Snow.

I bristled and tried to remember what snow was like. Definitely cold, somewhat very white. I thought about how it might appear on my whispy feathers, a highlight on the broken, deadened grey, specks of light on this corpse. I wondered if I could even feel the cold, as I was now. Like hunger, would it even effect me? Could I suvive then, in the wilds of Berevar indefinitely? And what about heat? Would the deserts of Fallien be such a torment? Strong, rainless summers? I knew that drowning was out because of my lack of need of oxygen, but did that mean that I could potentially swim for all eternity? Surely I would get tired, energy depleted ... I still needed some form of rest.

My mind filled with these new considerations to my immortal condition. Breathing in I slung my naginata over my shoulder and started off beside Erik. It extended out behind me for a good two feet, like the post for a hunter's catch. Perhaps I would find something today, to be able to skin and use for the future, or perhaps not. What was a need was that we strode, and fast, for Erik seemed truly worried about the weather.

I understood his point about the tracks, for they were a part of the general concern. Provided we stayed ahead of the rain and potential snow, we would be able to find these creatures. These ... tree beasts. I imagined strong, hard bark exteriors, knobbly joints and bad moods. Hair made from leaves and vines, faces of wrinkled horror. I had heard of such things in my past life, but never seen one.

Certainly I was intrigued, eager to do something other than die, for once.

My eyes swept the paths before us and I saw a sharp scar in a trunk nearby. It was deep, scarily so, at least three inches. Tilting my head I was certain that it was made not by a normal creature's claw, with the scent of sap streaming from it, and freshly cut wood. This was a recent cut, a clean one, and the light interior was clear beneath the bark. Blinking I stared at it for a moment before lifting my head and grunting.

"Erik," I said, "This," and I nodded to the cut.

It was made by no bear or wolf, I was sure. Rather, it was the beginning of a larger trail, and I was sure I could smell the stench of death whispering to me from ahead. Raising my beak, where my nose was situated along with my mouth, I sniffed the air, then nodded.

"Death is close," I surmised. "This way."

And I stabbed the air with the end of my spear.