I used to wish I can witness snow. Like actual snow. The way people described blizzards, and the snowfall, sounded beautiful. But it isn't. It's a cruel, cold thing. It's been about a week, and we can't even see the sky, as if some god put a heavy blanket over the sun. White and grey swirls is all we see.
Rhodri, the man that cut off his ear died in his sleep, his skin a bluish sort of purple. Our wood and food is running out, perhaps will last a few days longer. We think we turned west, at this point. We aren't sure, without the sun or moon to be our guide, we had to fucking guess. Though I still think we are going west, and that is what we need. West, then south.
I honestly feel bad for the men, they wanted a fight, not a damn hike in the snow. The sooner we reach Carn-Dum, the better. Hell, our banners are frozen stiff too. More men died in their sleep, maybe about fifty men lost now in total. We salvaged the lead bullets from their pouch, the slings, axes. The Dead can keep the armour and shield, though. We might be close, or far. Yet we'll still march, and I'll be damned if battle and being bathed in blood doesn't sound like a blissful dream. We're all angry, we were before, but now it's all we want. A chance to kill, slaughter.
The wood is running low. So is the meat. The swirls of ice and snow are friend not foe. What? No. I forgot the gate open. Heh, no, no..It's closed. I miss the red, but orc blood is black. Fade to black..No. Gleaming bright. Yes. That. Taking deep breaths through ones nose fills his lungs with frost, and it hurt the first few times, though, the grey..We met a broken tower, long abandoned. We're near. We want warmth. We want war.
