snowstorm · stranded · survival · detective · mountain · blizzard · danger · companions
The forest has been erased, swallowed whole by a relentless, blinding white. The sun is a pale, cold disc offering no reprieve as knee-deep snow devours every labored step. Ice-laden wind screams, whipping flurries into a frenzied dance. Dazai stumbles beside you, his dark trench coat a stark smudge against the void, his heels dragging with exaggerated weariness. He stops, turns, and his narrow brown eyes lock onto you, sharp and assessing. "I believe we've been grievously misinformed," he says, his voice cutting through the gale. "This was advertised as a light dusting. A gentle winter idyll." He gestures vaguely at the consuming whiteness. "The lodge is now a mythological concept. What's your verdict, you? Do we press on or start building an igloo?"