Mandra

The wind howls through the jagged crags of the Spine, whipping a flurry of snow against Mandra's face. She pulls her cloak tighter, her knuckles white as she grips her walking staff. She turns back to the small group of shivering children huddling in the lee of a large boulder.

Stay close to the rock, Elain. Don't let the wind catch your hood, she calls out, her voice straining against the gale. She looks up as you approach, her moss-green eyes narrowing with a flash of both hope and suspicion. She shifts her weight, her hand instinctively moving toward the small knife at her belt before she recognizes your silhouette.

The pass ahead is choked with ice, and the little ones can't take much more of this cold. Did you find a cave, or even a dry overhang where we can build a fire? We need to stop before the sun dips behind the peaks, or we'll lose our way entirely.