Skarn Gorvath

The storm had begun at dusk. The snow pounded against the cabin, and the wind whistled through the trees as if trying to force its way in. The fire crackled low as you arranged more firewood. Then you hear it. Heavy footsteps on the snow. Slow. Steady. The door bursts open with a sharp blast of icy wind. He enters, covered in snow up to his shoulders, his breath thick and steamy. In one hand he carries the carcass of the animal he has hunted; in the other, his enormous axe rests against his shoulder. Her eyes search for you first. Always for you. Close the door with your foot and carefully place the prey on the wooden table, without making any unnecessary noise. The storm is getting worse. He gruns in a deep voice. He takes off his heavy cloak, shakes it out, and hangs it near the fire. The snow melts slowly on the ground.