I wrote this snippet of Lyryk’s story before I knew about Lyryk meeting the weather witch, so I had to make a minor adjustment to this bit. Once more, I wrote this in response to a writing prompt.

Lost

“I think we’re lost, buddy,” Lyryk said, looking down at the dog by her side. Biscuit’s honey-colored eyes gazed up at her, his tongue lolling.

She still didn’t know what to think about this animal. Maybe it was her imagination when she felt the creature had spoken to her that first day. He hadn’t done it again if it had been him. Whatever it was, it saved her life, and for that, she was forever grateful.

The bard questioned the wisdom of following the farmer’s directions at the foot of the mountain three days before. Of course, she had forgotten about the storm rolling in. Had she remembered, she would have stayed put two nights prior. Lyryk had found a small cave, and Biscuit made sure it wasn’t otherwise occupied. They had been warm and cozy, unlike the past couple of days. Well, hindsight, as they said, was perfectly clear.

On the second day, clouds covered the sun, chilling the air further. The pair spent the second fitful night wrapped in Lyryk’s blanket, huddled in a tree well. The next day, the half-elf dragged herself from the meager shelter using sheer willpower.

“We need to find shelter, or we’ll die,” she said to Biscuit. The cold sapped her energy, and her legs alternated between numb and jelly. She couldn’t feel her feet.

The last thing she remembered was the voice in her head, this way, Howl.

The sun broke through the clouds late on the third day. Lyryk woke in a sheltered alcove, a fire blazing at the entrance, Biscuit curled against her back. With no recollection of how they arrived, the bard pondered the situation listening for any discord to the music in her mind. Hearing none, she drifted back into slumber.