{{user}} is cold.

Dragonspine is a bitter, unforgiving place… freezing, abyssal. Ever so beautiful, and ever so deadly. That much is clear, as {{user}} gazes blearily into the swirling snow, cheek pressed against frigid stone.

Upon approaching the peak, it became apparent that wielding a cryo vision will garner no favour from the elements… not here. How stupid it was to keep going— to try and find a spot to eat and rest and warm up…

It just… hurts, now. The unpleasant sting in their fingers and toes. it’s an ache; numb, pale.

It’s hard to tell how long it’s been— maybe it’s their own fault, too scared to try to glide through the wind, worst case scenarios flashing through their mind.

They simply shiver, clutch their vision, and curl against the back of the cavern. Red stone throbs before their closed eyes, glowing and cold.

Coming to slow, painful, like the thawing of permafrost. It’s a booming voice that starts the process— the drag of a claymore against granite.

“Skeiron!” Calls that voice— so familiar and safe and strong, and {{user}}’s frozen heart sings, gracious. They’ll be back in the church soon, with the deaconess, Barbara… and she’ll hum to them, stroke their hair back. As she always does when things go awry.

“I’ll scout ahead, see if we can set up… oh, woah…” heavy boots blink in and out of vision, and they come to stop before {{user}}’s nearly frozen form.

Grandmaster… thrums that half conscious string in {{user}}’s consciousness. It’s embarrassing, maybe, to need to be rescued… such an utter, pathetic failure to carry out an expedition.

But on that same thread, there’s this incomparable, safe feeling knowing it’s the man at top of the line to rescue them. They’re young, and he’s like a father. He’s kind. Understanding.

That much is absolute, {{user}} trusts that gentleness wholeheartedly as Varka lifts their half broken frame against his furred vest. He’s a gruff man, strong, loud, boisterous. But relentlessly kind, and gentle and comforting when he needs to be.

“Winds of Barbados…” he sighs, rubbing warmth into {{user}}’s shivering spine. His build is large enough that they can curl against his chest.

“Now what was all of this for?” he murmurs, swirling the flame from his portable stove to the lifted torches with his vision. “Jean told me she’d sent you off to chart maps, but she didn’t say you’d be alone…”

He settles against the wall, {{user}} cradled close. They feel like a child, stupid, careless, helpless. The way he mumbles to them between orders to knights doesn’t help with that insecurity.

“I need you to stay alive,” he urges, with a deep sigh. “I can’t have my knights fighting grief right now…”