Noc felt a sickening twinge in his stomach, or at least, where his stomach would be if he had one. It was the feeling he’d get in his infrequent, but noticeably present bouts of worry. Like he was watching his world unravel before his eyes. As if the small bonfires he and his friends conjured on the side of the mountain were instead, swelling inside of him, turning him into ash from the inside out.
It was the feeling he’d get when the people he cared about were in trouble.
“Scarlett?” He whispered. He had been so fixated on the frost snaking around the pommel of his rapier, freezing the hinges on his metal palms, that he had lost track of time. His memories of the cruelty he left behind made even more sour by the agony of the present. It overwhelmed him so much that he wasn’t sure how long it was before she had gone missing.
“Scarlett!” he cried.
His insides burned again, but it didn’t comfort him. It was a cold fire that raged through him, like it did the others, threatening to paralyze them with winter’s wrath. Yet, he continued to focus the metallic glow of his teal eyes up ahead, watching the dwindling pack of Tabaxi wanderers strain to shield themselves from the cold.
He saw his friends up ahead, too. Carmen, spinning a ring around her finger that seemed to provide her with some semblance of warmth and comfort. Quorian, following close behind, gripping the fur-lined collar of his frosty blue frock close to his body.
It was too cold, even for an Eladrin who could adapt to these harsh winters.
Finally, Skaichar and Thaw, trailing behind the pack. Their meager bonfires summoned every few feet in a desperate attempt to warm the fallen.
It began with the sick, then the elderly, then the children. They couldn’t keep up, but stopping would be the death of everyone. So one by one, they fell, while the rest of the herd kept walking.
Noc looked down at the corpses as he walked by them, and couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. None of them wore the crimson red cloak that Scarlett had become known for. So he kept searching, as if trying to find a ruby that had fallen into the depths of a frozen sea.
And that’s when he saw her. Not in front, where the rest of the wanderers were venturing, but far behind them.
He froze at first, then set off into a sprint. He slid down the snow banks, slipped on the ice, and struggled to move his limbs against the cold that almost seemed to fight back. He ran up to the little girl, who was now kneeling chest-deep in the snow, clutching her red cloak in one hand, and a small tattered teddy bear in the other.
“I’m tired.” Scarlett whimpered softly as he approached. Her voice was barely audible over the hum of the winds that surrounded them.
“What’s wrong?” Noc bent down close, placing a metal hand on hers. He flinched. She was so cold, that it made his own hand feel like it was on fire.
Scarlett shook her head. “It’s too cold.”
Noc didn’t feel cold like the others, but it hurt all the same. He looked down at her hands. Her frostbitten fingers coiled around her teddy bear like a skeleton. Her lips, turning the same cornflower blue as her eyes. His stomach twinged again.
“You need to keep moving. It will only get worse if you stop.”
“But… I can’t…” she cried.
They were alone now, with just the stars and the flickering bonfires retreating over the hills to light their way. They had been told that a valley awaited them somewhere out there. A land where food was plentiful—or at least, there was enough of it to get them through the rest of the winter.
It seemed like the kind of lie that he’d tell himself to keep going. The kind of lie he told himself on nights when his master would beat him. But he needed to believe in this. Because if it wasn’t true, if the haven they sacrificed so much for didn’t exist—
Noc gently lifted Scarlett into his arms, wrapping her in his dark wool cloak. She was skinny, but surprisingly heavy for her age. A lycanthrope by the age of nine, with no living family left. She had to learn to survive on her own. She could lift a wagon and beat a bugbear with it with one hand. But you wouldn’t know it if you saw her. Now, it was as if the air itself was crushing her.
It was too cold.
He couldn’t feel his limbs anymore. Nothing but snow, ice, and wind. Where was everyone? He looked down at the girl, and felt a surge of panic at his realization that he had no idea how to help her. He struggled to shield her from the elements, but also from the icy metal of his arms.
Scarlett’s eyes began to close. “No, no, no, wake up!” Noc cried. “Why don’t you tell me about your grandmother. What was she like when she was alive?”
After a long pause, she spoke. “She… taught me things… Like you… She took care of me.” Her voice started to trail off. “I can’t…” Her breath became heavy—and shallow.
“Listen to my voice, Scarlett. Don’t go to sleep.” Noc squinted toward the horizon, as he felt the ice crumble under his boots. “How about I tell you a story, OK?”
He told her about a Forged, forced to fight by a cruel master in the city of Baldur’s Gate. He told her about how it felt to be beaten by his master every night. And he described the little alcove he’d retreat to in the evenings—a place he called home. He told her about his discovery of the library, and his love for books. And how he escaped that life and eventually found his way up north to Luskan. He told her about the night he met a group of adventurers in a storm, and how they quickly became the most important people in his life.
He looked up at the sky, brightening to shades of deep blues, oranges, and golds, as the sun began to peer over the horizon. He could smell the smoke of a warm fire on the wind, and the distant sounds of cheers and laughter.
They did it. He thought. They’re here.
Noc ran up the hill, traveling the path of the ones who ascended the steps before him. His boots, now slipping on grass as the snow began to melt away and the dewy sweat collected on his brow.
When he reached the top of the hill, he knelt down and felt a surge of joy rush through him. He looked down at the camp below and felt the warmth of the morning sun against his face. The herd was much smaller, but they did it. They were alive.
“We made it, Scarlett. Look!” Noc cried as he gently shook her shoulder.
She was looking right at him, but didn’t say anything. And as the sun’s rays fell across her face, he watched her frozen tears melt down her cheek.
And the sickening knot in his stomach returned.
“Scarlett?”
This story was based on original characters and events from a D&D campaign, Icewind Dale: Rime of the Frostmaiden. Scarlett was my character—a lycan blood hunter inspired by Little Red Riding Hood.
JMV 