This frigid mountain eats sound.
We're all silent. Waddling. Like sad little penguins. Where the fuck are the drums? This is a war march. There's no reason for this depressfest other than poor weather.
Misty snow drifts against us in slow, spiteful sheets of haze, whispering across our faces instead of the cozy black jagged rocks that comprise this mountain. Little gnats of snow pepper my skin, following the rolling winds. The cold reaps the warmth from my every exhale, but I run hot. The flame inside never flinches.
This treacherous hike is nearing it's end. The air is thin, and the mountain no longer seems to loom over us. A snowy valley with a party castle will greet us in no time.
Our current path has narrowed, up here at the top. It's now just a tad over shoulder-wide; on the left is an endless drop—slanted depths of gritty ice hidden behind fog.
