The howling of the wolves pierced his ears far more keenly than the scything wind. His musculature was scarred and ruddied from years of brutal combat and even more brutal winters, the rugged Ostlander trudged through the muck with an almost obsessive stoicism. Cyrdic Becker, former sergeant of Elector Count Valmir von Raukov and now infamous soldier of fortune, was like a hound on the scent. Single minded and utterly implacable until something snapped him out of his focus. 

And yet this cold threatened to do just that, seeping into his powerful frame. He could feel it in his bones, and yet he wouldn't stop. The frost had even covered his signature scar along his left cheek, filling it in to the pore and crackling painfully if he ever moved his jaw. Somehow he found the will to keep going. Twenty miles was no long trek to a soldier. He'd traveled five times such a distance many times over the course of a handful of days. How could he stop himself now, when his old friend was in need of help? What man of the Empire would he be? 

He noticed his knee felt somewhat weak when he stopped and turned to Camilla. In the ice and wind, Cyrdic looked akin to a youthful, veritable warrior of legend, with his freshly grown beard covered in ice, his wolfish eyes unperturbed by the wind. Camilla looked much different, and very out of place. However somehow it only accentuated her charms. Not for the first time did he marvel at how beautiful she was, even with her face covered by the cloth, her eyes could warm him more than any fire. 

He sighed at her logic, and looked back at the distant crags, squinting against the wind and giving a low growl of frustration. Much like a man would make, only somewhat deeper as if from a secondary, more bestial source. Quickly, his old instincts returned to him, having been in desperate survival situations more times than most living men on campaign. He looked around, first at the snow filled muck before them, and then to the tree line along their left and right. 

"This way!" He said, taking her hand to keep her from slipping as they left the road. One slip here could make one frozen, and prove fatal. He helped her until they entered the very limited shelter of the sparsely wooded trees. If the landscape hadn't lied to them, they might find a cave or a thick copse of birch to huddle in and make a fire, Sigmar and Ulric willing. 

Even as the overcast sky grew dimmer, his eyes remained keen and aware. It was after even he nearly toppled from exhaustion that he found a small opening in one of the rises of the mountainous terrain. 

Shelter. 
[@Penny]