The party barely has time to catch their breath before the attack comes.
The two massive shapes emerge from the swirling snow—abominable yetis, their white fur matted with ice and ancient blood, their eyes gleaming with hunger. The creatures tower over even Zilk, their roars shaking loose small avalanches from the cliffs above.
The party is spent. Spell slots burned. Resources depleted. But there’s no choice—they fight or they die in the snow.
“Not now!” Ratrick snarls, his small ratling body already moving, exhaustion forgotten in the face of mortal danger. His claws wrap around the familiar grip of his Dagger of Venom as he darts forward. He screams at one of the yetis, who gives ground. Nike follows this by hurling necromantic magic, a Cause Fear spell. They can see the creature’s eyes widen, and it stumbles as it attempts to flee.
The first yeti lunges at Ilya, who has hit it with an arrow. The creature’s massive claws close over one of the boy’s shoulders. He cries out in pain, feeling something rip. Something tears deep in his muscles and his arms go weak, the weapon nearly slipping from his grasp. Pain lances through him as he is hauled off his feet, seized and lifted by the yeti. He dangles, helpless, the creature’s hot foul breath enveloping him.
Ratrick seizes the moment. The ratling springs to drive his poisoned dagger deep between the yeti’s ribs and darts back. Once. Twice. Black venom pumps into the beast’s bloodstream, and it staggers, foaming at the mouth. Bellowing, it drops the wounded boy. Ilya shakily gets to his feet, pulling out the only weapon he can use with only one working hand, his quarterstaff.
And then the yeti unleashes a blast of cold through its open mouth. A wall of frigid air engulfs the party. A bone shattering frost sweeps over them, and Nike takes the worst of it. The rogue’s body locks up mid-swing, ice crystals forming across their leather armor, their skin beneath it turning blue. They drop to their knees, then collapse face-first into the snow, breath gone, heartbeat fading.
They are dying.
Crystal shouts the words of a Sacred Flame spell, her voice cutting through the chaos. From the heavens, a pillar of divine fire that engulfs the poisoned yeti. The creature’s fur ignites instantly, and it thrashes, shrieking as flames consume it. The smell of burning hair and flesh fills the frozen air.
Shaking its fear, the second yeti bellows in rage. Its chest expands, frost crackling around its jaws, and then it unleashes a devastating cone of pure winter—a blast of supernatural cold that tears through the party like frozen knives.
.
Zilk doesn’t stop moving. The bugbear is a shadow in the storm, ducking low, weaving behind the yeti. His blade finds the soft spots—behind the knee, between the ribs—each strike surgical, brutal, perfectly placed. He flows in and out, exploiting every opening.
But Nike is dying. Only seconds are left.
Shifty’s voice rises above the wind, a prayer torn from the deepest part of his soul. Golden light explodes outward from the small kobold cleric—Mass Healing Word, one of his final spells, stretched to its limit.
Nike gasps, color flooding back into their face. The healing magic washes over the party, knitting frost-burned flesh, restoring just enough strength to keep fighting. And each of the others feel the warmth of the arcane energy that binds some of their wounds.
“Burn it!” Ratrick shouts, venom dripping from his dagger. “They hate the fire!”
Biblo channels everything he has left. He ignites his Flame Tongue Trident, and when it finds its mark, the blaze races up the arms of the screeching yeti as it erupts in flames. He swaps his weapon for his enormous great axe and begins to attack the yeti, who weakly , ultimately falling into the snow, dying.
Crystal’s Sacred Flame ignites the second yeti, and this time Zilk is ready. As the creature reels from the holy fire, the bugbear drives hard, vanquishing the monster, which subsides into the snow.
Silence falls. Just the wind. Just their ragged breathing.
“Everyone alive?” Nike croaks, struggling to their feet.
“Barely,” Ilya mutters, his arm hanging useless at his sides.
Shifty collapses onto his tail, utterly drained. “That was everything. I’ve got nothing left.”
Ratrick wipes his blade clean on the snow, his dark eyes scanning the mountains around them. “Then we better hope nothing else finds us tonight.”
The party stands among the burning corpses of the yetis, their courage the only thing keeping them on their feet. They’ve survived—barely—but the mountain isn’t finished with them yet.
