Duskfire Glacier those of you who are last will soon be first

the morning is overcast; thick grey clouds obscuring the sky in a neverending sea of it. wintersbane casts a forlorn glimpse heavenward, considering that it might storm soon. he can smell the coming rains on the wind that drifts across the glacier; cool from where it picks up from the ice despite that the day itself is sticky with humidity. choking; almost.

its days like this — though the cool wind offers brief respite — where wintersbane resents his tundrian heritage. the mass of his body, the warmth of the heavy fur that keeps him well insulated in the winter months. he's shed, of course, for the warmer months but it doesn't feel like enough.

so he seeks the cool embrace of greyfall caverns, accepting the invitation of the darkness that invites him. he's considered more than once that it could work as a central denning site; at the very least it offered shelter against the weather.

the air, though a bit more musky and tangy with damp earth and rock, is significantly cooler in the caverns and is thus much more appealing to wintersbane than outside at the moment.