As he stomped deep into the snow with an iron clad boot clenched around each foot with every stride forth into the terrific white north, the bearded man; whose beard frayed whiter than the blistering crisp cold beneath, had to stop for a breath. He inhales inward, slowly and accurately and in a very practiced manner pushes his hands outwards, and shutting his eyes.
The prickling thorny gales quickly obeyed, and dispersed.
Upon his bottom the old sorcerer began to write in his journal (perhaps by mere coincidence or instead the snapping of another of the loose tethers of his covenant) about the thoughts prodding at his concentration.
"The further I climb towards the northward stars and the fell kingdom of yore, the more I wonder how many of my brothers will be still be on this earth to greet me whence I return. As the numbers of our grand protectorate dwindle, the more my mind struggles to ward off the temptations of chaos, of the gods."
"Will there be any, at all, to see my return?" He sets the book down upon the snow finally feeling a faint sadness, only but a fraction of the real sorrow that awaits him when he finds out that dear little Stella had perished.