Story comp - the Sto Helit Team's Story

A long time ago a greedy man struck a deal with Ice Giants, to destroy three of the God’s temples. Upon doing this he received the priceless ice diamond ‘Alk Yaazir’. However the Gods, as punishment, tied his bloodline to an unbreakable curse. Generations on, his descendant attempts the impossible, in a last resort situation.

The sun slowly began to rise over Ankh-Morpork, largest city on the Disc. It’s sharp rays peeking through cracks in doors and streaming through the windows onto the sleeping masses. If we pull back, past the grubby warehouses and crooked homes that make up Ankh-Morpork, until the maze of winding streets are no more than a grey smudge on the Discworld, we can see Cori Celesti, the five mile high spire of ice and rock, that is home to the Discworld Gods. Two of them, Blind Io and Offler, were studying the distant figure beginning his perilous climb up the sheer rock face that was the last obstacle facing visitors to Dunmanifestin, the great marble realm of the Gods.
"He has come far." said blind Io, more to himself than anything. "Yefth." replied Offler, his speech hampered by the difficulties of speaking with a crocodiles head.
"What do you think he wanths?", Asked Offler.
Blind Io considered this for a moment and frowned
"I do not know. His ilk has always been...difficult to predict" with that he sunk back leaving Offler to look down upon the climber. A lady was watching over Offler’s shoulder with a concerned, sympathetic gaze.

A week after finding his great-uncles diary, Rigel Noseless clattered through the bits and bobs* that formed his luggage. This included an eighteen piece Disc-army knife given to him by a friend.
He was preparing himself the best he could, to do the impossible; that’s the problem with doing the impossible, it was impossible. But it was always better than the certain alternative. Especially in this case, as the certain alternative was death.
Death is, just about, the only thing you can be certain of, but Rigel was more certain than most people. His bloodline had a curse, resulting in a constant stream of bad luck flowing around him.
Rigels realization of having very little time left came from his uncle’s carefully worded obituary on Rigels ancient ancestors;
• Winder Noseless - Death by lightning bolt
• Scratcher Noseless - Had a mild case of deadness
• Rounder Noseless - Decided to stop breathing
• Sticker Noseless - Death by flying Cow
• Bowler Noseless - Squashed
This had somewhat dampened Rigels spirits at the time. He then read on to discover, that none of his ancestors reached age 20. Rigel was 19.

*There were definitively more bobs than bits

Footsteps sounding like a bag of soup tumbling down some stairs rolled up behind him “Good luck Deary” said the soupbag.
Rigel turned; it was 6 ½ feet short and appeared to have bought it’s clothes from the ‘old rag shop’.
“Err… thank you? Umm Mr?” attempted Rigel.
“Mr! Well I Never!” replied the offended and apparently female, stranger.
“Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to-”, apologized Rigel, ”-My name is Rigel”
She looked on plainly, like a robot waiting on commands
“My name’s Rigel”, he repeated, “and you are?”
He waited.
“I’m… no-one important” she croaked
Poor woman, she’s probably gone funny with age, like cornbeef.
“Anyway got to dash, need anything?”
She gestured to her untied shoes, “would you?” she pleaded. Why not, she’s an innocent old woman, she needs help. “Okay, why not”. He twisted his long body down to reach her soggy shoes. Tying a lion’s whiskers would be easier than sorting these noodles. He managed it.
“I really must go now…” he waited for some recognition of existence but received the plain look.
He started hiking up the mossy footslopes. Before his first night climbing he managed to find a reasonable ledge to slumber upon.

Rigel woke to unfamiliar surroundings. It’s as if the mountain is moving around me. He gradually shrunk in the eyes of the bystanders, encircling the mountain, below. This is high! I couldn’t have climbed this far, surely. He endured it, the cuts of razor-like hail, the clashes of slipping down icy rocks and the starvation he had to suffer until he could establish a means of nutrition.
Ten days later, the food was gone. Rigel collapsed around the corner.
No way, not right up here! Why?
Rigel was looking up at Mr. Fillets Hat Shop. You could find many strange things on the Discworld, and this was in at #7, just beating Rat Pizza’s #8.
“Hello?” pause “anyone?”
“Ooh hello”, said soupbag, “we weren’t expecting any customers, we don’t get many people in here”.
“Not many people? You are in a hat shop 1000 feet above land! I’d be surprised if you ever get anyone!”.
“Well now you say it business has always been a bit low, I’m afraid we only have one hat”, she indicated the thick wooly lump; “I am very poor you know”.
I can see that.
“How much?” he regrettably asked
“Five dollars”
“Deal”

That had been one of those ideas that you get under only 2 sets of circumstances..one was severe dehydration and malnutrition, as was the case here, the other is being under the influence of a large amount of alcohol at 4am, (Owners of kebab shops throughout the multiverse are well are of these factors and often try to enhance them, this is one of the reasons kebab meat seems to largly be made up of salt.)
Rigel looked contemptably at the now much battered and ragged hat. at least it had proved to be some use when he'd used it to distract one of the large and seemingly harmless bear he had encountered a few days ago. this was incidently also the reason the hat was battered and ragged..it seems mountain bears are not quite so easy to subdue into suitable mounts as lowland horses.
He sighed "onwards and upwards I suppose."

