Moonspear the cold and the bare grasped

In her wake at the vantage point, Dirge let his facial features twist slightly. Generosity was the wrong word? He thought it a bit fitting, albeit tongue-in-cheek at best. At least they didn't rend flesh from bone with every little infarction at their border, but he imagined the numbers were close. He stayed with the topic in thought as he joined her to survey, and by then his features had settled to neutrality.

And similar to the last time he had laid eyes on such a place, it was void where he anticipated deep paths through snow drift and bank alike. No sign, no hint, not even a trace that something particularly large and worthwhile had come to cross their path.

"Merciful, then," he rejoined in decision, "we are what this season seems to be not."