Ficlets

A rather rude gust of wind punched Rius Melfere directly in the face. He cursed loudly and cleared his face of frost. In was a rather futile action as within seconds, the severe snowstorm covered it once more.

He had left the village forty-five minutes ago and still there was no sign of the citadel. Crunching along the foot-deep snow, he peered at his map with squinted eyes. “I should be there by now,” he spat. Instead, he was surrounding by tall pine trees, violently shaking their branches at Rius, and a crooked winding path.

He trudged forward against the storm, his exposed skin patched red and his wool socks miserably wet. His mind briefly danced on the idea of cursing it all and running back to the village, where a roaring fire and a warm cup of rumbeer awaited him. But this idea was knocked from his head quite literally by two enormous oak doors that appeared before him.