'Why did I agree to this?!'
Malzahir thought for probably the 10th time in just that hour after landing face down again in a pile of snow.
'Snow' That's what he'd learned from Idrias was the name of this horrific white powder.
He groaned, pushing himself up with trembling arms, his breath coming out in visible puffs. The cold bit at his skin, the snow clinging to his clothes and hair. With each passing second, his hatred for this 'snow' grew stronger.
One would think that walking on sand and snow would be similar—they weren't! Absolutely not!
Sand was warm, familiar, and would softly cushion your fall. Snow, on the other hand, was cold, treacherous, and evil.
Every step was a battle for him, his feet sinking into the powdery white surface, his legs struggling to pull him forward. He felt as though he'd somehow degenerated to being a toddler, incapable of taking more than a few dozen steps without being at risk of falling.
