Taking Shelter

Written by Jane Barnaby about Sylvani during the Christmas snowstorm event

A string of curses in at least a dozen languages passed Sylvani's lips as he trudged through the abandoned part of town. His hoofsteps were muted as he trudged through the snow. It was already two centimetres thick and steadily getting taller as more flakes drifted down from the sky.

His simply olive green tunic and brown trousers made out of cotton no longer were adequate. He shivered, rubbing his arms together. The cold was one thing he hated with a passion, and he'd come into town for one purpose: to find a temporary place to hole up in and escape it.

His crimson eyes brightened slightly as he finally spotted a small stone hut with its walls intact. The windows had long since been destroyed, and little remained of its door, but it certainly was better than nothing. He pulled aside the rotten remains of the wooden door and looked around the small space.

Whoever had lived here certainly hadn't been someone of high standing. The 'house' was little more than a one-room hovel of about four by six metres. The stone floor was littered with dirt and grime, and snow had drifted in through the broken windows, but the roof was still intact. It'd do.

With numb fingers, he set down his backpack and took out a few runestones. The faun set them down in strategic positions, placing one each at the door and the windows. The Y symbol with a I in its centre was clearly engraved in the pebbles. Last, he took out a stone with a < engraved on it. Kenaz, the rune of fire.

In the centre of the room, he built a little pyramid of scrap wood he salvaged from in and around the building. In its heart, he laid the runestone, pouring magic into it with more difficulty than he liked. The engraving lit up a fiery orange, and the pyramid caught fire. Sylvani breathed a small sigh of relief as he held his hands against the flames to warm them.

Now he had a fire going, he sat down on the floor and rested his head in his hands, massaging the base of his antlers. Staying here in the town was a risk; chances were far more likely to find him here. He'd have to save up energy and draw up Odin's illusionary rune soon.

He sighed, resigning himself to his fate. As long as the snowstorm lasted, he was going to have to hole up here. After eating some berries, he pulled out a leather-bound notebook and began writing. He might as well make himself useful in the meantime.