He stopped in his efforts, breathing heavily, his blood flowing through him as he looked over the village below. It was safe, for now, the wraiths won’t come back for some time, but they’d need a more permanent solution. It was a mining village, sheltered from the worst of the north’s winds by some of the hardiest trees the north had to offer. A tough breed he did not know the name of, for he did not ask, which raged against the brutality of their environs, growing thick and squat, their leaves sheltering the earth beneath them from the all encompassing snow, allowing animals and fruit bearing plants to survive where they shouldn’t.