#pyoa: choice one

[powdermelonkeg]

First Choice

Who is the main character? Winter (lantern herbalist), 38%

It's cold.

That's the thought that cycles over and over in Winter's mind as he ventures further into the caverns. His lantern burns ruby red, the scarlet flames dancing on the crystal stalactites overhead.

It's cold. Ignore everything else. It's cold.

Despite the constant reminder he gives himself, the air gets warmer and warmer, his fluffy coat becoming heavier on his shoulders, more stifling around his neck. His boots crunch the frozen puddles beneath his feet, the metal spikes tearing into the ice and holding fast.

How long has he been on this trek?

Days? Seasons?

It feels like an eternity. Yet the empty basket on his hip taunts him, its light weight a reminder itself that his job is yet to be done.

The lantern's light catches a glow up ahead. His spiraling thoughts grind to a halt.

There.

He breaks into a run, cleats scraping along the ground. More and more red shines appear the closer he gets, getting larger, finally taking form.

Bones.

Hundreds of them. Scattered, their cartilage long gone, many of them cracked open. He kneels by one, picks it up, peers through it.

Hollow. Gnawed on.

His eyes glimmer.

Quickly, he drops the bone and scoops his lantern back up, pulling his scarf down from his nose. The scent of burnt pine stings his lungs, the heat getting all the more sweltering with each unfiltered breath.

It's cold. It's cold. It's cold.

It's not. It burns. His hair clings wetly to his skin, his eyes water with tears—yet the second they fall to his pale lashes, they freeze.

It's cold.

Winter closes his eyes and paces around the room, sniffing the air. Each breath scorches his throat, makes him question whether or not this is worth the pain, until finally, a blast of heat startles him out of his search. His hand flies to his scarf, yanking it back over his nose, the smell of sweet melon rind bringing a moment of cool relief. With a deep breath of the remedy, he opens his eyes once more.

There, nestled in a crevice in the wall, are six resin-encased, gemlike eggs. Their nest, cradling them from the imperceptible cold, is built of the furs of each poor animal to have wandered in here, the gaps between sealed with pale moss.

Finally!

He reaches for the nest, the sting of heat creeping in through the gap between his sleeve and his glove-

"CHREEEE!"

He jumps, wrenching his hand back from the nest. His heartbeat hammers in his ears as he looks over the field of bones, stomach twisting with fear. His eyes dart back to the clutch of eggs.

He can't leave empty handed.