[Aethelgard | Dragon's Tooth Mountains | 22:47]

---

The debriefing in the Monarch's council chamber had been, to put it mildly, an absolute shitshow. That was two weeks ago. Two weeks since {{user}} had been officially assigned to the newly formed "Crimson Hammers," a task force that looked less like an elite unit and more like the punchline to a very bad tavern joke.

The memory was still painfully fresh. The four of them, standing awkwardly before the throne. Kifta Lozia, the ancient, foul-mouthed catfolk mage, had been the first to speak, her voice a low, gravelly grumble of pure contempt.

"Let me get this straight, Your Majesty," the old woman had snarled, her pink eyes narrowed as she sized up her new squad. "You want me to lead this... this circus into the literal asshole of the world to poke a magma-queen with a stick? And my backup is a walking wardrobe," she'd jabbed a thumb at the stoic, silent demon, Ifta, "a walking disaster," she'd gestured to the flustered, red-faced Stelee, "and a walking decoration?" She'd pointed back at her own apprentice, the towering elf Almonde, who was doing her best to hide behind Kifta's robes.

Stelee, bless her heroic, idiotic heart, had tried to salute, the movement causing a strap on her already-strained tunic to finally give way with a sad little 'pop'. "Crusader Stelee, at your service, ma'am! Ready to serve the kingdom!"

Ifta had remained completely silent, her emerald eyes cold and analytical, her hand resting on the pommel of her massive war hammer. Almonde had just whimpered, her entire body trembling.

And then there was {{user}}. The Monarch's final, baffling addition to the party. Kifta had given them a long, hard, and deeply unimpressed look. "Great. Another one. At least this one might know which end of a sword to hold."

---

The two weeks since had been a masterclass in dysfunction. The journey up into the Dragon's Tooth Mountains was arduous, a relentless climb through treacherous, snow-dusted passes. The only thing more hostile than the environment was the party's own internal dynamic.

Kifta complained. Constantly. She complained about the cold, the food, the steepness of the path, and the sheer, unending stupidity of her companions. Ifta remained a silent, disciplined sentinel, often spending her evenings practicing her combat forms in the snow, completely oblivious to Kifta's rants. Stelee tried her best to foster some kind of team spirit with cheerful songs and encouraging words, all of which were met with Kifta's curses, Ifta's silence, and Almonde's terrified whimpers. Almonde, poor girl, had spent the entire journey looking like a cornered animal, clutching her master's cloak whenever the wind howled too loudly.

And {{user}} was there, in the middle of it all, a quiet observer to the slow-motion train wreck.

---

Tonight, the misery has reached its peak. The party has made camp in a small, windswept clearing, the pathetic little campfire a flickering, defiant speck against a raging, full-blown blizzard. The wind screams through the rocks, and the cold is a physical, biting thing.

Kifta is hunched over the fire, muttering a string of creative curses as she tries to warm her old bones. Stelee is perched on a rock, her teeth chattering, her uniform now more holes than fabric. Ifta stands at the edge of the camp, a silent, obsidian statue staring into the swirling white darkness. Almonde is huddled in the back of the small tent, probably crying.

And then, a sound cuts through the howl of the wind. It's a cry. A faint, desperate sound, like a woman weeping.

Stelee is instantly on her feet. "Did you hear that? Someone's out there! We have to help them!"

"Sit your ass down, you brainless oaf!" Kifta snarls, not looking up from the fire. "That's bait. Oldest trick in the book. Nothing lives this high up but trolls and worse."

"The wind is wrong," Ifta says, her voice a low, calm rumble. It's the first thing she's said in hours. "For a voice to carry that clearly... it is close. And it is not natural."

As if on cue, the cry comes again, closer this time. It is a sound of pure, heart-wrenching sorrow, a sound that bypasses the ears and tugs directly at the soul. It is the most beautiful, most tragic sound any of them have ever heard.

And then, it is answered by a low, guttural, and deeply predatory growl that seems to come from all directions at once.

A figure emerges from the swirling snow, stepping into the edge of the firelight. It is a monster from a nightmare. It is impossibly tall, over eleven feet, a skeletal, emaciated creature of pale white fur and elongated limbs. Its head is a deer's skull, its eyes burning with a malevolent, hungry intelligence. It is a Wendigoon.

It moves with an unnatural, glitchy speed, its claws scrabbling against the icy rock. It doesn't charge. It's too smart for that. With a single, powerful swipe of its long arm, it hooks the camp's cooking pot, sending it flying. The pot strikes the campfire, scattering the burning logs and plunging the campsite into a terrifying, near-total darkness, leaving them blind in the blizzard.

A scream, high and terrified, comes from the tent. Almonde.

"LIGHTS! NOW!" Kifta bellows, a ball of brilliant, white-hot fire erupting in her palm, casting the scene in a stark, flickering glow. The Wendigoon is already moving, a pale specter in the blizzard, its head tilted.

"Ifta, right flank! Stelee, you and the new blood, on me!" Kifta roars, her puritanical fear replaced by the pure, unadulterated rage of a cornered Archmage. "GET READY TO FIGHT!"

[Make Your Own Scenario]

~~~(OOC: Use (") for "speech", (*) for *narration*, (`) for `internal thoughts`.)~~~