[ P ] Ice, Blood and Wine

It hadn’t taken long since being on the open road for Pythus’ stomach to begin to turn and twist with a bitter demand for food. And just like the man himself, his stomach wasn’t used to being told no or having to wait. He’d never experienced such hunger, and it made his head reel and his heart clench with worry in his chest that he may not be able to survive out here on his own. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to hunt, but he simply never chose to, unless dragged out by his sister, because the Arezios had never needed to catch their own meals. And now he would need to use what his sister had taught him and apply that to real practice, in the middle of most barren season in which even the most skillful of hunters struggled to fill their bellies.

Pythus had been tracking a lone doe for some time, though she had been moving at a much quicker pace than him with her nimble strides, and so he gave up, now seating himself with a huff besides the water’s frozen edge. Golden optics watched with an almost fascination as his breath fogged the cold, dry air, but his attention was quickly diverted towards a flicker of movement beneath the solid ice that shielded a lake — a lake that, if blessed by warmer weather, surely would have made an exceptional swimming spot.

Fish… yes, fish! Perhaps there was hope after all. Though his snout crinkled at the thought of the unpleasant taste, his stomach pleaded with him by churning around in his guts.

After padding out a few strides over the lake and trying his absolute hardest not to slip and embarrass himself in front of his invisible audience, Pythus raised a paw hesitantly over the icy surface, preparing himself for the pain that would surely follow.

Thwack!

He whimpered. Crimson painted the milky surface, winding and twisting into rivulets that began to leech through a few formed cracks. But they were minuscule, and Pythus had no idea how deep the ice even went. All he knew right now was pain; his delicate pads were not used to this form of labour — or any labour, for that matter — and for a good few seconds it felt as if the pain signals from his paw and his stomach were clashing for supremacy, like an angel and devil on one’s shoulder.

It hurt worse the second time, and though he made progress with breaking the ice, so did the ice with breaking his paw. The nobleman limped defeatedly back to the water’s edge and toppled rather dramatically across a nearby boulder, which only sent another chill through his bones thanks to the damp layer of frost it wore. Pythus lapped at his bloodied paw, the alarming taste of iron spiking his tongue, and he winced.

Screw it, he thought, and with his good paw, he procured one of his last flasks of Arezio wine, aged in his private stash long before that conniving witch had ever gotten her sleazy paws on their product. The flask itself was a waterskin from a stag, though it was embroidered rather delicately with dried marigold, the signature flower of the family. Gingerly, he bit the cap off, and allowed the alcohol to trickle down his tongue. It chased the bitter taste of iron away with rich spice, and although it was cold from the winter air and it made his empty stomach curl and twist with confusion, it was one of the best damn things on this unforgiving earth. Better than fish, and certainly better than nothing at all.