Nimbus Summit and that hell had carved its name on his bones.

The low rises and ridges of the peak were wrapped in a cloak of downy plumes, like heavy clouds fallen to the earth. The white smoke crept slowly along the winter-hardened loam, curling about the umber warchief's ankles and concealing his broad, smooty paws from sight. 

His limp was almost invisible now, his recent injuries half-scabbed but still a bit fragile to the touch. Food was scarce on this godless summit, home only to crumbling shale and veils of fog. El hijo de las tormentas had had no intentions of stopping to rest here, not until he stumbled over an unseen stone and tugged the knitted tissue in just the perfect way to reopen a deeper gash on his shoulder. 

Cursing in the southron tongue, Matias stopped and cast a cursory glance at the wound. He choose to halt his travels just long enough to tend to the crimson trickling from the broken scab, creeping towards his forearm in ruby trails. How anticlimactic it would be of the Sergeant to up and die of a mere infection now. 

Craning his neck, distorting the tree limb scars of lightning along his throat, the Peacemaker dutifully lapped at the droplets to clean them from his mocha pelt.