Frigid winds howl in shuffling, rhythmic waves. It's trying to sweep us off this mountain like specs of dust.
I love the cold. How it nibbles at my skin, trying to attack my warmth from underneath my furred cloak, always keeping me in motion. Complacency is antithetical to my existence. Always stay in motion.
Seriously, it's quite bewildering how the Landeskog faction managed to scale this, especially within the first few days.
Obviously, it smells like foul play to me. The classic aristocratic, pathetic kind of cheating—probably from the King himself, on the distant Oak of Augustus, staring over the islandwith a martini in one hand and a courtesan's tit in the other.
The golden child doesn't have to frollick with the lower nobility on the ground in poor circumstances; no, he gets to live it up in a castle. Fuck you.
