Ilsebek hated the cold. It sank deep into his hide and stung his fingers. The lanky Kesit continued to rub his hands together.

"Why was I sent here? Why? We nearly get killed by a bird and freeze half to death on the way up and are carrying chunks of dirt and it's cold. The return is freezing my fingers off, and it's just as bad as the first time." He said to himself as all but the twisted singer dropped their sacks by the protruding crevasse in the ground. A constant flow of steam arose melting the lard that had been rubbed into their fur however many days ago.

"No, worse." Responded Sanshall with no sign of feeling much beyond exhaustion and an ample supply of apathy.

"How could it be worse?" The healer asked. He was in part annoyed at the lack of detail from the lower kinsmen.

A shrug. "Provisions."

What's wrong with our provisions. Didn't the blue beak stretch out the ones we came prepared with?

"Yeah." The tall dull man responded, and started sucking on a chunk of ice in one cheek. Through the disgusting slurps he continued "but that one over there" he gestured with a quick flick of his thumbs at Murkie "was supposed to hunt game."

Murkie started giggling. He bit at his arm. He sank his fangs in deep to the burn marks that snaked around his body darkening scabbing blue scars. "Nothing nothing"

Ilsebek shuddered and looked back at Yagbur again. Snow bleached fur, mangled lips and nose protruded from disgusting cloak of feathers. It was this contrast with his voice and what he'd done to their hunter. Murkie had been a great hunter. He'd run down the black dogs, and could cast a stone from 300 paces.

Now Ilsebek had been forced to care for the withering man treat his wounds from the bird. He'd felt the fever though and knew Murkie should be dead. He was weak. The weak were meant to be left by the wayside. He looked at the freak of a Kinsman and decided against it. "Still", he muttered to himself "should just cut his throat and let the world have with him." unsure which of the two he was talking about.

There was nothing worse than being useless, and with no provisions and little he could do Ilsebek felt just that.

* * *

The cold wore down on them all as they returned. Thermal vents would provide them with a short reprieve but they could not stay long. As Sanshall had said their provisions were growing short. After the 4th vent they had consumed near all of their food and what was left was supplemented with the lard they had used to insulate their fur. This had the unintended consequence of letting the chill reach in ever deeper. Yagbur fared better than the others because of his cloak and hood, but even the thick insulating feathers could not keep the lure of sleep. Fear and the desire to live mattered less and less as they continued south.

As miserable as this made all of them they continued, the medic and navigator took turns keeping Yagbur awake and singing. As abhorrent as he was to them the thing on his back was worse. Each time he let up now it would awaken. For the singer is was an affliction long dragging unable to sleep, his lips chapped too frozen to bleed, and throat so dry and brittle but forced to sing high. For the other two he felt it was just a matter of surviving despite the circumstances, but to Yagbur he wasn't sure if he wanted to continue at this point. His mind was a dull haze of melody, overtones. He'd become the frozen and careless ice.

"What do you think you're doing?" the voice chastised him from the white haze ahead of them.

"I don't know what you mean." Yagbur returned.

"I mean why is a worthless speckling of waste here?" It was a hoarse older voice. "You're supposed to be out there, suffering and being useful."

Yagbur was too tired to not be incensed at the intrusive memory and so he argued "I was sent up here to help save people who hate me. I haven't slept since we started our return, and I have some drooling invalid who thinks I'm some great embodiment of death. Why shouldn't I just curl up."

Dreamer's face clarified in the drift. His eyes were hard and not full of mercy. "You're not allowed to lay down and die." A puff of smoke blew out of his mouth and fought through Yagbur's lids ripping them open.

A single sharp spine protruded from the sack. Sanshall and Ilsebek were both shaking and slapping him. Murkie still staring, always watching, grinned until his lips tore and slowly chewed his own tongue.

Resigned and not keen to know what that spine was Yagbur continued to sing. Again Murkie wailed in absolute agony. More striped burns and steam emerging from his body.

"Behind us! Behind us! Death walks behind us!!!" Murkie convulsed, frozen beads of blood and spit spraying up and scattered with the arctic air.

The spines regressed again. A small absence of shadow could be seen north of the party if any had mind to look. None did and so they continued.

* * *

He'd taken the angry ones knife and returned it, the Kesit should fever and decay, but no. A spark, perhaps understanding. It had been like the other who had the other Kesit follow him through deathly cold water. He shook his head at the wasteful choice. He pressed his thumb into him again.

Thumb pressing into the kesit male's head. Again frothing, veins bulging, capillaries bursting into his mouth. He held the man still, but skin just smoldered. Frustration. The world had been malleable. Changes could still be made, but here directly communicating, no. He could unmake the whole thing, he had even erased whole divergent realities, but everything directly was adverse. It won't work He thought. The male continued trying to rip at his face and body.

The scarred one's eyes opened.

Did he see him? No they rolled back. It was joy enough that the body start falling to pieces. Legs crossed, sitting back on the warm dry surface of his mote of light.

Eyes watched over over the 4. Paths diverged, ended, and the recursion continued.