Chapter I. - Frosty wasteland

He saw nothing at all just white. Frosty shards of sharp snow attacking his eyes, reminiscent of the cruelty and ruthlessness of a cold razor. Step by step, minute by minute, his legs were still crumbling into a layer of thick powder full of small razor bumps. Despite the considerable resistance of the wind and the incessant thunderous storms, pushing into his emaciated, hunger-weakened arms still, he continued unceasingly into the snowdrifts. He didn't know if he was going in the right direction, he lost track of time and space in the chaos. However, even the thick beaver skin, two and a half inches thick, did not protect him from the relentless cold frost penetrating the furs, like a spear piercing armor to the marrow of his bones. The further he walked, the more he felt a loss in his limbs, warm blood flowing from his fingertips, and they turned into a solidified stone. It was clear, however, that if he did not continue to freeze, a slow death that befell the other members of the group.

After long, exhausting wandering, wading, and wandering, as death caught up with him, he saw an almost indistinct dark shadow in the distance. It could just be another lump or snowdrift. He came closer and saw the possible salvation of his worthless life from white hell. Rock rising from the sea of ​​white. Onyx black stones rolled over each other. He approached them, trying to find a niche or a hole in which to find asylum. With unprecedented happiness, in which he no longer hoped to find the half-closed entrance to the cave. With all the remaining strength, the snowdrift eased and he slid in, through a small hollowed-out hole.

The space was small, tunnel-shaped, with a height not exceeding that of an adult man and a length of fewer than two feet. It was filled with stone plaster to the floor and the end part where the layer of blown powder was located. As soon as the pilgrim's eyes adjusted to the darkened place. He saw a huddled dark silhouette at the opposite end. His heart was pounding, but he overcame his fear and slowly approached at four. The sound of a blizzard from the outside faded more and more with each movement. In the end, it remained a mere whining Melusine. He took a deep breath, trying to catch his breath so that he could ask the pounded figure in question a question he was forming in his head. Before however, he managed to produce something of himself, he noticed that the puppet showed no signs of interest or perhaps life itself.

Another refugee. He thought. Carefully he moved closer and closer, letting out a low, tired voice, "Hello." You don't have to be afraid of me. "He waited for an answer, but it didn't come. He reached out carefully to dig into the person. However, nothing happened at all, a thick-gloved finger lightly dented his massive coat until his stiff body began to resist. He pushed his index finger away, expecting some movement. Nothing. And so he displeased himself, with a considerable amount of resistance and fear, to the corpse. Slowly and timidly, he began to brush away the hairy winter coat with its rich decoration. The space was dark, but even in the twilight, he saw a horrible scene. Whitish male face with greenish, pastel shades. It was covered with countless wrinkles, along with dark purple tiny veins that complemented the majestic well-cut through the splayed gray-white beard. The overall look indicated the person's fear and prominence. The eyes lost the will to live, they died pale, the brown irises surrounding the dilated pupils lost satiety and gave a dreamy impression. The old man huddled like a child in his mother's arms to capture as much heat as possible. It wasn't the first time he'd seen the deceased, but his heart still bounced. Out of partial curiosity, especially the fixed need to find other things to warm up, he set out to search the dead man. Forgive me, merciful God, for what I am about to do. He was bitter in his mind. "Forgive me, dear sir," he said quietly with regret, looking face to face.

Carefully, though with a good deal of force, he removed his frozen coat from his shoulders and from under the background, which he then threw awkwardly over himself. He saw an extinct lantern that the man was holding in his stone-stiffened hands. The last shudder of heat before death. It came to his mind. He was dressed in a thick, expensive suit with a thick lining. His shoes were tall and massive, the only ones suggesting readiness for conditions out there. With the respect that the dead could show in this situation, he searched carefully. However, he found nothing much, only shiny pocket onions with broken glass, but they still beat slowly and calmly. Then a decorated white handkerchief with an embroidered monogram by A. M. K. and finally, two rings placed on the fingers of the right hand. One gold studded with a large bloody ruby, the other was of a somewhat austere character with a mere silver ring with blackened spots. Why would anyone go to this weather like this? He thought. He didn't want to think about it, so he took only the essentials, taking care not to offend the undead. When he finished, he was wearing a thick winter coat and another layer of warm clothing. Then the old man in a shirt and long pants, thick boots, and with the rest of his personal belongings, except for the lantern, closed his lids. As the rays of the sun penetrating through the incessant blizzard grew weaker and weaker, he decided to spend the night here. From the entrance to the cave, he piled up the snow to provide natural protection from the cold gusts of wind that blew around. Then he lay down in a prepared pit lined with a warm coat. Sleep was not very long or pleasant, but he could at least silence the sounds from the outside, as well as unrelenting thoughts, nightmares, and fears.

He awoke with a start. The blizzard stopped and a pale cone of light penetrated the darkened space. He rubbed his eyes, got up from his warm coat, which he slung over his shoulders, as he did with the bag where his only possession now remained. He grabbed a lantern standing nearby. He took one last look at the man leaning in the corner of the cave. He had no way to rest assured him, he was too exhausted, he had not eaten for three days. And so he went out into the morning light. The glow completely blinded him so white, burning his eyes like an unquenchable flame trying to see everything and everyone in unbridled blindness. After a moment of peeking, he realized that there was nothing but snow and frost around him. A frosty wasteland without life. He pulled a small round box from the Backpack, a rather old and shabby compass. Under the scratched glass, a needle turned over the handwritten paper, and according to it, he headed southwest. He was on his way to Cardiff, hoping to find some more tremor of civilization that could take him out of this land before his death. He walked around the massive stones and in that direction met the possible hope of rescue or at least to find another shelter.