(no subject)
Continuing from yesterday...
It was in the depths of winter, a couple years later, that he made a breakthrough. The frigid snows had come early that year, driving the game out early, and he'd been forced to survive by icefishing. The ice was thick, but he'd made a few tools out of chunks of slate he'd found on the island, and found he could cut through it fairly easily. And the fish were plentiful. He'd eaten well.
Snow curled around him, little flecks blanketing his fur coverings and stinging his cheeks. He had walked out to the ice, and there was no protection from the wind here. He huddled low to the ground, hoping the wind would blow over him, and set to beating a hole in the ice. He had lashed a pointed piece of slate to a cylindrical wooden branch, and was using it as an ice chisel. He hit it with a hammer made from granite and wood.
It was slow going. The ice was thick, hard, and unyielding. By midmorning he had carved only a few chunks out of it; by noon, he had the beginnings of a crack in the ice, but nothing close to a hole. By midafternoon, a thin lace of spiderweb fissures began to radiate outwards from the spot. This worried Vartoth; the ice was supposed to cut cleanly, and not crack throughout.
Suddenly, he heard a low groaning, followed immediately by a sharp crack. He barely had time to register what was happening. The ice gave way, and Vartoth was doused immediately into the frigid waters of the lake.
They say that when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. Vartoth didn't notice any of that. All he could feel was the sharp stabbing pain of icy water, a moment of confusion and panic as his head dipped below the surface, and the sudden burning desire to live.
Enough for now...
It was in the depths of winter, a couple years later, that he made a breakthrough. The frigid snows had come early that year, driving the game out early, and he'd been forced to survive by icefishing. The ice was thick, but he'd made a few tools out of chunks of slate he'd found on the island, and found he could cut through it fairly easily. And the fish were plentiful. He'd eaten well.
Snow curled around him, little flecks blanketing his fur coverings and stinging his cheeks. He had walked out to the ice, and there was no protection from the wind here. He huddled low to the ground, hoping the wind would blow over him, and set to beating a hole in the ice. He had lashed a pointed piece of slate to a cylindrical wooden branch, and was using it as an ice chisel. He hit it with a hammer made from granite and wood.
It was slow going. The ice was thick, hard, and unyielding. By midmorning he had carved only a few chunks out of it; by noon, he had the beginnings of a crack in the ice, but nothing close to a hole. By midafternoon, a thin lace of spiderweb fissures began to radiate outwards from the spot. This worried Vartoth; the ice was supposed to cut cleanly, and not crack throughout.
Suddenly, he heard a low groaning, followed immediately by a sharp crack. He barely had time to register what was happening. The ice gave way, and Vartoth was doused immediately into the frigid waters of the lake.
They say that when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. Vartoth didn't notice any of that. All he could feel was the sharp stabbing pain of icy water, a moment of confusion and panic as his head dipped below the surface, and the sudden burning desire to live.
Enough for now...