The Seasons of Sissera

Nokkland

Nokkland had two things going for him: it wasn't storming... yet and the ice-dragon scale hadn't stopped humming... yet. Other than that, everything had gone wrong since yesterday morning.

He sighed as he jogged along the frozen fells, hugging the remains of his father's charred cloak closer as his breath formed fantastical clouds in front of him. Following a mysterious pull caused by the vibrations of the scale in his pocket and a couple patches of blood, he'd decided to cut cross-country towards Pheder instead of taking the high and only road. That had been one of his less brilliant ideas but compared to the one he'd made the past night, cutting through wasteland without a map was pure genius.

There was a fine balance to running in the almost artic climate of Northrond, the northern part of human sector of Sissera. If he ran too quickly, he'd sweat which, when he would have to stop, would freeze and give him a healthy dose of hypothermia. If he ran too slowly, he'd risk not reaching Pheder before nightfall and then he'd turn into another like a lump of ice like those he'd passed- what was it? - about two minutes ago?

Honestly, he couldn't keep track of time. Everything around him blurred into an endless monotony of frozen tundra, ice-covered boulders, and the occasional twisted shape of a low shrub encased in yet more ice. If he were to never see the color white again, Nokkland couldn't say he'd object.

The only things that changed were how out of breath he was (which depended on the incline at the time) and his thoughts. Neither of them was pleasant. Especially the thoughts. They consisted primarily of variations of: "What the hell do you think you are doing?!". After mile three, there was only so much of that Nokkland could stand so he turned to processing what had happened yesterday. A day he wished had never happened. Well... almost.

It had all started when he had finally dislodged his brother from the prized spot in front of the fire. Even if their hut was snug, how close one was to the fire made a big difference. Or at least it had before the warning bells had started...

Nokkland shoved that thought aside. He didn't want to relive the rest of what had taken place again in his memory. Unfortunately, not thinking about that allowed another refrain of "What the hell do you think you are doing?!" to begin again.

"I am trying to track down an extremely dangerous creature for answers to question which I don't know because I have a weird burn on my arm. Oh, and I left my family in the wreck which was our village without saying goodbye!" Nokkland yelled into the wind, "Now brain, will you please let me be?"

Suddenly, a flush of heat washed over him. He must look like a lunatic to literally nothing but ice and snow but hey, having no home but a shack thanks to something that was supposed to be extinct had to be a valid reason for being slightly crazy. Right? Right!

Wrong. His sanity was one of the few things he had left so Nokkland was determined to not let it slip through his fingers. Not to mention that by now, he only had one thing going for him: the humming of the dragon scale.

His steps, which had previously been in semi-straight line, were now no straighter than a drunkard's. The rising wind had the same effect as alcohol in that it prevented Nokkland from running normally as it pushed and pulled incessantly at his legs. On top of that, the fluffy white clouds that had been frisking across the sky were now clustered into towers of threatening darkness.

Ignoring the stabbing pain of the cramp in his calf and the deep ache in every single other one of his muscles, Nokkland forced himself to speed up. The prospect of finishing his, albeit idiotic quest, as a giant ice cube did not particularly appeal to him. Luckily, there was always the possibility of dying of starvation first. The hunger which had gnawed at him all day was turning into a ravenous monster, combining with the wind so that Nokkland found himself running, bent double with an arm around his midriff.

Every time he inhaled, the crisp air seared his nostrils and lungs. With every breath, the air seemed to become colder. If he didn't need the oxygen, Nokkland would have been tempted to keep his mouth shut. As it was, he winced as the air made his teeth ache and throat burn.

Little flurries of snow began to fall and swirl across the plain in front of him in little eddies. They did not stay little for long and soon he found himself in the center of a raging storm. The snow turned into ice shards that pelted him and stung through his clothing. He screwed up his eyes and lurched onwards, head down and blonde hair turning white with snow as it coated him from head to toe. Flakes found their way down his neck, inside his gloves, and even into his boots as they fell in twisting white sheets sweeping over the tundra.

Shivering violently, Nokkland dropped to his knees next to the latest patch of blood. The thick, almost black liquid clung to the ice undisturbed by the gusts of wind strong enough to almost knock him off his feet.

How does that even happen?

The extremely high iron content turns the blood into a large magnet which is why the storm doesn't disturb it.

Nokkland had no idea where that thought came from but disregarded it. Squinting, he scanned the ground in front of him for the next pool of blood. Normally, the hum of the scale would grow stronger or fainter depending on if he were facing the right direction or not. Then, he'd eventually spot the tell-tale inky stain on the perpetual whiteness and head in that direction. Now, the scale tugged him towards the right but he could see nothing but white flecks whirling around in the dim grey veil of dusk. Except for...

Yes, there, barely visible, a tiny blur of light could be seen; Pheder hopefully. Forcing himself back onto his feet, Nokkland stumbled into a run again. He slipped and skidded across the remaining yards, his balance and control lost to the blizzard and fatigue. The hum of the scale throbbed under Nokkland's skull, blurring his vision. He ignored it. He needed shelter, not to keep on tracking the scale's owner.

The wind whistled around the corners of the village houses as Nokkland ran into their midst. Squat stone huts clustered in a circle around a central woodpile. From the one closest to him, a sign swung wildly on its chain. "The Colde One" it read.

Wondering vaguely about the 'e', Nokkland hurried to shove the great oaken door open.