After another weeks climbing gone, Rigel's numb body swayed with the wind. His clothes were torn revealing the ice hardened skin battered by the hail. Not for the first time he collapses into unconsciousness.

As he crawled up a vertical rock to stand, he realized it not being there before he fell. He didn't entertain this thought for long as his mind was now simplified into one objective ‘Climb'. Whenever he began to drift into thought his mind commanded 'Climb', so he did.

His body was now conditioned into a non-responsive machine. His drunken vision only aimed at the next ledge, corner or slope. Tiny spiky shrubs hid the nutritious oily roots he had survived on, and they were the sum of any enjoyment he experienced. So he continued up the next ledge, round the next corner and up the last slope, regardless.

Was walking yourself too death better than walking yourself away from death?

He had no idea how long he had been climbing. With hallucinations going for a while, he had luckily stumbled upon an injured mountain hare. Poor thing, it won't last long here anyway. Sorry. The rock barely shuddered when it struck.
Yes! I brought my eighteen piece Disc-army knife. Thank you Albert Spangler for selling it to me! The first blade unfolded. Hah a spoon, unlucky. He retracted the second tool. Huh? I don't see how someone would need two spoons. There was a third spoon. Blast. Another spoon. Is there anything apart from spoons on this damn thing!!! Fourteen spoons later Rigel was sobbing and stabbing the Hare pathetically with a ˜Brass Soup-spoon. No, no nowowowoow! He did manage to cook the creature over a tiny flame from plant roots. Rigel thought, If you could eat sex it would taste like this after chewing the cold red meat that was his first meal in days. Damn Albert Spangler! he moaned snapping what probably is the Alk Yaazir of the spoon-fanatics world. Rigel continued his hike; there was nothing else, except certain death.
As he pulled himself up the next ledge there it was, his final hope.

“OH YE GODS!!!” He couldn’t express his joy, “PRAISE YE GODS!!!”.
Rigel was on his knees, tears melting the ice. He found the power to stand. His shaking body clattered to the great doors, which he threw his collapsing body against, in a last effort to be heard.
Air flowed into the great halls as the doors swung inwards dropping Rigel face down onto the warm welcome mat.
“Hey you! Get off you!” said the great figure to a small tearful broken face. “Come on! what’s the matter wid’ ya’!” Rigel managed to explain his story whilst in full paralysis.
“So What? Bugger Off! Its Poker Night!”.
Rigel Died.
“Help! Help!”, called Soupbags voice.
“You, quick, untie this, ma’ arm is losing blood, it’s gonna Drop! It’ll Kill me in this cold. Please Help!” she needs you, get up, get up! GET UP NOW!!!
Rigel rolled over to the grey arm, his numb fingers untying the tangled mess.
Its easier to untangle lion’s whiskers than sort out these soggy noodles. He remembered.
Rigel felt his dormant heart waking the still blood. He was revived.
As his eyes cracked open, he felt the energy to stand.
The old Hermit was changing.

She didn’t twist and bend like clay, she rose and shed layers like a majestic snake. The hunched Hermit had become a Queen, a God, a...Lady.
“Well done Rigel” said the Goddess. “I’m the Lady”
She saved me, the Soupbag. Now she’s a God!
“You came here seeking help, the chance to live. Like an old helpless woman, the Gods disregarded you. But I had to see if you were worthy, different to the Gods”
I can feel it, the stream stopping, the curse going
“You had the compassion to help the helpless. Now you are helpless and I will help. You deserve Life!”
She was testing me! To see if I would help others, I did, so others helped me. That’s how I’m different to the gods. That’s how I got up here so quick, I was moving in the night, I was moving up.
“Good luck Deary” she said fading.
“Err...thank you? Umm Lady?” She’d gone.
I wasn’t like the gods, I helped the helpless.
He’d done it. He felt like he could live forever.
“Couldn’t give me a hand getting down could you? You know ‘Help the Helpless’ and all that?” said a smiling Rigel.

END