"Forget arresting them," Ithacles said at Vedette's back. "I'm just strapping them to a dogsled and shoving it down the pass. Any man that survives is free to go."
People that said you get used to it were full of shit. He'd lived here all of his life. He was first to volunteer for long patrol and had led more than one excursion to the peaks. And he wasn't used to it, not at all. His skin flinched at every frigid breeze. Frost clung to the grey cowl of his wolf's fur hood. Vedette didn't seem to notice that all off frozen white hell was attempting to slow them solid.
It only made him move faster.
He had his sword. Across his back was a heater shield, painted bright glossy yellow. A black falcon was hidden beneath a dusting of heavy powdered snow. And in his hand was a long thin walking stick. He used it against rocks and soft patches of uneasy earth.
And if he was covered in an avalanche, he'd be able to shove the painted tip up through the snow. Hopefully someone friendly would see it.
He paused, reaching the same landing as his friend. He caught his breath, chest hot beneath the heavy cloak.
"Well, can't accuse of them of being lazy."
He examined the landscape above. Patches of green peeked out from beneath blankets of snow, the branches of tall evergreens. To his left he saw the tracks of a large hare. He turned around, looked down over the valley below. In the waning last rays of sun he could see small clusters of houses, smoke curling up from their chimneys just as breath fogged from his nose.