[Here in the shelter of the mountain crevice where the outpost lies, hidden away in the well insulated lodge, the night wind is just a gentle distant hum. It's warm too, the interior of the stone building heated by the firepit which even now in the dead of night casts dancing shadows in the otherwise darkened shared quarters. Surely most of the few remaining Hosts are asleep - it's been a long journey from the coast and the hike up to just the base camp that afternoon had been strenuous enough.

But Rhan isn't. She sits on the ledge surrounding the fire pit, silently repairing a small hole in her cloak with a needle and thread. Her attention is captured by the fire - or at least,
it appears to be. She's glassy eyed and quiet, stitching with a near mechanical hand. Here in the firelit night, an unmistakable melancholy finds her at last.
It's nipped at her heels since their number parted, but in the shadow of this lonely mountain it finally wraps about her. The sensation of it is as palpable in the room as the scent of burning coals, as the whistle of the wind at the door, as the comfort of a warm bed on a cold night.

Up and down, the needle flashes in the meager illumination from the low burning flames.]