The snow was thick, thicker than he'd worked in for some time. The wet brush of flakes across his face as he pushed on through the white-covered forest set his teeth on edge (flashes of rocks, trees, snow, the roar of whipping wind, a ghost of pain radiating down his arm). It was only going to get worse. Finally, with a growl under his breath, he admitted he couldn't move on in this blizzard, not with these distractions, not operating at this impaired level. It was time to dig in and wait it out.

The cold was beginning to seep into his bones; the metal grafted to his skin was icy and his shoulder ached. Frustration was growing thick and heavy inside him, clouding his mind and choking his heart in his chest. He was tired, sick of thoughts he couldn't control, sick of this purposeless trek. When he first heard something, he'd only been scouting for a good place to set up a camp for ten minutes, the snow coming down thicker, blanketing everything and damping noise.

He froze, training taking over as he put aside his body's complaints without thought. The noise was rhythmic, subtly out of place but hard to discern. It could be nothing. But it could be trouble. Sinking down into the snow behind the cover of a bushy tree, he shifted into a crouch and tensed, waiting. He watched the trees, metal fingers digging into the ground, other hand wrapping the hilt of his combat knife.