Howling Gales, Part Three

Two sunken eyes peered from under a dark hood. the darkened visage was bowed as the winds billowed past him. The fur lining bristled in the winds of the storm. Little shards of ice stuck to the fur clinging to its warm embrace. The hood billowed out catching the wind and if his head erred up his robes threatened to sail away like some oversized burlap kite. Far above the, heavens scowled upon this poor figure. The storm clouds had grown black and they loomed over this wondering shape. His steps left little craters in the snowy ground lasting only moments before a new batch of snow filled his tracks. His robes dragged behind him, sweeping just barely above the ground, the tattered edges a testament to days of sharp rocks and snowy vales. The staff in his hand, knotted and well worn plunged ahead marking its own small steps in the snow ground. The world was white around him. The misty fog of snow was marred only by the black of drop offs and of cold sharp rocks. As those sunken eyes swayed over the never changing landscape, the wayfarer picked up his foot and dented the icy snow once more.