Wednesday November 12, Fool's Traverse, Bagrada

Damn I hate the cold. A few months of warm weather and you forget what it's like to have your eyes frost shut and the snot freeze in your nose. And it doesn't bother the undead one bit either, I'm sure.

We're up here in the mountains to stop The Deceiver from crossing into the west before winter closes the high passes. Its already started to snow pretty hard, so we shouldn't have to be here longer than a few more days.

Bagrada is a maze of tiny canyons criss-crossing the mountains between the Plain of Scales and Forest Heart. There are thirty small groups of men like mine waiting at key junctions inside the pass, but the main body of our force is camped in the valley below. With hot meals and dry beds.

I guess the worst thing about having a reputation for being a bunch of hardasses is that the Legion always finds itself where the fighting will be ugliest. So we're up here as the first line of defense against an attack by The Deceiver.

Tyrfing just came running into camp bellowing that our scout's signal fire has gone out. That means trouble.