Whitefish River into your heart, into your soul

though a cough still lingers, ingram no longer feels like he's on the void's doorstep with the grimreaper breathing down his neck.

despite this, he'd dreamed of it's rancid, putrid breath like thousands of rotting corpses; warm like the fires of hell curling upon his face.

startled by this, the dreadfather ignores the desire to consult his threadbones; avoiding them as if they carry the source of the illness that had plagued him.

strength returns as he pushes through the early dawn glow and soft, light snow that collects upon the frozen earth and along his back, following the snaking whitefish river.

he draws in a deep breath, the first time in a while that he can do so without a horrible coughing fit. a small tickle flutters in his throat, but he is able to chase it away with a soft clear of his throat.