There are places where the cold doesn’t just bite—it waits. Where silence isn’t peace, but a promise yet to be fulfilled. Orfhal is one such place. A land carved from frost and shaped by the will of those desperate enough to cross it. Here, every breath is a gamble, and every step could be your last. This is not a tale of victory or conquest—it is a moment suspended between survival and surrender. A glimpse into the mind of a wanderer standing at the edge of choice, beneath a sky that offers no answers.
Shelter in the Storm
Only after stacking ice upon ice do you manage to build a shelter. Just enough to catch your breath and plan the road ahead. Now, a few pieces of coal glow beneath twin bronze pots: one for rendering blubber, the other for a meal that has so rarely been hot. Snow has already piled up at the entrance, and the simmering meal sends its scent in the air, filling the shelter. This is as good as it gets in Orfhal, but the moment you give in to comfort, the land is sure to claim you.
A Changing Landscape
With a strike of your arm, the wind-hardened snow sealing the entrance breaks open into a new landscape. The storm and the snow have changed everything, except for the stoic, dark plain of ice that now covers every path you knew, and every path you planned to take. You let the cold air fill your nose as you think. You must choose: risk the ice, where the road is certain, or take your chances on fresh snow, where the whispers of darkness lurk beneath, testing your courage.
The Gear You Don’t Have
Reluctantly, you think of what you lack. A dogsled fixed with bone blades would have been nice, but it would have also meant a dozen more mouths to feed. A simple sledge, a pair of skis, even skates… Any of them could make all the difference. You remember hearing of sailed vessels scaling the ice… You shrug. Probably just a rumor. If only you could soar the skies like the spear bird, you would be free of these futile endeavors. But you are bound to the earth, to your own two feet, to the worn snowshoes and ice-grip boots that have carried you this far. The sky is clear and the cold bearable under layers of pelt and cloth. You let out your breath and watch it leave you in a familiar mist. You must choose.
A Path of Ice
Ice seems like a good option. You have enough means and experience. You would leave no trace, nor have to worry about sinkholes, ambushes, or avalanches. But there is no shelter, no cover. You would be easy prey. The ice is as dangerous as it is reliable. If you failed to scale it and had to rest upon it, the cold would surely claim you. You’ve lost fingers and an ear to the helish cold, but you’ve never succumbed to its icy grip. And you do not intend to now.
The Deceptive Snow
Then there is the snow… Deceptively inviting, as always. It calls to you, luring you into its white paradise. But you know better. In Orfhal, if you foolishly pursue beauty, you die. And you die a fool’s death at that. Your snowshoes will keep you from sinking, but they cannot erase your passage. You could always dig a trench and take shelter in it, which is a big advantage… But the issue remains; tracking your prints will be as easy as following a halvargr in the moonlight. As long as the weather stays calm, you can never truly hide in fresh snow. If only you could find a path of hardpack or firn... It would all be so much easier.
Out of Time
Your nose is numb, your breath stiff in your chest. There is no time left for weighing options. Staying here is not an option. You are trapped and helpless. The only consolation is the oil you rendered from the blubber. You have no companions. No proper equipment. Not enough rations, nor endurance, to survive another week out in the open. One more time, you skim the landscape, more attentively this time.
There are no footprints nor any traces on the unblemished snow. All tracks are freshly covered. Except for the slight bumps and curves, there are no distinctions in the vast blanket of white. The waves on the snow give you an idea of the previous storm and the possible shape of the terrain buried beneath. Then a flicker of something different. A glint in the distance, where the sunlight catches a hillside just so. The hue is wrong. Not white, not gray, but a hint of blue. Glacial snow. More stable than fresh powder, safer than open ice. A chance.
The Decision
You start to lose your composure as the cold bites through your skin. There is nothing more to consider, not that you can think of. You think it through and make a decision. To stay is to die. To scale ice is to become a target. To traverse snow is to face hazards. To try to reach for the firn is to gamble with your life. Luckily, you made these kinds of decisions thousands of times. The cold, the pain, the hunger, and most of all, fear try to take a piece of you at every step, but you refuse them the privilege. The norns alone know the moment of your fall and until the thread is cut, you will walk.
So you take a step.
In Orfhal, survival isn’t heroic—it’s stubborn. It’s the decision to take one more step when everything inside begs you to lie down and sleep. There are no grand rewards, no audience to witness your endurance. Only the cold, and the quiet, and the knowledge that you are still moving. For now, that is enough. Until the thread is cut, you will walk.