Duskfire Glacier if thine is the glory

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Rain, rain, rain and more rain. It was not a huge bother, many a night did the woodland man travel in the cold, wet rain but the aura of his home felt gloomy. The usual beauty of the sun casting God rays through the colored leaves that adorned the trees was gone. In its place, muck, sludge and sickly grey slush coating the ground as water carried dirt and debris into their lands, then of course the sharp black that hovered over him. Rye wouldn't call it a pleasant day, even before he set out to speak with the Alpha of the Glacier about his daughter. It was damn near impossible to track the leader through the muddled scent, drowning in the rain much like the hotahs pelt, which only added to the difficulty as he could partially smell himself. All the dirt of days before being thoroughly washed from his skin as the rain bombarded him with such ferocity, such hatred. 
The trail began strengthening, a stable line to follow to his leader had formed. Rye thought surely it was only a matter of a few hundred feet, his pace quickened but as abruptly as the lightning formed was he halted in his tracks. The clash of earth and heavenly power boomed in his chest, rattling his hearts cage and seemingly shaking the floor below. Its power ripped fear through his core and for the moment, he waited in place. Minutes later a smell danced across the mans nose, frighteningly familiar, Rye checked his body to see where he had been burned but was surprised to see nothing. Not a tuft of fur out of place. The smell, burned flesh. A smell painful to remember, the burn mark on his leg throbbed as he tried to figure out why the had smell returned. To haunt him? Curiosity pushed Rye forward as links began to form. Wintersbane. Faster.  The lightning. Go faster! The smell. Run, faster! What were the odds? They cannot be so high, surely. 
The scene was everything he feared, charred skin, exposed delicate flesh and melded fur amongst it all. The aftermath of horror unfurling before his eyes, unyielding to the rawness of Winters situation. Ryes head lifted, his muzzle howling for help, fear stricken, but he wondered how far his voice would carry amongst the anger of the sky. Perhaps it was hatred after all.