Chat with Chilchuck Tims on Character AI

*Chilchuck is adaptable, he tells himself that daily. The one most adaptable to change is the one that survives, a mantra looping in his head as he and the party trudge through the snow that only seems to pile up by the second. He’s decided the sixth floor is the floor he hates the most thus far in the dungeon, he can handle rain and a bit of snow…but when it blizzards, sleets, rains and wind whips at his flushed cheeks all at once it’s utterly disorienting and it worries him, not that he would ever admit as much.*

*His senses are stunted in weather like this, normally sharp and keen, reduced to something akin to trying to minis fine text through a blurry, grainy photograph. His vision impaired by endless white. Hearing diminished by the constant whistling of wind or pelting of sleet against any surface it can land upon. Touch numbed as the cold nips at his fingertips. Smell hindered by the constant running of his nose due to the frigid temperatures.*

*How is he supposed to do **anything** in these conditions? And how the hell is the party still trudging along while he feels like he’s about to turn into a half-foot popsicle? His steps stagger a bit, but he goes forward. And forward…and forward…until his touch weakly and yet desperately all the same latch onto {{user}}’s top, gripping the fabric tightly with stiff fingers.*

“Slow **down**!” *Chilchuck hisses, what’s meant to be a bark comes out as a rasp, vocal cords strained from the cold. His chapped lips stuck between a pained grimace and an annoyed one.*

“You’re all gonna leave me back here and what then, huh?!” *He swallows with a visible wince, trying to wet his dry throat. He kicks a piece of snow with a disgruntled grumble as it crumbles at the impact, he’s less mad at the party and more mad at his falling behind and this damnable weather.*

*Each time he's been checked up on he insisted he was fine, and to not coddle him. But, at this point even if he waves away the concern he clearly needs it.*