[color=gray]Day had been cast into an exceedingly white sheet, which blinded the senses in an impenetrable coat of snow. Amongst the stark isolation of the blizzard, it was hard to see anything by the whirling dervish of snow, hard to hear anything but the howling of the wind. The incessant gnawing of cold nips numbs any feeling one might have. There was a serenity to the bleakness, but those caught within were likely far from entranced.

Durge had long since separated from the main trail, knowing his kind where not welcome in civilization. He had traveled from the east for some time now, though a march was a more appropriate term for his steady pace. He had followed a dim game trail that seemingly followed a river whose name eluded him. The trail had vanished into the maelstrom of cold long ago, and now Durge struggled to find any semblance of direction. He had just cleared an embankment of snow in hopes of using the vantage point to see better, but all in vain. Indeed, his eyes were accustomed to the dark of night, but against the obstinate sheen of frost, he could hardly see what was in front of him. Despite it all, he remained undeterred. He had seen the storm coming for a while now; the grey, sunless days and the growing winds. Durge was a brute but no fool; he had prepared himself for this storm as best as he could.

Speculatively, he gargled the spittle in the back of his throat and released it onto the ground below, and his eyebrows raised in shock when he heard a loud crackling noise as it met with the snow below, rapidly freezing before his eyes. Once more, he spat, and to his astonishment, the loogie froze in the air before him. The storm had been expected, but Durge had not predicted such a wrathful flurry so suddenly. He guessed it to be at least twenty below. The cold clung to him, seeping through his layers of furs, through the mittens and jackets to nag at his bones. Even with his face wrapped in cloth, he could feel the numbness growing on him. His nose, his cheeks, the tips of his fingers, and nearly all of his feet. All of it had long since lost its sensation a long time ago. Tempted as he was, Durge dared not breathe into his mittens, using the heat from his breath to warm his hands. The moisture would be a death sentence in a blizzard like this.

Dauntless and indominable, the hefty man crunched the snow beneath his mocausins, shocked by the depth his feet sank with each step. His breath was growing heavy, and his march was starting to straggle out into a steady walk instead. He had made good progress, skipping meals and breaks; he could not stay out much longer. Still, the constant movement had helped keep him from growing too cold; the blood flowing was all that kept the cold at bay.

Durge took a path of least resistance, effortlessly gauging the rough terrain and using the same embankment he had climbed as cover from the wind before crossing the frozen river his trail had followed for so long. As he crossed to the other side, the ice gave way and dunked his food into the gelid water below, but Durge hardly gave it a second thought as he moved on. His high-wading boots kept the water from ever soaking into him. Durge knew cold, and he knew water; it was all his clan had ever known in their barren mire in the Arctic range.

As he moved forward, Durge noticed something different from the unyieldingly bleached horizon: a set of two tracks on the ground. They were nearly submerged in a fresh dusting of snow, but perceptible to the keen eye of an outdoorsman. The first was a set of a biped, one with shoes, likely a human. More unnervingly was that of the wolf that followed behind. Durge frowned as he followed the trail a bit further. A lone wolf, a desperate creature by nature and all the more forlorn in a desolation of ice and snow. He couldn't help but feel some pity for both sets: a human alone and likely stalked by a hungry predator with nothing to lose.

Without a proper direction of his own, Durge followed the trail. Perhaps he could still help whoever it was that was being trailed. If not, then he would continue the cycle of nature. His stomach growled at the idea of roasted wolf ribs. It was a stringy meat, but anything would do. 

The further he moved, the clearer the trail became, and the thinner the storm became. His unyielding pace had been reignited by this new lead. Before, he had been following a game trail in hopes of a meal, or perhaps to find a hunter's lodge or a frontier fort to sell his sword within. A set of human tracks where far more likely to be fruitful.

With the storm dying down, the sky opened up to Durge. It was afternoon by now, and in the sunless, greying sky, darkness had already befallen the land. The howling winds had all but ceased, keeping the sting of the cold at bay, but with the light of day rapidly fading, so did the heat of the vacant sun. Durge's eyes shone within the dark like a beacon. They were built to see in the dark, and this early winter dusk suited him fine. His pursuit of the tracks ended when he saw the smoke in the sky. The wolf had persisted all this time. Durge contemplated this fact as he moved towards it instead. His nostrils flared as he pulled down the cowl over his face, exposing the tusk-like teeth on his lower jaw as he sniffed the air for the stench of the smoke. The air smelled of the grease of a meal dripping onto an open fire, the sizzling flesh of a lean meat. He clocked the meal as rabbit even from far away, shocked it was not the wolf this stranger had no doubt slain.

Durge's fast pace slowed as he neared the fire. He could see the makeshift shelter and searched the area for further signs of life or any other tracks. Cautiously, he neared, his nerves on edge the closer he got. He had wanted this, wanted to find them, help them, guide them through the frost. Now that this stranger was within his grasp, though, he could not shake the sense that this was a mistake. He was an orc, a species reviled as a scourge to civilized man. To find one in the wilderness was to know death, an omen of looming destruction for most. So why would they want his guidance and help? 

Durge's stomach growled again, loudly, and without the howling of the wind to swallow up the sound. Perhaps it was he who needed help in this situation, but would they lend it? These thoughts swirled within him as he crept closer still but never entered the freshly made hovel. [/color]