It was an impossible thing to describe.

The mountain rose up, angry and powerful, against the gods themselves. You could not believe that so much here could be green. Yet there was moss on the boulders that broke the goat-path. Grass, and shrubs. A smattering of evergreens here and there. Never more than a fistful. The deep lines of snow still stretched out in funnels that the spring thaws had carved over a thousand years. They would be streams, these packs of snow and ice, but today they looked like nothing if not the fingers of an otherwise-invisible god. Stretched out from the heavens to beat back the mountain's advance. That was how the story went. Eragos could almost see the wizened old man who told the story every year. Dancing atop that very mountain. As though its strength were in evidence to anyone who cared to look. He'd cackled, too, to scandalize the aunties and amuse the children.

"It's bloody cold," someone muttered.

"This is spring," Eragos laughed behind his mask.

( There were three others collected behind him. )