Like how Dante wandered in the ninth circle of hell, Kyrie wandered through endless tundra. His mind was unsure if an eternity, minute, hour, or day had passed in this arduous journey. His steps were steady but slow.
His clothes were torn and ragged, and the shoes on his feet unraveled. The soles of his feet were no longer able to feel the cold as he walked. Just the vague sense of an objective kept him company; the world was silent around him as if dead. Maybe it had died and he was but a ghost wandering on its husk.
Kyrie's mind and body neared collapse from exhaustion, starvation, or cold itself, but he tried to proceed, even if an inch further. Drawing strength from faint memories, of a child who only accepted her imminent demise when she saw the outcome of her settlement and friends, but she fought to survive at every turn and hardship of fate.
