set the blade back to the wood, carefully slicing away yet another thin layer. It hadn't felt right. "Smooth and supple." He murmured, quoting Ralm's favorite euphemism. He was suddenly filled with an aching sense of worry, his iris shimmering to a mellow blue. He really did hope she was alright. A soft snuffling, barely perceptible above the gentle roar of the storm caught his attention, and his head snapped towards the entrance to the dome. Being below floor-level, he tightened his grip on his spear, tensing his body as he began to shift onto his knees. A vague sense of bewilderment filled his being. The dome wasn't an obvious outlier in these parts. Rabbit dens ran a plenty and animals were known to seek them out as shelter. But he had believe himself to have hidden his little place rather well, having used the tree as a building frame with only the thinnest of slits allowing passage between both it and the inner-basin. The smallest of furred noses poked beside the passage, snow peppering its tip as a head and shoulders shortly followed afterwards. It froze and stared at Soma. He stared back. A fox.