The day that follows sees you and Drazha riding slowly north under a bleak sky. The rocky valleys and moorland have given way to a high tundra, covered with a light but growing scattering of snow out of which jagged clusters of rock rise to tear at the gray sky overhead. The road you follow is now little more than a wide dirt trail, and there, in the bare earth of its surface, you can see the distinct imprints of the hooves of horses and the wheels of carts. Although the Tribe of the Red Bear is not in sight, it is evident that you are drawing close.
Your pleasure at this sight is short-lived, however. A storm front that has been approaching from the west is now upon you, and the clouds above finally relent, delivering their payload upon the ground below. The rain is fierce, whipped by the wind into a torrent of tiny daggers that drench your clothes and sting the bare skin of your hands and face.
"We need to find shelter!" says Drazha, her hair hanging across her face in dripping strands. "We can't continue in this!"
A little reluctantly, you agree, and follow Drazha off the trail to the nearest of the rock clusters. There, you find what might be called a cave, though that is a very generous description. In reality, it is little more than a fissure where one of the larger rocks—taller than two of your horses, and just as broad—has split in two. While it's certainly not the most hospitable of places, it does offer shelter from the storm, which continues to grow in intensity, and at the moment, that's all that matters.
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