As Miss Adri and I edged the horses up the slope of Redhorn Pass, which started with gentle rumpled red-stone hills, but grew stark black-grey and steep fair soon, the rain felt colder, and it met the wind coming down from the peaks, blowing it into our eyes. The welcome that Hollin had shown us started feeling like a dream. Not for the first time on this journey, and surely not for the last, I had to argue with myself to keep my thoughts here, on the path, on the next step, on keeping the horses from spooking or veering too close to the sharp drop to our right. Each blast of cold rain in our eyes seemed to drive me elsewhere, either behind or ahead. Behind, to the new home in Bree-land I would return to, to the people I love there. Ahead, to the unknown of the Dwimordene, shrouded in legends of its Witch and the madness she drives men to, legends I've learned are false, but that learning don't got no power to drive away the chill in the blood from tales told around a fire at night.
Almost straightaway we had to dismount to guide the horses on foot, to keep them closer to the mountain's heart at our left, from which cold and dislike seemed to pour off in equal measure. As much as the mountain, Carrot-thras, seemed unwelcoming, the yawning gulf on our right, dim with the gray of clouds and rain, offered open, eager arms. The shower thickened and became something that was neither rain nor snow, and we couldn't tell where the sun stood anymore. There was nothing left, amidst the grey and white, but that frowning stone on one side, and the eager embrace of the nothingness on the other.
We paused to change into our furs, trying to do it huddled between the cliff-face and our horses so we wouldn't get soaked during the few moments between peeling off armor and hurriedly tugging furs into place. Then we pressed on. For all that the sky was aswirl with snow, it was just barely chill enough for any of it to linger on the path, and the furs felt too hot, even after we'd climbed for some time. And the wind, while steady and unrelenting in driving that snow into our eyes, was not so harsh or driving as to push us towards the plunge beside us. We continued on, though we could not easily tell how far we got, and then when there was a wide spot in the path, we made what camp we could in the shadow of one sturdy tree.
Morning dawned bright, clear, and cold. The wind still dropped from the peaks and hurried past us on its way to Hollin, no doubt seeking the welcome of that place; I felt sure when it arrived it would transform into a light zephyr that would set the new spring leaves aquiver. Even the cold seemed like a boon, making the furs feel just right. The rest of the way to the peak, we had no more than a smattering of dancing snow in our eyes, and my thoughts stayed clear and focused.
Keeping the horses on the narrow path and away from the drop took almost all of our attention and my skill. And that with Kestrel lending his equine authority to the endeavor, staying tall at the front with his purposeful stride that drew Twilight and Muffin in his wake. How much more challenging this crossing would be on the return journey, without Kestrel's help, was a worry that I tucked away to chew over another day. The peak was in sight now, where the pass crested and began to fall away. We would camp there, and on the morrow, we might get our first glimpse from above of the Golden Wood, beautiful and menacing, shrouded in uncertainty.
((OOC: This story is being posted at a vastly accelerated rate to make up time, because its start was delayed significantly for OOC reasons.))
