Sawtooth Spire But time makes you bolder

two days.
mahler had aged in that time. the slow shift of whitening hairs along his muzzle had accelerated; it was as if snowflakes had come to rest in small places that stippled his lips. eyes darkened by exhaustion, pelt uncombed and unadorned, mahler wore paths between nyx' den and the rendezvous where he kept phaedra.
on a whim, mahler glanced toward the reaches of sagtannet and began to climb, his abused paws cracking as he went. blood smeared the stones and onward he went, perturbed by the growing strength of takiyok's scent.
he found her asleep in a place that still brimmed with snow, and while mahler knew he must press on, must search for thade, must never end his search — he sank wearily some feet away, pressing his lacerated feet into the cold embrace of the drifts.