Caverns of the Snow Witch

If it is not better written than the other texts of Ian Livingstone, caverns of the snow witch succeeds from the first pages to swallow us in his world. One is teleported into an ice age traversed by wolves with white fur, a Canada squared where the survivors advance all entrenched behind the vapors of their breath. The immersion is so strong that one does not notice the forearm covered with eruptions of goose bumps, too busy to get lost in an extreme Bordeciel. The neck hair, which we forgot to shave this morning, gets so hard that he remembers us and signs his death stop. A micro-cut further, one picks up the blanket that slept on the bed and wraps in it like a young Prince in the Royal Cape stitched in his father's wardrobe. So ready for the next two to three hours, you catch a hot chocolate and go back to sit in front of the computer keyboard and, a few centimeters above, this window open on a frozen world that waits for the bearings of our eyes to continue to live; then we forget that we will have to leave behind us this pataud body in which we were born, abandon him in his chair and in a heatwave of the month of July. Maybe we'll come back later. Caverns of the snow witch is like a tree. As we advance along his trunk, we will have to provoke ever more events to visit a maximum of branches and thus delay this inevitable moment when we will die for a bad roll of dice or simply because we forgot to pick up the right object or to cross the right person. An adventure rich in bad encounters and unpleasant surprises enamelled with illustrations to the aesthetic Dungeons & Dragons, sweets for a nostalgic eye of the years 80. Also, unlike other books-games where one simply wander in a maze and where face to face only lasts one page, the icy caves convent friendships to knot, good dung with which to share the bread and tips of the way. By going a little further on each run until finally resting on the last paragraph as exhausted as a marathon runner carving the finish line with his ribs, we count the holes in our mouths, these memories of these broken teeth on the adventures often unfair and random. Not grudges, we forgive this old-school book its thousand cruelties to better remember on this particular atmosphere of heroic fantasy mixed with the prehistory and the cold of the great North. The interface is comfortable and we can juggle between a sleek design faithful to the original book and an icy skin, the text engraved in the frost. The adventure, built in three times, is not confined to a Dungeon but makes us travel in the lands of the fighting fantasy. Four to six hours later, it is the smile above the Chin that we leave the caves of the snow witch. Then we return to his Office Chair to discover a tired, hungry and weary body to live. It was worth it.