Cold Comfort
The snow had begun to feel warm. That wasn't a good sign. Frostbite wasn't far away and then he might lose a finger or a toe to the blasted stuff. After 2 miles of crawling through the chill like a worm on his belly, it was only to be expected. The sun was cresting the horizon now, though it did little to warm his numb skin. Reikwald forest was bitter and merciless during the heart of winter. Jamis Barad didn't move. It wasn't time yet.
The Orc behind him must be fairing better, he thought. Their tough hides seemed to shrug off just about anything the elements could cook up. Much better than his Sigmarite skin did in any case. He chuckled internally at his readiness to still apply the term to himself. It had been a long time since he could rightly call himself any kind of Sigmarite. Old habits died hard.
He would say one good thing about the snow; it muffled the sounds of his approach well. Even with his fair skill in the woods, the Druchii would have heard him coming far away were it not for the inches of pure white powder around him. Their senses were extraordinarily sharp. With bowmen who could shoot the wings off a gnat and hear its death call, he would need all the help he could get. That explained his course. He needed a path where they wouldn't patrol too closely and see the disturbed snow. It also had to muddle the scents of their passing, which carried so well over the crisp air.
Thus, his path had led his through the downwind trail of the middens. With all of the animals this party tended to, the stench was ripe indeed. The fair noses of the elves, while accustomed to the reek of blood, death, and fetid sacrifice to their Khaine, were too gentile for the scents of animal dung. Another humorless laugh passed inside his thoughts.
As the footfalls of the lone guard grew farther away, Jamis ventured a glance over the slow rise in front of him. His one working eye took one a fraction of a second to flick across the terrain and see no signs of any elf. They had passed well inside the paths of all the sentries, but it would be impossible to move much further into the Druchii camp without raising alarms. He signaled to the green monstrosity behind him that this was the time to move.
He stood up and brushed the snow from his rough leathers and discarded the white cloak behind him. Jamis flexed his fists, pumping blood and feeling back into his exhausted body. Checking his sword and satchel, he spared a glance for the Orc who was now rising like a grassy hill from the white plains around him. The Orc hefted his massive axe from underneath the snow drifts. The haft of the oaken weapon was easily as thick as a man's calf and as long as his body, but the Orc casually placed it over one shoulder where he held it one-handed. The notched chunk of sharpened metal hung like tavern sign next to his back. It had been badly hammered out of a full suit of plate armor, but artistry in a blade was an afterthought with that kind of weight behind the Orc's swing.
Jamis nodded and took a dogged half of a cigar from a side pocket along with a packet of matches. Lighting it, he took a slow drag and began to walk calmly, green beast in tow, towards the center of the Druchii camp. He already felt the eyes of alerted bowmen watching him over taut strings.
