IC: Darkness descended on the dying valley, and for the first time in ages, a terrible cold as well. It was not anything beyond what Ashilda and Hex were used to out in more southern settlements, but it was strange and unusual here.
When dawn came it arrived crisp and cold, just as the night had promised. Their wounds made them stiff and sore, but unlike many of the inhabitants of the valley, they were alive and carrying on to a new day. Their meager camp provided them with some shelter and warmth, and there was a great deal of wood and fuel for a fire if they desired.
A savage storm blew in that morningtide. There was very little snow, but there was a great deal of icy wind, which caused them to wince and blink against the freezing chill. It cleared quickly however, and the rest of the day was sunny and clear. Their movements were hampered by the wind and their wounds, so they hunkered down for another day, hoping that the next new day would bring them more freedom to move onwards towards their goal.
Hex and Ashilda found the dogs and the sleds the next day. The dogs had all huddled together and when they caught scent of the two hardy women they began to bark and whine happily. They joyously greeted the pair with playful jumping and nipping at the women and each other. It appeared as if their possessions had been blown about by the fury of the wind of the previous morning, but nearly everything had been recovered by mid-day.
They settled in for a lunchtime meal and then began their trek in earnest in the early afternoon. Perhaps in contrast to the storm of violence and death of previous days, the weather seemed to be cooperating. It was clear and cool, which made for good travelling with the dogs as they bounded and ran across the snowy tundra, blissfully performing the job they were happy to now have again once more.
It was late in the day when they came across the tracks in the snow. They were not made by any man, but were likely the result of several great bears of the north. Over a wide plain they had come, and the line of the trail could be seen for miles in each direction. The dogs began to whimper and whine and struggled against the harness as they caught scent of something. Perhaps a hundred paces away a small mound could be seen in what was essentially a flat sheet of ice where they now travelled. The dogs were mad for it, pulling and straining to get to it.
When they reached it themselves, it was plain and obvious that it was the body of a man. Snow and ice had to be brushed away, but this man was clearly not Ortus, his thick beard disproved that right away. He had also been dead for several days, too long for even the bears to take any great interest in him. His dress was that of a miner, or perhaps a tradesman, and he was an escaped slave to be sure. The markings of Clan Melorka were upon him, and plainly spoke such.
The harsh climate of the north claimed many lives almost daily, but this was something odd and unexpected. There was no evidence of how this man had gotten out this far unaided and alone, or the frequent snows had masked it easily. Night was falling fast now, and the chill breeze blew across the plain.
Gymir's Talons loomed large all around them and the body of a dead man without any future perhaps loomed large in their thoughts.
Sorry I didn't get to this sooner, Hex - we had out-of-town friends drop in unexpectedly on the weekend and I've been playing tour guide! 