Cold night
Where the coldness had come from, he knew not. Sure, winter was a time of harsh climates and bitter temperature extremes, but this cold front had seemed to come from nowhere. He shifted restlessly, tring to bring warmth to his extremities, the muscles warn and tired from the bitter cold. He stood, rubbing his body with his hands, trying to bring back some feeling to his hands and feet. In twenty years of service in the State Corps of Marienburg, he had not witnessed such a dramatic change in temperature in so short a time frame. By Sigmar it was cold.
He sat back down, trying to keep out of the chill breeze. He crowded his body, hulking up against the rocky outcrop near the base of a tree, sure that this would get him out of the path of this, unnatural seeming wind. It didn't help, it seemed that the wind almost changed direction, coming at him again. He moved again, this time to the other side of the outcrop, once again, the wind seemed to follow him. Giving up hope of escaping it's cold, unforgivingness, he huddled down and pulled his hood over his head in a futlie gesture at defiance. Still the wind, as gentle as it was, pierced straight through the heavy cloak he wore, chilling him to his very core. By Sigmar it was cold.
How long he sat there, monitonless he wasn't sure, but slowly, gradually, the wind picked up intensity. No longer was it a gentle breeze, it had taken on a much stronger aspect. Whilst not being overly strong, it was definetly stronger. He looked up, and then it happened. Snow. Floating lazily on the currents, snow. He reached his hand out, and grabbed at a flake, catching it. Slowly it melted into his gloved hands. He stood and looked around, seeing the white drizzle starting to blanket the ground. Very slow at first, but in a matter of minutes, the snow had started to give the landscape a very white coloration. He sat back down. He realised that the snow, for a time a novelty, had made the world a colder place, if that was possible. Where were the other scouts? By Sigmar it was cold.
He waited, an endless wait it seemed. But the watch change never happened. Where were the other scouts? He sat, freezing, cold, but not willing to leave his post. He stood, once more rubbing down his body, trying to bring warmth back to his chill-wracked body. Not helping, he started to pace, hoping that the movement would aid in warming him. The snow had now covered most of the landscape, giving the whole area a surreal atmosphere, everything, every tree, every rock, everything, covered in white. His pacing didn't help, indeed, it actually frustrated his attempts at getting warm, instead, seeming to help the cold wind bite through his defences. By Sigmar it was cold.
Over time, the wind increased again, blowing harder so that he now had to keep a hand on his hood to make sure that it didn't blow off. The snow too grew heavier, turning the covering into a veritable blanket, turning the entire area white. No green, no black, no brown broke through the overbearing snow blanket. His breath became ragged, becoming a painful exercise. Feeling in his hands and feet he had lost long ago, his nose felt like ice, and his ears he knew not if he still had. His teeth chattered, and his body shook. By Sigmar it was cold.
When hope was leaving him entirely, he heard it. Movement. A scrabbling movement from his left. He struggled with his remaining strength to his feet. At last, the other scouts had arrived, at last, he could return to camp, to the warmth of open fires, bed and hot soup. He wiped the snow from his face, burning his eyes with the coldness of his hands. His eyes blurred with tears, stinging even as they did so, the tears turning ice, further blinding him. He blinked furiously, trying to rid his sight of this debilitation. By Sigmar is was cold.
He called out a salutation, but no response was forthcoming. The wind, blowing almost in gale proportions now, howled the only reply. An eerie, whistling emanating from the rocks around him. He waited, and then called out again. Once again, nothing but the wind replied. Could he have been mistaken? Surely with this wind, the noise he heard might not have existed at all. He tried to clear his eyes, this time, with partial success. He could see, but not very far. The blinding snow, and the irritation that he had suffered, cutting back his viewing distance dramatically. He called out again. Still no answer. Damn, he cursed. He was getting sick of this, he was tired, he was cold, bitterly cold, and he was hungry. Where were the other scouts? He was due off his watch hours ago. And the longer this went on, the more his thoughts about leaving his post became attractive. By Sigmar it was cold.
He turned to go back to his post. Then stopped. What the hell was he out here for anyway? Why was he freezing, whilst others were back at camp, enjoying the warmth, food and the drink? He turned back, intent on leaving his post, when he heard it again, this time behind him. The definite footfall of a human. He spun around, greeting his fellow scout, only to see a tall waife like figure dressed in black, pale white skin and a crossbow pointed at him. Sigmar, he thought, the figure said something, then pulled back on the trigger, once, twice.
Stepping over the now blood soaked snow, the Dark Elf moved on, more of his kind following, all the scouts had now been taken care of, the Empire would fall in the name of Khaine and Malekith.
His eyes glazed over, twin crossbow bolts burried in his chest, Gunter Krieg, veteran of countless wars, husband and father, died, failing in his duties....
Written by: Julian Gatt