Cold are the dead there, buried in ice. Hear them howl through the night! Their voices whip and wind through that glacial gorge, crying out, begging for warmth, but no fire can warm them now. They are dead. We’ll join them if we’re not careful; if we’re unlucky. A snowbank may fall on us and bury us. It happens. We might slip into that frozen river. We might starve.
But we will—and keep in mind that this is a certainty—we will face them, the frozen ones. They’ll be drawn to our warmth. So, what we’re doing—we have to be careful, watch every step, but what we’re doing here is a race. We’re going to be chased the whole way through.
There’s no rest in the gorge; not for the living, and not for the dead.
Tale Told 