Silvertip Mountain short sleeves in the winter

Like Wraen, Absolute had spent a good proportion of his life living around rocky terrain, though he wasn’t nearly as well traversed in the climbing aspect as she was. Unfortunately for him, he was yet to spot the grey pelted girl and, after finding a disappointing lack of clearer paths, headed back to his rock pile and began to ascend.

The climb was arduous and slow going and, for once, the roamer despised his thickset frame. It kept him toasty warm nearly all year round, yes - he felt a slab of stone shift uneasily under his weight and swallowed heavily. Bounding the last few metres, Absolute paused to catch his breath. Before the wind changed. A new and unfamiliar scent was fresh on the chilly breeze and the yearling found himself stiffen - who? A small part of him hoped it was Dalia, but he knew left the seashore girl behind on the bay. Besides, he didn’t think it smelt like her anyway. The arctic settled uncomfortably down on his haunches as he began scanning curiously the various crags the mountain beheld, unmoving yet not quite relaxed, accurately aware that he had some sort of company.