ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ
𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗬 𝗠𝗜𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗥
Present Day. One Month Before The Blood Siren.
Hoofbeats drum upon the frozen wasteland. The light packing snow shoots out from under Carl's hooves, revealing thick ice. The iced soil did not pose a problem to the horse as he kept up his racing pace, quickening with every nudge of the rider's heels.
The wind blows from the East, stirring up powder snow and launching it at the pair. The act from Mother Nature is unsuccessful, for she didn't know that the rider and his horse had traversed much worse land at much worse circumstances. The rider, however, let the annoying powder get to him.
Out of all the thoughts that should have been taking up his mind, the loose snow captures his thoughts and plays on repeat. He clings to his broken record thoughts, hoping it would be enough to block out the other more persistent and significant thoughts.
The powder covers his clothes. The white clinging to his fur collar; his red cloak flapping in the wind behind him. He leans into Carl's blond mane, shielding his eyes from the onslaught of white snow that increases in volume by the second. The snow sticks to the bulging muscles of Carl but melts relatively quickly due to the heat radiating off of the horse.
The rider peeks upward, his eyes sliding into squints. Overhanging dark clouds loom from above. They block out the blue sky and stretch for miles over the frozen terrain.
Uneasiness churns in the rider's stomach. He did not like the way those clouds looked.
A storm is brewing.
He turns away from the sky, tightening his gloved grip on Carl's reins. Despite the visibility levels declining by the second, the rider's eyes spy the imposing dark tops of spruce trees. The trees stick out from behind a rather impending ridge. Those trees must be hundreds of years old to be that tall, he admires.
"Faster." The usual dry monotone voice peppers in wavers of hope. He kicks his heels harder into Carl's side.
Carl does not fail to please him.
Thundering hoofbeats quicken in pace, his racing heart stuttering in matching speed. The pair shoots off towards the trees. Mother Nature keeps up her incursion on the rider and his horse; the powder now turning into balls of sleet.
The spruce trees begin rising taller as the pair nears the small ridge. They'd have to get over it before they can be deemed safe.
Luck isn't on their side. The rider watches the bulky clouds part just enough for the setting sun to be visible for a few seconds.
The night is coming.
He shields his eyes with a gloved hand. The blinding light bounces off the icefield, shooting rays of pristine light in every direction. For something so deadly it is beautiful.
He only seems to find beauty in the things that caused death. The rider needs to change that.
Carl snorts air through his nostrils. Through the diamond armour, the rider could feel the powerful puffs of the horse's lungs. Carl is tiring.
"Almost there, Carl." He pats him on the side, squinting through the snow. He had to shout over the roaring wind. "You can rest for days once we get there." The urges of encouragement are enough; unbiddenly, Carl quickens his pace.
Carl's hooves hit the incline of the ridge. His powerful legs propel them upward at a dangerous speed. The rider knows Carl could take the strain.
YOU ARE READING
The Retired Anarchist - A Dream SMP Story
Fanfiction"Sometimes the solitary voice can be the best one." - Frank Miller. When the voices demand for blood, Techno is not far behind to deliver. Only now with his pride stripped and his family wishing he would drop dead, Techno finds himself wishing to b...
