FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Every step he took issued a muted crunch as the minuscule crystals gave to his weight, and each track sunk him to his knees in the powder, wracking his legs in vicious spasms from the uncountable masses of tiny knives that lashed into him through his fur. Every time his fatigued boots crushed through the pulverulence, his descending foot took with it his confidence. A little more of his will, his desire, to continue in the dense pack. More than his will, each champ robbed him of his hope. It had been this way for hours; step. Crunch. Step; occasionally a stumble. At times his foot would stall on the crusted surface to hold his weight, but only until he lifted his other foot, then it would plunge back to the persistent blades once more, throwing him back into pain and trembling while he pressed forward. His entire body shivered, each step becoming more and more labored as the chill from the deep snow invaded his body through his worn clothing, but he wouldn't stop. Not now; not yet. He continued walking, champing through the snow-bound terrain, picking his feet up above the pack as his breath rose in front of his face in a thick, white mist; one foot, and then the other, and the other, and on, and on autonomously, all the while feeling the frigid air biting through his clothes as if it were never there, grasping with fingers like death through his fur to his skin.

He didn't care about the cold; instead he set his eyes on his goal, refusing to look away from the top of the ridge, even when the moisture from his tears froze on his lashes into thousands of tiny, blinding prisms. Not when the clear, azure sky became hazed, and fresh snow began to fall. Slowly at first, but with each passing moment, seemingly every futile step, the air around him became thicker, denser, with the torpid flakes, binding him to his goal and hiding his tracks with their fresh, pristine layer. Every breath pulled into his chest chilled his core, sending him shivering until he exhaled, but he merely pulled the coat around his shoulders, if one could call it such, tighter to his frame and trudged onwards. Without pause to consider the wind that picked up, and played with the fur on his tail, and kicked the freshest of the snow into swirling clouds. It had taken months to reach the mountains. He labored night and day towards the looming giants, trading to get what he would need to brave them; but when he had it only took hours for the storm to descend. Moments after the first gust of wind, snow began falling in sheets as if it were rain, clinging to his clothing, his hair, and even the bundled roll slung over his back. Every now and again he would have to shake the piling fluff from himself, only for it to immediately begin renewing it's cumbersome assault on him. Where his nose had ran hours before from the cold there were clumps of ice in the fur of his muzzle. Some time ago he abandoned breaking the ice from his nose, his final defeat in the endeavor evident in the form of a crimson stain, frozen on his hands and front. Still, he persisted, ignoring the warnings the snow presented, pleading him to stop; to turn back. He defied the threats that the powerful gusts of wind offered, gasping and growling in the face of malice as frightening as death itself without shrinking from his task. With a shrug of his shoulders, a skill he fell into step, practiced to near perfection, he removed the new weight of the clinging flakes and continued, turning his face away from the wind. On he trudged, but when his ears picked out the faint wailing of the wind as it whipped around the mountainside towards him, he felt a new sensation penetrate his chest. The sound drove an icy dagger deep into his heart, that made him forget the fangs of cold bearing down on him from all directions. For the first time, since his journey began, he wondered if he should turn back.

For the first time, he felt afraid...

The storm bore down on him with it's full fury, driving snow and hail against his body like blunted arrowheads. Each flake clung to him, slowly growing and weighing him down down in the snow. Bracing himself against his stave, he used the iron-heeled wood to force himself deeper against the hip-deep powder. He had no way he could know how long he had trekked against the wind, or how far he had traveled up the slope of the mountains. The only thing he knew, was his desire to complete his appointed task.

The storm whited out any landmark for navigation. The terrain within his sight shifted and changed at the will of a wind that tore away even his sense of time. Moments blurred into hours, or possibly days. There was no difference. Yet he still continued to march in the direction he believed was up along the slope of the mountain. He would defy the wind. It howled in response, and shrieked in his ears like a banshee, deafening him as it blinded him. It tore at his hair and fur at the same time that the ice it flung clung to him. A sudden lull. The following gust. His body was pushed backwards, his feet tripping over the snow and sending him to the side of the mountain without his staff.

Blinded by the cold and the wind, he rose to his knees and thrust his hands into the snow, digging for the wood. Deftly, his hands plunged forward, to and fro, searching for the staff; his hands became numb from the cold, feeling nothing while in his mind he knew the difficulty. The wood was white, and no doubt crusted with ice collected form the wind lashing against it. His last ounce of hope began to sputter in the wind as the realization that it would be impossible to find the precious item, when by chance a frozen hand brushed aside the snow to reveal an iron heel fixed to the wood. Immediately he snatched the staff and pulled it from the snow, and braced himself against it to pull himself up with an unsure grip, then he gave a defeated stab into the snow and resumed his walk.

Still, the storm bore down on him, and the wind stole his already labored breaths from him. With each emptying of his lungs the gale tore the air from him, forcing him to gasp and choke if he did not turn his head into the gale, but soon not even the wind forcing the air down his throat could not aid his breath. Taking a brief rest behind a dune of snow, the otter found himself gasping and panting for air, struggling to take a full breath even out of the grip of the wind. He leaned against the staff with his entire weight, his chest heaving. The blowing snow and ice crystals reduced the visibility to barely beyond the edge of his diminutive shelter, but the wind did not blow endlessly. Instead they blew in powerful gusts that kicked up the snow into a white fog, before it settled again. Between these bursts of rushing wind he could see the faint silhouettes of the mountain just beyond his gaze. A crag of rock, jutting out from the snow cover around it, contrasting harshly with the rest of the scenery.

How he made it to this hole in the mountain, he cannot tell. His memory became a haze in the moments after he rose to stand again, and he only vaguely recalled walking. Now, he lay under the shadow of the rock face, panting and clutching at his chest. Each breath failed to bring any relief to his labored lungs, and his perception slowly faded. The otter contented himself with watching the snow drift past the opening to his shelter, until his eyes grew heavy, and his shivering ceased to plague him any longer.