Whitefish River as the crow flies

All along the coast there was cold, and there was wet. It came sweeping over the river-top or, as the days progressed, fell as shards of ice in sleeting rain. When the cold grew stronger this transitioned to snow and was much easier for her to traverse.
Something about those tiny flecks of ice pelting down or being blown back across her face was too aggressive; she had ducked beneath the sting of it, and was glad when the fluffy motes of snow replaced them. A cold snap was on its way and soon it would be too cold even for snow, and by then Wilwarin hoped to have found herself a safe place.
She felt a nagging feeling in her belly that something was soon to change within herself, and she did not like how deeply unnerving the sentiment resonated.