Many prior expeditions had failed to reach the pole, but that did not deter them, for it seemed just a matter of planning, provisions and grit. So they set forth and without too much trouble were now more than half way to their goal. It was then things started to go awry. They gradually noticed their compasses were ever re-aligning to indicate north as their direction of movement, even when heading opposite or orthagonal to the direction that should be north; it was likely a matter of unknown localized magnetic weirdness, they were no scientists, and figured it some aspect of magnetism they unaware of. It was no reason to turn back, and they could not imagine delivering such an excuse upon return, especially to their largest creditor: the crown. Then the dogs started acting skittish. They were in fact no more nervous than the men, but the men refused to obey mere instinct. There was a wrongness to this the place: this vast desolate expanse of ice and snow, a place nature had not built them for or ever intended them to go. Everywhere they went surrounded by an emptiness like the void of space. If previous expeditions were truthful then there should be some animals living here, but they saw none. At the same time they found themselves captivated by it's beauty: it's plains and mountains and clear skies were serene and majestic, and all covered in the soft twilight that during this season lasted for most of the day. There came a point where the dogs could not be persuaded forward at all, and instead turned and ran, taking their food and the means to make fire with them. This was a much better excuse, and the felt mainly relief despite the event's impact on their chance of survival, and began the trek back. But heading opposite their last direction proved difficult. Their compasses still indicated north. As they walked the weather grew ever colder and the sun lower. Their surroundings didn't seem to align with memory. The unspoken fear sunk ever deeper into their souls: that they were still heading north, that they could not help but head north. As they walked each silently ran the numbers. They would die of dehydration before long and of hypothermia even quicker if they tried eating snow. Without fire the hypothermia would eventually get them anyways. Those of their thoughts not focused on death were focused on the cold. The ever present, deep, deep cold. A cold that cut right through coats and skin and sinks all the way into the bones. It was never out of mind. There was only one thing to do. On they walked. They should have died of thirst weeks ago but somehow on they walked on, not even thirsty. The cold now occupied most of their thoughts and somehow did not kill them. Even if they were headed north they should have passed the pole and reached the opposite shore, but the compass still indicated their direction was north. The sun was now always lower than should be possible during this season: below the horizon. It coated the landscape in a flat grey. Time passed, they didn't count days any more, it could have been 2 weeks or 2 years. They had no explanations, it was too cold to think. As the leader reached the peak of a hillock he looked out on a scene he couldn't reconcile, and for a moment thought not even a little about the cold. wallpapers.com/images/high/gothic-computer-fezhie6yg4rk9xcl.webp
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SPOTIFY PLAYLISTS
Dungeon Synth playlists for every taste (Frog Synth, Dark Dungeon Synth, Chiptune Dungeon Synth...) - open.spotify.com/user/opzjp3rroa24tmvqdc6edald7?si=vO28A7xtQSOBMu87HAD08g
Intriguing listen
Many prior expeditions had failed to reach the pole, but that did not deter them, for it seemed just a matter of planning, provisions and grit. So they set forth and without too much trouble were now more than half way to their goal. It was then things started to go awry.
They gradually noticed their compasses were ever re-aligning to indicate north as their direction of movement, even when heading opposite or orthagonal to the direction that should be north; it was likely a matter of unknown localized magnetic weirdness, they were no scientists, and figured it some aspect of magnetism they unaware of. It was no reason to turn back, and they could not imagine delivering such an excuse upon return, especially to their largest creditor: the crown.
Then the dogs started acting skittish. They were in fact no more nervous than the men, but the men refused to obey mere instinct. There was a wrongness to this the place: this vast desolate expanse of ice and snow, a place nature had not built them for or ever intended them to go. Everywhere they went surrounded by an emptiness like the void of space. If previous expeditions were truthful then there should be some animals living here, but they saw none. At the same time they found themselves captivated by it's beauty: it's plains and mountains and clear skies were serene and majestic, and all covered in the soft twilight that during this season lasted for most of the day.
There came a point where the dogs could not be persuaded forward at all, and instead turned and ran, taking their food and the means to make fire with them. This was a much better excuse, and the felt mainly relief despite the event's impact on their chance of survival, and began the trek back.
But heading opposite their last direction proved difficult. Their compasses still indicated north. As they walked the weather grew ever colder and the sun lower. Their surroundings didn't seem to align with memory. The unspoken fear sunk ever deeper into their souls: that they were still heading north, that they could not help but head north.
As they walked each silently ran the numbers. They would die of dehydration before long and of hypothermia even quicker if they tried eating snow. Without fire the hypothermia would eventually get them anyways. Those of their thoughts not focused on death were focused on the cold. The ever present, deep, deep cold. A cold that cut right through coats and skin and sinks all the way into the bones. It was never out of mind.
There was only one thing to do. On they walked. They should have died of thirst weeks ago but somehow on they walked on, not even thirsty. The cold now occupied most of their thoughts and somehow did not kill them. Even if they were headed north they should have passed the pole and reached the opposite shore, but the compass still indicated their direction was north. The sun was now always lower than should be possible during this season: below the horizon. It coated the landscape in a flat grey. Time passed, they didn't count days any more, it could have been 2 weeks or 2 years. They had no explanations, it was too cold to think.
As the leader reached the peak of a hillock he looked out on a scene he couldn't reconcile, and for a moment thought not even a little about the cold. wallpapers.com/images/high/gothic-computer-fezhie6yg4rk9xcl.webp
That's what happens when you chase True North... Love it!
@@Ziggurath Thanks! I like your work by the way
Sensational.
Glad you liked it!