Under skies washed out and gray, wrapped in wet snow flurries, we journey onwards. Ice balls threaten to grow between toes, slashing paw pads till they bleed frozen.

Between the Cairns marking the Pass, we traverse the dead land. Rhythms from raising pawed limbs in a plodding gait and panting frosty breath. Never pausing. Never. To halt is to sink into the eternal depths of Entropy.

Snatch a vole while you can. Fuel the internal fire and hold off the Cold for but a while.

Travelers of the Cold