The warm rub of tobacco smoke filled his lungs as the wizard reflected on their ride. It was morning, and once more the sun was just rising on their left, possibly casting long shadows their way from the great demon gate. Two very long, stressful days, and two brutally cold, terrifying nights. The sulfur smell was gone now, but so was the pleasant, almost citric scent of the tobacco. He was tired; he wouldn’t concede the fear that had led to short nights, or the tricks that were required to keep them safe. More than a few more days like this without a true rest and he’d break.

While riding atop his horse, Storm had learned that the thin dust atop the plains carried heavy iron content. This was fantastic news for him, as he could lift and swirl the sands into rolling clouds before them, hiding them from moving bands of demons. Twice the first day he had used this little trick; it was a brutal, taxing effort that exhausted him every time. Still, it was effective, and looked foreboding enough that it kept the visitors away. The swirling winds would hide any ambient noises of the clinking metal on Elite’s neck, or the nervous braying of the horses. The wizard had no idea how far out they’d need to be for the demons to smell them; so far, so good.

But we need to reach the dwarves soon. The packs seem to be getting bigger, with larger numbers and even some of the wolves. Still, I doubt bitching will go far here.

His eyes stole a glance of Elite, who marched ceaselessly, miserably, and without complaint. Elite had been their salvation. At nights, when Sorian, Storm, and Cazri shared the tent to combine their warmth against the long, ripping cold wind that tore across the plain, Elite simply sat sentry outside, his bony dome scanning endlessly about the horizon, focusing on the northwest and the location of the terrible gate. Several times he would jostle the tent with his enormous hand, sending Storm out quietly to survey the landscape in the moonlight. One such awakening would be a band of demons that required aversion by way of sandstorm; the next would be simple packs of animals looking to pick carrion. The animals quickly turned tail when they laid eyes upon Elite Optic.

The demons that had started showing last night rode large wolves. These shock white, awful looking beasts presented a new danger. They’d no doubt be fast, likely faster than the horses, and Veritas intuited that they could smell close to the skill of the dogs. He wasn’t sure how the sulfurous fumes would affect them, but decided it would be unwise to presume their sense of smell was diminished.

Instead, we choose constant terror. What a delight.

The little trek had been quiet for some time, and the trio of mortals looked haggard. Perhaps the troubled nights and scary days had successfully shaken the three riders. Storm was convinced Elite was scared of nothing, but then he knew the great skeleton could also re-assemble and animate once more even if battered to pieces. Stakes may be lower for the big guy. Ignoring that component, he spoke in a firm, even tone to Cazri. He’d unbare it a touch.

“Can’t take this shit too much longer. No fire at night, wide open and vulnerable, always on pins and needles. Sleeping like hell with the cold; I thought demons would fare pretty poorly in the cold?” He let his words linger to the elf; it was a show of deference to her age and wisdom. Elves were not immune to flattery.

“Is that a question?” Cazri, unamused, stared forward. Her retort was met with silence, and she acquiesced to the suggestion. “Demons don’t feel much of anything, best I can tell. It does slow them down, though. They’re big, and run hot, and the night’s cold doesn’t suit them. Based on the stars last night, it can’t be more than three hours. Then we should start meeting with the dwarves; I suspect our latitude may be well north of the demon gate by now, but we still have a little movement left.”

“Never soon enough, but good news.”

He pulled his pipe to spit upon the ground, clearing his nasal cavities of the backup that had accumulated in the cold. The water casks on their horses had another two or three days left in them; it was a pleasant surprise that they had made better time than expected. A good thing, too, based on Sorian’s seemingly declining demeanor. Storm tried to offer an olive branch with his inquiry.

“And you? How are you hanging in?” The inquiry to the Bone Titan’s familiar was a mix of real concern and skeptical prodding. The glares Sorian reserved for Cazri were icy; there was something bubbling under the surface that created a terrible tension, particularly in the night within the small tent.

Sorian returned a knowing gaze to the wizard, pointedly shooting his eyes back and forth to Cazri, silently informing the wizard of the anonymous subject.

“Well, we’ve all got problems, right? Looking forward to getting out of the saddle and cleaning up. Could use a proper meal and less of the salted meats. A tall stein of ale would do me well.”

Another dart of the eyes back and forth to Cazri, who was presently ignoring Sorian. His answer was throwaway nonsense; he was sharing his suspicions once more without tipping his hand to the elf.

And here, Storm had thought his fellow human incapable of subtlety.