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[Dwarf]

Tried to focus on a cool, wintery atmosphere.

The sun could only lightly touch the word.
Like a curtain of cinders, snow flakes slowly descended from the sky, a thick impenetrable wall made up of tiny frail bits of ice.
   The small valley was entirely covered by conifer forest, which could barely be seen, for it was buried under a thick layer of snow.
   The whole landscape was dead but yet beautiful - pure, filled with hostile, serene cold.

But one figure disturbed the peaceful image. A man ran on a small path through the forest. He left whirling flakes in his track, dancing around aimlessly, his feet disfiguring the perfect snow blanket.
   He was a tall man, broad and muscular. His noble, brave face was disfigured by an expression of fear and terror.
It seemed to him that the icy cold air sliced through his lungs and frost bit his windpipe.
   Suddenly, the man was staggering, he threw up a pool of bloody vomit.
Slowly he slumped to his knees, erratically whirling up thousands of snow stars - when suddenly, a shout came from behind - Hallvardr!
   It seemed that this drove the man to use his very last reserves. He crept into the underwood beneath the path, leaving smears and droplets of blood on the snow.
   Meanwhile, another man followed the tracks he had left. He seemed similar to the other one - he was tall too, although thin and stringy. His face was much the same; quite long and slim - one could have thought they were kinsmen. In his right hand, he held an axe, in the other one, a round shield. Hallvardr!, he shouted again - I am coming for you!
   It was but a nuisance that the hit was not fatal - his arrow had only pierced some flesh, nothing immediately deadly - instead, he would have a chance too see Hallvardr slowly drifting into the afterlife, crying for help and forgiveness. He would have nothing of that!

   Hallvardr however had quickly recovered - he was mainly just breathless. The arrow was nothing to be worried about for now – If I could only get away! No, he thought, There's no way I'll outrun him, I have to make a stand - it's pointless…
   And thus, he drew his sword and slowed his pace, so he might just be in shape when Asmund catched up…

The snow fell denser and denser. Mighty winds rose, like darts the snow bit every inch of open flesh. It was impossible to see something even a man's length away.
   However, Asmund steadily followed the path painted with blood. He had to hurry, the snow would soon cover it!
What he did not have in strength and endurance was easily made up by his lust for revenge - revenge so close, at a hand's reach, it seemed.

The bow!, it shot through Hallvardrs head - did he not leave it, did he not discard it? Maybe he did! It must lie somewhere! The whirling snow did not fall as heavily in the thick plant life, and thus he could see the path a fathom or so to his right. He followed the path in some distance; back to where he was shot down.

Asmund was starting to get lost, the snowstorm only became more opaque. He had to crawl on all fours to even see the ground, where the blood trail was only barely visible. For this dishonour, you will only pay harder!
   Then, the trail suddenly stopped - the bleeding must've miraculosly stopped, or...
   With clammy fingers, he pushed the bushes and thorns beside. No doubt, he has passed here. He hastily entered.
   Protected by countless trees' foliage and other plants the weather here was not quite as bad and one could clearly see a trampled trail. Dodging the occasional low-hanging bough, he followed it as fast as the terrain allowed.

   Did he not just hear a crack from behind? He hurried only more. The forest was getting sparser - a quick look to the right confirmed his presumption - there lay his horse, struck down by an arrow, in a pool of crimson. He made a leap, through countless scratching branches - his cloak ripped, his face was full of bloody streams - It didn't matter!
He landed not far from his horse. With a mighty pull, he dislodged the arrow, tearing his trusty stead's flesh.
   With it, he ran further down the path.

   Asmund was getting winded, he began to see stars - when he suddenly stopped. Was that not a cloak waving like a flag between those branches? After only a few seconds, he returned on the path, which Hallvardr followed.

   Hallvardr was nearing the end of his reserves; the blood loss was probably starting to become serious… luckily, the wound stopped bleeding. If he could only… there! There lay the bow, almost completely hidden by snowfall.
   The wood was moist, the string wet… but it would do for a single arrow. It was his only one, anyway.

Asmund was now slowly jogging, he could simply run no more. Gasping for air, his chest nearly bursted from pain due to the frigid air cutting through his lungs.
   Very suddenly, the weather was changing. The wind had almost completely died down, the clouds had snowed all their water. Only here and there a flake was still falling.
   And, finally, there he saw him. His back facing him, running, running like a coward - like the coward he has always been! The traitor he has always been! He would smash his head with the rim of his shield, he would slice through his intestines…
   And with a terrible war cry, Asmund charged him.

   He was prepared. As soon as he had heard the cry, he whirled around, drew the string - and shot…

   And hit! Something hit Asmund's right shoulder - he could clearly feel the arrow's tip deeply penetrating, breaking into his joint. An aching pain, he had to drop his axe, the entire arm was unusable.
   But he still had the shield, the shield would do, it had to do!

   Hallvardr had not hit where intended, but the foe was disarmed - but so determined, he realized, and still dangerous! He prepared his sword.
His hand was unsteady, blood loss or fear, he could not really tell…
   He punily attempted to strike Asmund…

   Putting all his body weight into a pounce, the boss of the shield hit Hallvardr's right half of the ribcage, every bone in the way was crushed. Together with him, he fell to the ground - he hastily kneeled up and pummeled his face as hard as he could with his shield rim, turning it into an unsightly mess.

   Hallvardr could not describe what was happening… but Asmund got continously weaker, he could feel… My end is near, but I can take him with me, were his last thoughts.
   With one hand, he forced away the shield rim from above his face, pushing it to the side, the other one reached for his dagger –
   Which he promptly stuck deep in Asmund's throat, with such force that he fell backwards.

   Why must I die, gods, I have fulfilled my duty… but Father, you are avenged!

   And Hallvardr, slowly, tired, lay down, extended his legs and arms, and was preparing.
   What have I done wrong, God, he thought, as he was quietly praying to the old gods and begging Asmund for forgiveness, for they would meet in Valhalla.

Criticism welcome.

[Vertigon]

Excellent story, but nitpicking time; in the below paragraph, hitted should be hit.

   Hallvardr had not hitted where intended, but the foe was disarmed - but so determined, he realized, and still dangerous! He prepared his sword.
His hand was unsteady, blood loss or fear, he could not really tell…
   He punily attempted to strike Asmund…

[Labs]

Cool story. I love the Norse Culture.

[Dwarf]

Excellent story, but nitpicking time; in the below paragraph, hitted should be hit.

   Hallvardr had not hitted where intended, but the foe was disarmed - but so determined, he realized, and still dangerous! He prepared his sword.
His hand was unsteady, blood loss or fear, he could not really tell…
   He punily attempted to strike Asmund…

Ah, I knew I had a 'hitted' lying around. The text editor I was using didn't have a search function though.

[Dwarf]

That being said, how did the cold, frosty atmosphere work? Have I even managed to create it?

[Dwarf]

Anyone bothers to answer :/?

[Labs]

I like the way you did the atmosphere. I was getting tingly cold just reading it.

[Dwarf]

This is very much what I intended, nice to hear! :3