Voyage along the spine of the world was coming to an end. Four-masted schooner was cutting last miles of its naval journey, sliding gracefully past crumbled iceberg pieces, reminders of Northern Sea's indifference towards anything or anyone. Thick towers of Jorvik stood solemnly in the distance like grim pillars of the earth, watching, threatening with silent screams reaching towards leaden skies of the North. With last efforts the schooner docked and Estelmo could see deep and dark harbour waters, rippling as if in disapproval. Such was the North... it never welcomed anyone. But he knew it well. Much better than the place he came from.
Son of Fimbë equipped quickly for a stroll across Rathgar, named so in chuckle to himself. Then he went to the closest harbour inn for an ale. Or several. His soul yearned for spirit and many days of hard travel lay in wait. Instant warmth flickered some long forlorn hope of his future, but he swayed it with unease. None of Eldamari payed much heed to him, never giving him a second look. And why should they? Mostly shrouded by a drab gray hood of plain craft, he didn't stand out one bit. Not more than a traveller passing by. He didn't bother visiting the town, but struck westwards, heavily packed. Snowflakes drifted by in mute motion, always piling to the ever-spreading white mantle covering wherever one's eye could reach. Even First One's. As if in contrast to constantly blowing sea winds, silence here was oppressing, but for an occasional wolf's howl in far distance. The scenery was haunting, just like he had remembered it. The North never changes.
It started to snow more heavily. The road before him lead ever on, opening like petals of a white rose in deep snow. Then suddenly Estelmo turned and gazed a long while to whence he came. His own trail was waning before his eyes, ever thinner. In moments it would seem like no soul had passed through there for aeons.