A Dance With Flame

Chapter One: Frost

Author's Note:Princess of Snowdrops - SubZero OST

Enjoy!

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~:THE NORTHERN MAINLAND...:~

Many like to assume they know what war is. They picture it so clearly in their heads: men littering the fields of battle with their blood and lives, while the victorious leave nothing but devastation in their wake---villages and cities pillaged, the very foundations of stone and wood submitting to the ferocious, unrelenting appetite of the fire, devouring everything and everyone encompassed...

They become somber, knowing that there is a very real possibility that the men who are sent off, whether it be a father, a son, a husband, or a brother, will most likely never be marching home.

However, while this is part of what war is, there is another portion many don't even know exists...and it is the mundane side of it.

The vast majority of war is...inactive of sorts, with generals busying themselves with the organization of their troops next moves while the soldiers themselves prepare their weapons and rest for the next battle, and there isn't a more perfect example than the Azure Nation's base of operations.

Deep within the shadows of a formidable yet unwelcoming mountain range, a vast war camp bathed in darkness and flying the torn banners of the Cerulean Clan find themselves at the mercy of the elements of a harsh, unpredictable late winter. The soldiers hope and pray for spring to come, but are painstakingly aware that the seasons do not work on their time.

There is nothing harsher than a cold, moonless winter's night. As strong, howling winds blow, the jets of air brings not only a stark, hazy veil of snow but the cruel nature of this hostile, frozen period in the north. Currently, almost all of the mainland is occupied by the enemy, leaving what remains of the Cerulean Clan's hold on the mainland scarce and lacking in resources.

The mountains have been...unreceptive to the presence of the war effort thus far. The caravans have had substantial trouble trying to navigate the treacherous terrain and pushing through the onslaught of winter storms while also, in the same breath, trying to avoid the enemy at all costs. This, ultimately, has left the troops without supplies, starving, and lacking so much as a glimmer of hope driving them forward.

Many find themselves huddled around feigning fires. Others assign themselves to the daunting chores of everyday camp life. They feed the horses if there is enough grain to do so; they sharpen their steel and mend the tears in their thick, winter clothing, utterly desperate to try and find a way to ignore the cold, stabbing ache plaguing their bones.

But, inevitably, each and every eye drifts to the commander's tent, gazing at its equally worn and withered tent. They find themselves just the tiniest bit envious of its spacious size, but resign that jealousy in favor of their warmer, less breezy shelters. All who find themselves with the misfortune of being here begrudgingly wait, feeling the curiosity eating away at them from the inside out...what could the generals possibly be discussing at a time like this?

What could they possibly be discussing when the Azure Nation's defeat is almost a guarantee?

The general's tent rests in a dark shroud of shade---a darkness crafted by the slumbering trees encompassing it----while lantern light pools from the structure's slightly ajar opening. From within, they can hear what can only be described as a man in desperation...

And that sound is of heavy palms hitting wood.

"DAMNIT! HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED!?"