Medar was going to lose his fingers. Or he toes. Maybe even both with how long he had to be in this godforsaken place. He wouldn’t call his gloves thin- in fact they were the thickest his village had to offer- but after an hour they did little to stave the stinging numbness in his fingertips. His toes weren’t fairing any better. His mother made him put on three layers of sheep wool socks and cowhide boots treated with pine resin, but they were no match for the Forgotten Lands. He stopped feeling his toes about thirty minutes ago.

“‘Choose the Forgotten Lands’ they said. ‘It’s the most impressive,’ they said,” Medar grumbled to himself as he trudged through the blistery landscape. “If Vedka’s father doesn’t accept my proposal I’ll-“ Medar suddenly found himself staring up at the sky. The musty scent of damp wool and the sudden chill against his back stole his breath. For the first time since embarking on his Blaskrig, Medar was faced with the stark realization that he may not make it back to see Vedka’s father at all. The Forgotten Lands might steal his soul and he’ll be doomed to wonder them forever- just like every other arrogant soul who thought they could outlast Dratni’s wrath.

The sound of crunching echoed across the landscape. “I thought the Wise Ones agreed to stop sending you lads.”

A dark shadow loomed over Medar’s prone form. His eyes struggled to adjust from the blinding brightness and all he could tell from the form and its voice was that it was human. Maybe. “How do you know about the Wise Ones?” Medar asked. His voice wasn’t as imposing as he had hoped, but he was freezing and lying on his back didn’t allow for much shouting.

“Boy,” the figure chided. “Almost every creature here knows about the Wise Ones. Enough of your kind screamed curses at them when they felt the first bite of Dratni’s breath.” The figure kneeled down and Medar was finally able to make a hint of it’s face. It was very much not human.

Medar’s throat tightened. “What are you going to do with me?” He squeaked. His warm dampness trickled down his pants.

The figure wrinkled its nose. “Give you a bath, for starters. You creatures have a bad habit of releasing your filth wherever you please.” A cold hand traced Medar’s cheeks. “You’re quite pretty for a lad. Tell me, are you on your Blaskrig?”

“Y-yes,” Medar stammered. The cold hands were surprisingly soft on his cheek. A shiver wracked through his body when soft finger tips brushed across his lips. Medar told himself it was because of the cold.

The figure hummed. “So you’re at least eighteen winters. Have you sired a child yet?”

Medar’s cheeks heated. “Not yet.” The figures hands traced another line across his lips and Medar shivered again. Another warmth bloomed inside his pants, but they didn’t get any damper. Medar didn’t want to think too deeply about what that meant.

A chuckle echoed in Medar’s ears as the cold hands on his face withdrew. Medar’s head spun and the sky seemed to flash incredibly brighter for a moment. When his vision cleared, the bright sky was replaced with dark brown leather. Once again, Medar’s cheeks heated when he realized the position he was in. The creature cradled Medar to its chest like a mother would an infant. Or a man would his wife. The warmth in Medar’s pants burned hotter.

“Tell me little one,” the creature purred. “Have you ever taken anyone? Or perhaps had anyone take you?” It shifted it’s hold and a solid weight pushed into Medar’s bottom. “Or do your Wise One’s still forbid such an activity and call it a waste of seed?”

Tears pricked at Medar’s eyes as the pleasnat heat in his pants turned into a condemning blaze.

The figure sighed heavily. “Oh little one. Maybe it was best that you endeavored to complete your Blaskrig here. You would have been miserable anywhere else. And if you completed your journey and wed your woman of choice, you would have been miserable still.” Cold lips pressed against Medar’s forhead. “But don’t worry. My kind doesn’t place such senseless restrictions on attraction or affection. You’ll love it. I promise.”

Whatever retort Medar had was stifled with another cold press to his forehead and his consciousness faded.