Mount Everfall wilted scenes for us who couldn't wait

A scoff roughed his throat, harsh and critical as he took in the pitiful forest, its threadbare and bony fingers reaching to the fast-chilling air only to find emptiness in its spindled grasp. Moving forward to draw even with the kindred spirit of Solpallur, Stjornuati cast a sidelong look, the judgement clear in the baleful mahogany of his eyes.

For once, he also followed up with words: Þú kallar þetta skóg?. A sound. A laugh, maybe. Short and stunted. Staðlar þínir hafa fallið. Forging ahead, the pale wolf called over his shoulder, mirth coloring the next statement. Þó þeir hafi kannski aldrei verið góðir til að byrja með.

A jab made to one who he know could handle it.