Moonspear cold mountain

The temperatures had dropped steadily, the brisk winds chasing leaves off frosted branches and tangling them in the thickest, choking grasps of the undergrowth below. Dirge didn't care much for the shift of the season that seemed to come too soon, but he knew that nature would always do as it deemed rather than what it was deigned to. That was left up to them and the rendering done by calamity after calamity; there were still no sign of herds rushing for safety in the forests beneath the crag's icy gaze.

He picked about and through the borders which were quiet again for a change, at least for now. With the shift of the weather and all that had been brought on, he couldn't help but wonder how longer that quiet would last, how long their solitude would hold out. A low fog curled where lingering snow clung, and the earth there was damp and heady like the great pines towering above.

Somewhere in the distance, something snapped. Whether it was a low branch or simply a surprisingly dry twig, he cared naught for either—his gaze fixed to a point beyond, a void where shadows were thick, and studied it for some telling sign or reveal. It was not a long wait but it was disappointing; a beady-eyed raven hopped about with a lonesome call in his direction.

Had hunger chewed him more, he would have considered it.

But not even the bird had its choice of meals lately either.

thank you for starting!