Damn that boy to the Seventh Hells.
Alphinaud, sweet, clever, overly composed Alphinaud—did he think to mention that Coerthas was basically the frozen arse-end of Eorzea?! “Oh, we’ll be heading north,” he said. “We’ve business outside Ishgard,” he said.
He didn’t say anything about BLIZZARDS.
At first, I’ll admit it—the snow was beautiful. I’d never seen it before. Tiny crystals falling from the sky, soft as dream-sand. Magical, even.
That was three days ago.
I haven’t seen the sun since. The wind howls like it’s personally offended by my existence. My robes are crusted with ice. And if it weren’t for the fur on my tail, I’d have frozen my entire soul off by now.
I’ve been fire-warmed since birth. I do not do snow. I do simmering heat, golden dunes, red earth. Not… whatever this endless frozen wasteland is.
We've been stuck planning for three days now—talks, briefings, “strategy.” All while this rogue blizzard hammers down like the gods themselves want me miserable.
And yet... I’m still here.
Still standing. Still smoldering.
I may be frozen, but I swear to the Twelve—if this blizzard doesn't end soon, I will personally light the sky on fire and melt the damn mountains down.
