The going was slow. Only twenty six miles outside of Faustben's capitol and the sun had almost been entirely swallowed by the jagged peaks around. The path here was shape like an aqueduct, with their horses standing at the bottom of the U-shaped channel. On either side steep banks of white snow, the bony remains of low shrubs poking out here and there like fingerbones searching for living air. And then there were the tall pines and firs, thin, wiry, and laden with shimmering powder. The whole thing dropped and opened up a mile down the road and one could peer down into a vast forest covering a mountain valley. The path disappeared somewhere beneath that dark timber carpet of evergreens.
Ithacles rode in the front. His shield, freshly painted once again, hung on his left arm. It was much like the banner that the man behind him carried; a bright bumblebee-yellow and midnight black. No one had really said anything for hours, preferring instead to hunch down into their cloaks and furred scarves. When finally the cold purple sun disappeared, they'd be forced to build fires.