A lone heap of ragged grey amidst a howling sea of white, Nephilis haphazardly carved his way through the knee-deep snows of the mountain slope. It wasn’t often that he strayed this far from the sands, but something had been calling him and he wasn’t about to refuse such an invitation.
Ah, but the snows were treacherous. Possibly moreso than the desert, Nephilis struggled to keep himself warm, bundling himself in his cloak as tightly as his spidery limbs could manage, but still the stinging pain of wet ice seeped through his clothes, his flesh, and settled a deep ache within his bones. He gritted his teeth and shook some rather large flakes from his face. The sun was obscured here, so there was no need for his mask. He had thought it would be nice to spend some time without it, breathing in the cool mountain air, not accounting for the possiblity of a storm.
But a storm there was, and the poor fool was right in the midst of it. He stumbled and took refuge against a grave, gripping the top of it for support against the wind that whipped at his hair and mess of loose scarves.
Squinting as the cold air bellowed into his face, Nephilis finally surrendered and turned away, looking back the way he had came, shrinking against the tombstone, clinging to what little shelter it could provide.
Why had he been summoned here? The sensation was so familiar… as if there were something here that needed to be put to rest. Something stirring beyond its means, something mourning.