The Sentinels die cast memories strewn aside

Winter. He hadn't put a lot of thought into it yet, though he was well aware of it coming. The days would dwindle soon, if not swiftly all at once, and the gentle touches of cold to the land would stay longer and longer. Truth be told, he didn't need to think about the coming winter because the world would always bring it back around to remind him like an annoying bug caught in his ear. But if there were one thing alone he had that the old crone didn't, it was still his youth. It would cost him, but Dirge was resourceful—and arrogant—enough to scrape by through a lengthy cold spell.

Still, with the numbers of the weald having certainly dwindled, and Nyx off on some adventure to boot, he had the realization that he too needed to think of his options. Lingering along the borders of the wilderness and coast could only sustain him for so long. His head raised to survey the scenery past them for a moment as he considered his reply.

”Mostly what I want, if I'm being honest,” he answered after a beat. ”Winter here is cold certainly, but I've been in colder. There's always warm bodies to group with if nothing else, and plenty of packs too.” The winter he had spent in the Wilds was nothing compared to the stint he had taken further north than that at the first of spring weather; he found he could tolerate cold so long as it wasn't as damp as it had been there.

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