Roan couldn't imagine that anything of interest existed in these Darkness cursed mountains. The air was brittle, like the faint dusting of snow that crackled beneath his feet. And it was cold. Colder than it ever got in Paon, though not the soul shriveling freeze of Glacia. A place he refused to return to after a single winter foray.

But he still didn't like the cold. It made his skin draw tight and his hair bristle. Chilling the tips of his fingers and biting the end of his nose until he thought it was running. He ended up sniffing perpetually, or rubbing his face against his shoulder when he needed to be silent.

The town had been dreary. Shut up tight, probably because of the cold as much of the late hour. Smoke poured from the chimneys, turning the sky a bland sort of grey. After using his Red to pop the darker locks among the buildings, he'd slunk away. First behind what someone suspected was a warehouse - and Roan suspected they were right - and then into the trees.

There were a few others creeping among the tall shadows, scouting houses farther out. Roan went past them. Roaming farther, higher, which was colder. But the deeper snow cushioned his foot steps, and the branches and leaves froze in a manner that was appealing. None of it would last the trip home, but he'd still have the memories.

The quiet was eerie. And subtle. The leaves didn't tremble in a way he was used to. Water dripped from a lattice work of frozen pillars handing from branches, occasionally dotting his cheek or hair. It made him flinch - colder than cold - but there was the beginnings of a pond teasing him through the trees. Ice working in from its shores in a way he wanted to see.

His probes found nothing alarming. Sleeping or sleepy animals, mostly. Like the town, they tried drowsing the cold away. The screams from below faint enough to not be disturbing. The crackle of power in the air made him edgy, but Roan knew he'd find nothing to test or interest him in the houses or shops. The mountains were a desert.

Roan was sure only trouble came from the cold.

Alarm swept up his spine. Probe swirling against something not quite right. Too late though. A shadow launched itself at him, and Roan was rolling before his thinking brain could catch up with his instinct. Shields forming, craft melting snow. He snarled and grappled, burying fingers in hair, and flesh, his nose in dirty clothing.

Enemy! Attach! His brain screamed, but another part of him, older and darker, kept his craft from melting barriers and webs so much lighter than his own. Not quite. The old dragon in him whispered. The prince of warlords. Not quite.