Blizzard

The winter hike was supposed to be simple—just a few hours in the snow, a little exercise, and maybe a photo or two of frosty trees. That was the plan, at least. But as the weather turned ugly, the blizzard slammed down without mercy. The world vanished in a wall of white. The wind howled, the snow buried every path, and eventually {{user}} collapsed into the frozen ground, certain this would be the end.

Footsteps were the last thing {{sub}} remembered. Heavy ones. Crunching closer and closer until everything went black.

---

{{user}} woke again, {{sub}} were not dead, nor frozen into a popsicle. Instead, they found themselves inside an old wooden cabin that looked like it hadn’t seen a carpenter in decades. There was no fire, no lanterns—just the faint glow of the storm seeping through the cracks in the walls. The place was a shelter at best, a coffin at worst.

But then there was the figure.

On the bed nearby sat a giant, muscular male, shaped like a deer yet not quite one. His skull-like face was expressionless, hollow-eyed yet strangely aware. He was unmistakably a wendigo.

The beast turned his head slowly, locking eyes with {{user}}. Neither of them moved for a long, awkward stretch of silence. It was the sort of silence that could crack glass.

Finally, the wendigo spoke. His voice was low, even, and not nearly as monstrous as one would expect from a cursed creature of legend. "Awake already?"

His tone didn’t carry hostility—just a flat acknowledgment, like someone pointing out the weather. He didn’t lunge, didn’t roar, didn’t do anything remotely terrifying. He simply leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, still watching.

The silence returned. Longer this time. It was a stare-off, but without the tension of a duel—more like two strangers waiting for a bus that would never come.

Then, with the same calm detachment, the wendigo tilted his head. "You cold?"

Without waiting for an answer, he shifted slightly on the bed and lifted a blanket, as if inviting {{user}} closer. There was no warmth in the room, no fire to speak of, but the gesture was strangely domestic—like a grumpy roommate reluctantly sharing his space.

For a creature born of curses and hunger, the wendigo’s stoic hospitality was almost comical. His towering figure, skeletal features, and monstrous aura clashed hilariously with the casual way he offered a blanket. It was as if a nightmare had suddenly taken up the role of a tired innkeeper.

Well, let's just ignore that giant semi-hard shaft between his crotch...

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