Wicked Avalanche

"And so it was that yet one more warrior met their doom, buried alive beneath the wicked avalanche."

Those were the final words of the tale being told, the words that Roldan had heard upon entering the tavern, and those were words enough, for he was a warrior, and danger was his birthright. He turned his attention to the teller of the tale, a pale red-haired girl, while ignoring the locals gathered around her.

"Where is this place where warriors have died?" he asked her.

"Surely, sir, you would not wish to join them?" the storyteller replied. "Only the reckless and foolhardy would venture for that limitless treasure."

"Treasure, you say?" There was a glint in his eye. He liked treasure even more than danger, and he loved danger.

"Maybe you should listen to the whole story before you become yet another victim," she said, trying to reason with him, but she was clearly underestimating him.

"I have heard enough, whatever treasure there is will be mine, and you, ginger maid, will need to rewrite your stories to capture my legend. Now, tell me where it is?"

"The top of Mount Wick," said an old man, his beard long and white. "The mountain of screams."

"Thank you, old man. Before the next full moon, I will travel to Mount Wick and I will bring back the treasure, and as for this wicked avalanche, I'm not going to be bothered by the cold. I've survived the dead of winter before now."

And with that, Rondal strode out of the tavern, his head held high, ready to further his legend.

Rondal rode for many days and for many nights over treacherous terrain. As his steed finally came within the mountain's range, the warrior thought he'd taken a wrong turn. His map showed the mountain being in the shape of a burnt-out candle, with a flat top. That's why he'd thought they'd called it Wick. However, this mountain was more of the traditional shape, its centre surrounded by a dark ominous cloud. But none of that mattered to Rondal, he'd climb to any heights under any conditions where treasure was concerned.

And so he set off, his mighty horse soon unable to climb the steep mountain. That wouldn’t stop Roldan though. Abandoning his faithful steed, he went alone, sweating under his heavy garb that would protect him from the chill of the avalanche. He continued, onward ever onward, though the sun beat down hard on him, but soon that was blocked by a thick plague of insects, filling the sky in front of him, but he continued to climb, forcing his strong yet weary limbs onward and upward, knowing that this dark fetid cloud would soon disperse as the altitude grew higher and the temperature grew cooler. Who knew what dangers lay further, snow leopards, maybe ice sorcerers; hopefully the end of the deathly stench, left by the corpses he was treading through, who'd clearly not even made it to the avalanche part.

With insects filling his nose and ears, he battled ever onward, the ground beneath his feet uneven and treacherous, but he struggled ever forwards, rarely stopping to rest. Finally, the cloud of flying flies began to clear away. He looked down expecting the ground to be white with snow by now, for where there is an avalanche there must surely be snow. However, some parts were brown and some parts were blood red and some parts looked just like eyes, staring up at him.

And then he heard the rumble, from high above, and looked to see what was rolling down toward him, and he saw that it wasn't snow. He let out a final scream as dead bodies pummeled into him and he realised that he'd misheard the storyteller's words.

And so it was that yet one more warrior did meet their doom, buried alive beneath the Wick cadaver-lanche.