The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills.

It’s cold tonight. The snow crunches underfoot with each step. The trees sway and creak amidst a steady northern wind, groaning against the movement given their frozen limbs. Plumes of breath escape me as I continue to push across the frontier, ragged given the lingering cough that has persisted since the last time I saw civilization some weeks ago. More and more I lean on the shaft of my modified lance, more a spear than the traditional mounted weapon, yet onward I move. Dispatches need to be delivered, warmth needs to be obtained. A man has to eat, and you don’t earn a wage by wasting time in the wilderness.

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