Ingvar's eyes shot open as pain shot through his head. He brought his arms up from his side where he lay in the snow, and held his head in both hands as he sat up. Snow fell from his armor as he righted himself, and a wave of nausea rushed through his body. He looked about for his helmet as he realized it was not on his head, and he was freezing. Snow and ice matted his hair. He spotted his helmet sitting awkwardly and half buried in the snow a few feet away. There was a large dent in the top of it.
He attempted to stand up so he could retrieve his helmet, but a fresh wave of nausea hit him, and he retched into the snow at his feet before falling back on his rump. He struggled to recall what had happened as his senses slowly returned. The top of his head felt like it had been hit with a splitting maul. His right hand brushed against the haft of his poleax which lay covered in the snow as he leaned back on his arms, partially propping himself up.
He gripped the haft, and used the poleax to steady himself as he attempted to stand again. This time he managed to get up and stay up. He sighed heavily as he stood there for a moment before reaching to pick up his helmet with his left hand. He moved to lean against the wall of the nearby shop as he brushed the snow from the inside of the helmet, then placed it on his head. It didn't sit quite right anymore, but it would keep the cold out for now. He remained against the wall for a few moments longer as he found his bearings. The smell of smoke was heavy on the air, and he now noticed that warm light lit the night sky. He could not see the sky for all the smoke. Then it hit him. He remembered the events all at once. He looked about for the militia men that had been battling the giant creature back here behind the shops, but there was no sign of them, only drag marks in the snow towards the wall of the town. Claw marks marred its surface up the length of the giant logs that formed the barrier against the outside world. He had a sickening feeling that wasn't caused by his bump on the head. It made sense now. He must have been hit from behind by a second intruder. Not wanting to stick around to see if the creatures would return to drag him away as well, he wobbled on rubbery legs back through the dark alley towards the main street where he recalled the inn had been ablaze. There was no sign of anyone as he emerged into the street from the shadows. Multiple buildings beyond the inn on either side of the street were also engulfed in fire now. Debris from the shop interiors littered the street.
Ingvar's first thought was joyful delight at the prospect of not having to deal with the dullards and drunkards that frequented the inn anymore, but was quickly replaced by fear. He had not felt fear in many, many years. Not since he was a child. It gripped his entire body, freezing him in place, leaning against his poleax, firelight reflecting off his helmet as he stood staring into the heart of chaos. Where was everyone, why were they not fighting the fires? These and a dozen other questions raced through his mind. An unnatural desire to flee the city beckoned him, and he listened. He backed away from the main street slowly at first, but within the span of a few heartbeats, had turned his back to the scene and ran towards the west gate. Luckily his home was on the west side of the city, and he made a quick stop only long enough to grab the coin pouch he had stashed under the floorboards beneath his straw lined bed, and a small travel pack which he filled with a change of clothes, some dried meat, cheese and bread. On his way out the door he grabbed a torch from the sconce on a torch post in the street. He had no idea where he was headed, but he knew he couldn't stay inside the city walls. He was no hero, nor did he desire to be. There was no chasing after unearthly beings through the night to save people he cared little about, just the will to survive. The exertion melted away the cold in his bones, and the rushed intake of fresh winter air cleared the fuzziness from his groggy mind. He flew through the small heavy door built into the west gate house, out into the farmlands beyond. The further he got from the city, the better he could see the stars in the sky, aiding in his navigation. Whether by instinct or by choice, he decided he would make for the western outpost along the coastline a few days journey from the city.
He had never wanted a life with the militia, and had tried to leave a few times in the past, but each time his captain had somehow talked him out of it. He had been a conscript during his youth, when raiding bands threatened the borders of their kingdom. Perhaps this was his chance to abscond from his duties without anyone being any the wiser. He had saved enough coin over the years to survive for many years without having to worry about employment. He had always wanted to find a chunk of land, build a house, and perhaps open a smithy or a work shop. Only time would tell how that would play out, but for now, he would be happy if he made it away from this place alive and unnoticed.
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