<span style="font-size: 15px"><span style="font-family:Open Sans">Alriah was a harsh place to live in, but it's people were hearty. Common folk had thick blood in their veins, and they knew how to make the land livable. With it's harshness came protection. Most were not so stupid as to venture too far into their territory, especially when temperatures plummeted. It was a decidedly unforgiving place, and the Alriah liked to provoke, and lure armies into it's harsh maw. They were a difficult people to lure out as a result, preferring to keep the territorial advantage. It caused a sort of stalemate between them and the utopian region of Khryoskyra. They'd both learned of each other's tricks, and neither seemed willing to take the risk to press forward.<br/>
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Alriah had it's own issues to deal with, regardless, with a cold weather sickness spreading through their people. It didn't take well to heat, but for a place like Alriah, it posed a serious risk to their people. Their healers were doing what they could, and their borders remained protected either with stationed patrols, or with dangerous mountain faces.<br/>
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General Vahit's army hadn't seen action for some time, but they still followed standard protocol. They couldn't afford to become lax, especially if word got out about the sickness that plagued them. It would be too good an opportunity for their enemy nation not to take. They'd lost good men from within, and no battle had even taken place. It was simply a stroke of bad luck, though it would appear that there were many who seemed resistant to it. Much of his army, in fact, so in an attempt to isolate the sickness, soldiers who had come down with it were brought to his base rather than to allow it to run rampant. It was isolated in the same way with the civilians as much as possible.<br/>
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The healthy still trained, and they still patrolled it's borders, though his base had mostly turned into a sick ward. There was little else to be done. His men were bored. They hadn't had much to do besides sit and wait, though he amped up their training in an effort to see them settled. They were robust, hard working men that loved their country. Sitting idle was not in their blood. Fights broke out among them regularly, and he was okay with them dispersing some of their frustration in that way, to a point. He relied heavily upon some of his more agreeable soldiers to help keep order and disperse tempers. Malta had never been a terribly ambitious man, but he liked to work, and he loved his country. He was well respected, with his easy-going nature. He was a simply man to be around, not throwing his power around, but able to get the job done when needed. Vahit and he had quickly become good friends in their boredom. No one lightened a somber mood like Malta.<br/>
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The rotation for patrol was a simple one, and Malta looked forward to the duty even if he was sure it would be the same thing. He was just as restless as everyone, striving for <i>something</i> to do. Vahit was much more cunning of mind, able to sit down and go over battle tactics all day, but Malta needed to be out in the field. He could feel the air changing as he tacked up his <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=http%3A%2F%2Ffotos.fotoflexer.com%2Fd9e459c996783b7978cc63eaf958589e.jpg&amp;hash=1c9f1e490aaad55c8d912a2f72c24c29" href="http://fotos.fotoflexer.com/d9e459c996783b7978cc63eaf958589e.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(196, 84, 84)">horse</span></a>, a big bay, built thick as was customary of their breed of warhorse. Their men were just as thick, and Malta was sizable even by their standards. He wasn't overly tall; their people usually weren't, but he was broad of shoulder, and heavy of muscle. His hair was long, and unremarkable brown, often unkempt and messy, with a dense beard. Every part of him was made for the harsh climates, and he retained body heat well. Even so, he clocked himself well. His mount sported a dense coat, not as thick as it would come when the full winter arrived, but they were starting to get cooler snaps. They'd fattened their livestock up in preparation, the the horse was sufficiently round.<br/>
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“I'll be back in a bit, and we can sit beneath the canvas and play a winter storm game. I expect a mug of ale upon my return,” Malta told a fellow soldier with a raise of his brow. “And something hot to put in my belly.” He gave him a harsh pat to the shoulder before slipping his foot into the stirrup and mounting up. The little storm he knew was blowing in didn't worry him so much. Nothing he wasn't used to, and the thick cloak he wore retained the heat, and would keep him dry. The wind was starting to pick up as he rode out, letting his mount move so that his body temperature could rise with his activity. His fur stood, the snow that was falling not about to penetrate, and it held his body heat in, as it was meant to do.<br/>
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Malta tried to change up his route each time he went out, looking for signs that would point to some planned attack. Encroaching scouts would be ideal, and he'd enjoy running them down. That was the first thing that came to mind when he wandered upon a gray donkey with his butt to the wind, ears back, nose scrunched as it shivered. Interest peaked, he ventured further, thinking at first the the cries he'd heard were just the wind screaming off the mountains. Scouts would freeze to death before calling for help, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd found one frozen to death, unsuccessful and unprepared for their harsh and unpredictable climates.<br/>
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This one though, without a doubt, was calling out. The first thought that came to mind was some sort of trap, but what would taking out one soldier do for them except tip them off to something amiss when Malta didn't return? He was a fine soldier. Their storms wouldn't have him. Weapon drawn, a long sword, as he went in search of the noise.<br/>
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He found a man of foreign lineage, obviously their enemy, but he was pitifully unprepared. Young, and as far as Malta could tell, he was alone. No other tracks beside the one of the little donkey. What the hell was his purpose?<br/>
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“You folk are getting more and more dumb,” Malta commented as he halted his horse to dismount. He still approached cautiously, listening. The misery was real, Matla knew, his body shivering worse than the donkey. He pointed his sword at him and demanded he show him his hands. With compliance, he sheathed his weapon before pulling the shivering form up, harsh callused hands searching him for weapons. He removed anything that could be potentially used for violence.<br/>
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“What are you doing out here, little elf?” Malta demanded, looking him over. There was a scar on his face, but he still looked too young to be a properly trained soldier. Maybe they'd sent him on a suicide mission, though he couldn't comprehend why. Every inch of him was cold to the touch, and he worried he wouldn't make it home for questioning, though he'd try his best. No reason to kill him since he was half-dead anyway. He was no threat, and surely there was information they could gain from him. He'd never see his home country again, of course. Most likely they'd kill him after they got what they wanted. Alriah was too harsh a place for them to feed prisoners. That was a well known concept.<br/>
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“You're nearly frozen. Stupid. Are there any more of you out here, needing rescuing from this little storm?” Malta asked, clearly at ease in the harsh weather. He picked him up to set him first over the thick crest of his horse, then climbed into the saddle behind him, pulling him closer. He removed his cloak to drape over the front of his prisoner, but his back was pressed into Malta's wide chest. Between his heat, and the heat of the horse, he'd warm up quickly. Hopefully quickly enough that he wouldn't lose his life even as the wind continued to pelt them. Malta's thick woolen shirt provided him enough insulation for now, though the lithe creature was like a popsicle against him, more uncomfortable than the wind itself.<br/>
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“You best tell me all that you can now. The man I'm bringing you to is not the most patient of individuals,” Malta warned. The young man was pretty, and he knew likely what would happen to him if he survived the trip back to base. It wouldn't be enough to save his life, he was almost certain. He'd go back for the donkey as well. If they couldn't use it for themselves, he would provide a substantial meal for their encampment.</span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 15px"><span style="font-family:Open Sans"><br/>
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