[X] Find Ciara and get her to start the fire.
Your stars are right. This task is beneath your dignity. You need your subordinates. You need Ciara.
THE CAPTAIN: This is not what I've meant-
Resolutely, you stand up and face the door to the frigid outside.
THE SORCERER: You can't be serious.
You step forward, already drawing your cape closer around you. This will hurt.
THE SORCERER: Stop. Do you have any idea what this is?
THE GAUNTLET: This is sacrifice.
THE SORCERER: No.
The door opens with a groan of rusted hinges. Mountain wind hits you with full force; brightness of the day too blinding to bear.
THE SORCERER: This is worse than failure. This is worse than defeat. You wield the power to shift the course of the sky itself, the amazing cosmic furnace of Sidereal might! At your fingertips, there are the very reins of Fate, threads by which destiny itself is spun...
It's so bright. You open your eyes into narrow slits, then immediately close them again. The gale offers you no pity - and yet, you must step forth all the same. Into the frenzy of the elements, into this forsaken realm of stone, snow, and death.
THE SORCERER: ...and still you refuse to wield it. What broke your soul, pray tell, that you have become afraid of yourself? Will you abandon everything that made you next, and turn to life of a rustic monk, of a blabbering simpleton that others will point at and laugh, saying "this here once was a sorceress of renown, and look now what became of her"? Turn back now. Face your inadequacy and conquer...
Tentatively, you open your eyes again; the day shines with impossible luminosity, the snow around you gleaming with white fire. You breathe in, the crisp winter air almost painful to breathe. And yet-
THE SORCERER: ...there are spirits of primal flame you can summon. Demons you can bind to your will. If you wanted to, you could split Creation apart like a shell and drink incandescent heat straight from its molten heart. If you wanted! But what do you want? I will tell you, what you want is...
The cabin sits at the bottom of a round valley, surrounded on all sides by steep ascent towards peaks likes teeth of some great titan of old. Your eyes rise towards them; stripped white with patches of packed snow, cut sharply against the brilliant blue of an empty sky, they strike something inside of you. Words like "magnificent" or "sublime" come to your lips, and you discard them all, content to silently admire one of Creation's many crowns.
THE SORCERER: ...and what, then, becomes of those who turn away and recant? They are driven to madness by the enormity of their failure. For the rest of their miserable lives, they fear sleep, because to sleep is to dream of what could have been had they only taken their chance - and this dream is all that remains of the greatness that could have been theirs. This is what awaits you. This is where you...
People often think of mountains in winter as this dreary, grey-and-white affair. But if you only bother to learn, to see, you can find so much more. Splashes of deep green where mountain pine clings to the valley-sides, the celestial blues of ice, the rainbow fire that the sun can draw out of the snow-
THE SORCERER: Are you even listening?
No. You're admiring. You wonder how the valley would look higher up from one of the slopes; when you squint, you can just about make what appears to be a narrow trails that could be navigated up its apparently impossibly steep face - and without climbing, even. Of course, that would be terrifically dangerous, especially with the ice, but perhaps worth the risk. Still looking up, you scan the sides of the valley for signs of avalanche threat, but no, not here. Those slopes are far too steep for snow to build up, and besides there just too little of it - just a thin, white veil thrown over the indomitable stone.
THE LOVERS: Beautiful, isn't it?
Yeah.
THE LOVERS: Mountains, too, will never love you back.
You know. That's not the point. You close your eyes and bow your head in a quiet tribute to the summit-gods of this place. When you open them again, you search for Ciara, who happens to be sitting right by the door, back propped against the cabin's log wall. She gives you an inquisitive half-look, but seems more concerned with the very long and very ornate silver pipe hanging from the corner of her mouth.
CIARA: "Don't catch a cold."
[ ] "The fire's gone out. I think I'll freeze. I need help."
[ ] "Weren't you supposed to be preparing for battle, not smoking?"
[ ] "Do you think we could climb that mountain? The one with a crack through it that looks like a scar?"
