Wind howls in Warwick’s ears as he trudges onward, carefully lifting each boot out of the snow before stepping forward. Tiny crystals of snow find purchase and stick in his thin beard, he has to keep blinking lest his eyelashes freeze, and yet a smile splits his face wider and wider with each step he takes.
Heroism is a rough trade most of the time, and make no mistake. Even with the wider world safe– or at least as safe as one could hope for– Warwick’s homeland has no end of petty squabbles and dirty jobs that could use an experienced hand. Not that he doesn’t enjoy the work, of course, but spending the better part of a fortnight rummaging around in a haunted swamp to try and find missing cargo shipments? Nobody’s first choice for their life’s calling.
That’s precisely why tasks like this put such a spring in his step. A simple errand run, an excuse to do some sightseeing, and best of all, a bit of company on the lonely road. So when one of the villagers at the foot of the mountain gave ominous warnings of the necromancer’s return, it was all Warwick could do not to jump at the call.
By degrees, Warwick becomes aware of noise at his sides. Something is walking alongside him, their steps muffled by the howling winter wind. That’s his cue, then. He checks his backpack’s straps, pulls back his hood, and draws his sword in one clean motion. In response, the wind all but stops, snow falling heavy in every direction.
No point in subtlety. “Face me now, witch!”
Instantly, a heavy shape lunges out of the snowbank, tackling Warwick with the force of a boulder. It’s all he can do to stay standing, twisting with the lunge to throw his attacker off. Righting himself, he sizes up his foe– a massive dog forged of living snow, its snarl revealing teeth of pointed ice. Warwick circles it carefully, sure to lift his feet out of the deep snow so as to avoid stumbling.
There. He sees the hound tense, and he’s ready to catch it with his sword, knocking it back with the flat of his blade. He’s fought these beasts before, and knows all too well the pointlessness of trying to cut something that is, fundamentally, made of water. He steps inward, striking at the hound with his pommel before it can recover, savoring the feeling of his heart pumping in his ears…
Another crash resounds from behind him, and it’s only his pounding adrenaline that lets him roll out of the way. There was a second dog, he realizes as he stumbles to his feet, both of the beasts now in front of him. He’s breathing heavily now– his heavy coat and bundling was a boon on the trek here, but now it’s boiling him alive, and sweating in a snowfield is a sure recipe for exhaustion. Time isn’t on his side.
The first dog pounces again, trying to get on top of Warwick, but he doesn’t have room to defend himself without leaving himself open to the other. The best he can manage is a clumsy dodge, but his feet catch on the snowdrift, sending him tumbling face down into the powder. The hounds waste no time, leaping on his back, their bodies freezing against him, pressing him deeper into the snow with their weight.
It’s a few more moments of flailing and shivering before Warwick finally accepts the inevitable– he’s trapped. The dogs have him well and truly pinned, and he’ll freeze himself long before he frees himself.
With a dejected groan, Warwick calls out. “Alright, alright! I yield.”
His answer comes in the form of an echoing laugh and a rush of wind. In seconds, the impenetrably thick snowstorm gives way to a brilliant, piercing blue sky, the sun’s reflection on the snow enough to sting the eye. The dogs roll off Warwick, tongues lolling out joyfully as they sprint towards their mistress.
At the edge of the clearing sits a well-kept cottage, and on its front porch sits a woman in white, all but bowled over by her dogs’ affection. She grins from ear to ear as she scratches their chins and praises their teamwork, dark eyes twinkling like glass. After a few moments more of affection, she lifts her gaze and smirks at Warwick. “Really, Wick? Giving up so soon?”
“I know when I’m beat,” Warwick says as he makes the final few steps, sitting beside her on her porch. “If I remember right, that leaves our record at ten and nine, your favor.”
The Witch of the Wind subtly pumps a fist, before turning in his direction with feigned nonchalance. “Is that right? I haven’t been keeping track, I’ll take your word for it. You’d better not be fudging the record to save face.” With a gentle hand, she nudges one of the dogs to go to Warwick for pets instead.
Warwick obliges, scratching the slush puppy behind the ears. “Not a chance. I wouldn’t cheat, especially not when it comes to matters of honor like this.”
“Goody-two-shoes,” she jeers, though the smile on her face is genuine enough.
Warwick can’t handle looking at that smile for too long, and instead turns his gaze back down to the dog he’s petting. “You took in a new stray, then?”
“Hardly by choice,” the Icy Necromancer grumbles. “Poor Genly here was already one foot in the grave when someone came and dropped him off on my door, and it was too late to save him the typical way, so…”
“So you brought him back.”
She waggles a hand. “Well, no. More back than Rocannon, but, you know.”
“Alright, alright,” Warwick relents. “Not all the way back, but as close as you can.”
At that, she nods. “Exactly, though I’ve been getting better on that front. I think I’m nearly all the way to making a perfect copy. So my offer from before–”
“Nice try,” Warwick laughs, “But I’m afraid my stance hasn’t changed. You’ll have to look elsewhere for minions.”
“I’ll get you one day,” she muses, rising to her feet. “But anyhow, you must be freezing. Why don’t you come inside, get cleaned up, I can get you some tea and then you can tell me whatever I must have done to piss someone off enough that they sic you on me. Yes?”
“Happily,” Warwick replies. Meeting old rivals is always nice, but this is everything he could have asked for; a warm welcome, a good rest, and an honest chat with someone willing to listen. If staying in the hero business gives him chances to have days like this, then it’s all worth it.
“Alright, then.” Priscylla, Knight of the North, the Reanimator, props the door open, tossing one last shy smile in his direction. “Don’t forget to wipe your boots on the mat.”
