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Concavenator:
The hours of night went by. When the clock announced the beginning of the new day, both travellers stirred from the torpor with greater ease than ever, and rushed to break open the shell of packed snow that had sheltered them. The air outside was still cold and bitter, and the snowfields still bathed in a dim blue, but its taste had shifted somewhat. The spring solar cycles were well underway, now; it would not take long for sunlight to take possession of land, as it already had on the wind-scoured coast. Going by Giya's estimates, it was quite possible to reach the edge of the ice that very day; if not, the next one. It was a thrilling thought.
pinkgothic:
The moods of the seasons were part of 'ikra nature, but there was an absolute brutality to the stubborn darkness of winter that even adaption did not let Kukri shake. The dirty band of blue the vaguely suggested sunlight felt ever-present, the tick of the clock arbitrary and artificial. The hope was real, though, even though the visible weather currently still scoffed at the idea that today might be different than the ones before.
Kukri could feel hunger gnawing at her innards, but it was far from all-consuming. It was a reminder that she was doing more physical work on this trek than she was accustomed to, burning more fuel than she might strictly like. She knew to indulge her body once the sensation became stronger, but for the moment, it was more valuable for them to continue.
They were getting increasingly good at packing their belongings for the trek, and in a few minutes they were back to their walk, trekking across the landscape as surely as though someone had built a road for them to follow, or otherwise marked their way.
Concavenator:
The rocky ground was uneven and tilted every way, but at least the snow wasn't very deep, and indeed the wind had swept many places clear. They came across more scattered boulders and vast piles of gravel that must have slid from the upper ground over the centuries. Massive things, blotting out the stars when one walked beneath the boulders, or shifting treacherously underfoot when one crossed the gravel fields, tossed around like children toys.
When the sun appeared, red and fuming, in the haze of the north, the travelers allowed themselves a brief rest. They sat on a flat limestone slab and tore strips of dried meat; the best ones they kept for the meal at the glacier, of course. The last part of the trek, while not worse than wading through the snow, would still take plenty of exertion; the meat finished, Kukri discreetely swallowed a couple of gizzard stones from her own portable box, to help with digestion. She offered the box to Giya, who most likely had always had to make good with random pebbles.
The apprehension before the printed mountains, the frightful yachakri fight, they were vanishing along with the winter night. They could do it. It was going well.