The Snowstorm
She sighed.
It was snowing.
It had been snowing the night before, which was partly why they'd stopped when they had. So that wasn't particularly surprising.
The problem was.
It was still snowing. It hadn't stopped all night. So when Donncahd opened the tent flap, she was awoken by him cursing.
There were at least three feet of snow. It wasn't enough to bury the whole tent, but it was definitely too much to allow for them to leave.
"We should have broken camp and left a week ago." He growled, letting the tent flap fall with a surprising amount of aggression, given how much gravity was involved.
The material smacked against the ice laden pegs, sending a fine dusting of frost into the air, finally falling down to settle over Rache, who still hadn't gotten out from the covers yet.
"A week?" She stared. "You were still on death's door and bleeding everywhere last week." Her tone was flat, incredulous. Maybe a few days.