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The blizzard outside was a wild, angry thing. The winds were a deep, soulful wail echoing through the canyons of the mountains. Very briefly, Rael had stepped out of their shelter to see if he could ascertain anything in their snowed over surroundings. By the time he had given up just moments later, the ice and snow had already formed a brittle, frozen crust on his clothes and in his beard. The sky was blotted out by swollen clouds hanging low. They pressing in around the peaks of the FrostFall Mountains like a glorious and hostile cloak in a constant state of decay and renewal, expanding and ebbing as they hemorrhaged snow in great white bleeding gouts. “It’s frightening,” Silmaria told Rael, speaking of the storms. They sat, hip to hip, eating a meager breakfast and doing their best to ignore the incessant gnaw of hunger the slim meal did nothing to abate. “My whole life lived in the dale, and I’ve never seen anything like this.” It was true; blizzards and harsh winter storms were.

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