On the steps of the North Snow Tribe's Altar, the Elder Witch Priest ascended step by step. He leaned on a spear-like Witch Staff in his right hand, which made a dull, heavy thud with each footfall.
His full head of white hair fluttered in the wind. Snowflake after snowflake landed on his coarse, linen-like hair, melting in an instant.
Below the Altar gathered most of the North Snow Tribe's remaining Warriors—fewer than a thousand in all. Many of them were maimed, missing arms or legs. They leaned on Cold Iron Spears, their eyes filled with sorrow.
The oldest among them looked to be no more than thirty, while the youngest had perhaps just completed their coming-of-age ceremony. They leaned against the corner of a Wall, their eyes vacant and dazed.
