<table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td>(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/4/4c/Scaleddown.png)</td><td>The sound of Clover's own cough echoes off the close walls.  'Am I in a bloody coffin already?'  the girl thinks.  'Gah, I hope not-- wouldn't be the first time I've been-- what the hell'?  Snow, cold ground.  Muffled noises from above-- and then she recalls the roar, the cracking of sheets of ice like the walls of some great bastion, tumbling and raining down.  The wagon-- here in the dark, she is under the overturned wagon she'd clung to, and its runners have made her a tiny shelter-- albeit a temporary one.  <br/><br/>Fumbling about a bit, she finds the haft of a quarterstaff-- not an axe, but it will do.  She tries prying against where the slat-sides are buried into the snow.  "Hells," she spat, unable to find purchase.  "Hello!  Hell--oooo?"  Gods, what if everyone else is dead?  "This'd be a hell of a way to go out," she says to herself with a dry laugh.  "Oh, that old bitch Mother Zanisca would have a riotous laugh."  Clover taps at the wood with the worn staff, curses a bit more.  "Anybody alive out there?  Heeeeeeey!"<br/><br/>She starts sliding along the small cache of air toward the base of the overturned cart, "I simply must find out what burly craftsman made this contraption-- strong as a--"  as if in answer, the wheels of the upturned cart groan in the dark, "--aaaaah, fuck."</td></tr></tbody></table>