In the desolate frozen wastes Masala found herself lost in both space and spirit. As ice and wind ravaged the wilds, she was separated from her party and found refuge in a cave just larger than her.
In that little bastion, she was warmed by fire and the memories of better times with her family and tribe; memories of sun celebrations, of feasts, of dancing, and of the smiling faces of those she missed so desperately.
Those memories were her only company; her father with children gathered around the bonfire that she helped build to hear a story of dying hope renewed. Her father’s stories were only stories. Her memories of him were older than she wished.
She was alone.
Alone, even a Firekeeper like her could not stoke a hearth hot enough to fight the icy wrath of nature and the toll it took on the hearts of the desperate few that clung to life in the endless winter hellscape that surrounded her.
She was alone.
Tears filled her eyes and loathing her heart. To no one, she told her father’s stories. To no one, she sang the songs of her people. The dark cave echoed back only her hurt, her longing for better days, her desperate loneliness.
She was alone, or so she thought.
Is there anything more lonely than a bard with no one to sing to?
— PotluckSoup
